The restaurant is a stage. Every detail choreographed, every movement deliberate. The lighting is dim but purposeful, casting a soft golden glow over tables draped in crisp white linen. The hum of conversation is low and measured, deals being made, seductions unfolding, power plays disguised as casual dinners.
Ethan Blake moves through it like a ghost, unseen until he wants to be. He is not just a server. He is an architect of experience, a master of reading the room. He knows when to hover and when to disappear, when to offer a sommelier’s note on a 1996 Screaming Eagle Cabernet and when to pretend he does not notice a tech CEO slipping his wedding ring into his pocket. The guest list tonight is predictable, real estate moguls, athletes, a sprinkling of models hired to make the tables look more interesting.
Then he sees Nix Karras.
The DJ is posted up at a center table, lounging in a crisp open-collar shirt, dripping in quiet excess. He is surrounded by a hedge fund crew, New York finance guys, loud in the way only men who move millions before lunch can be. Nix is not the loudest, but he does not have to be. His presence carries weight. Women orbit him. The restaurant staff pays extra attention. His name means something.
Nix meets Ethan’s eyes, and for a split second, the effortless facade flickers. Recognition. A silent nod. They have partied together a few times, floated in the same circles, exchanged numbers but never really used them. They are not close, but in Vegas, familiarity is currency.
“Yo, Blake,” Nix murmurs as Ethan sets down a fresh glass of whiskey. His voice is smooth and effortless.
“Karras,” Ethan replies, equally cool.
“Did not know you worked here.”
Ethan smirks. “Did not know you ate solid food.”
The table laughs, but there is something behind Nix’s eyes. Tension. The kind of weight that does not come from success, it comes from owing the wrong people the wrong amount of money.
A Few Nights Later | An Exclusive Lounge Opening
The new lounge on the Strip is packed, a who’s who of nightlife insiders, influencers, and casino executives sipping cocktails under moody violet lighting. Roman DeLuca arrives late, his presence turning heads in the way that only someone who actually runs the scene can.
Then he sees her.
Alessia Cruz, flawless as always, standing near the marble bar, her diamond bracelet catching the light. They lock eyes, and something shifts. They have known each other for years, danced around whatever it is between them, but tonight feels different.
Roman sidles up beside her, ordering a negroni stirred slow. “What, no Valentine this year?”
She exhales, amused. “You know I do not do romance.”
Roman smirks. “That is what people say when they have been disappointed too many times.”
She turns to face him fully. “That is what people say when they know better.”
A beat. The ice in Roman’s drink clinks as he swirls it. They are alike in ways neither of them want to admit.
“Then let’s toast to knowing better,” he says, raising his glass.
She clinks hers against his. “To that.”
The night hums around them, but for a moment, it is just the two of them.
Across the lounge, in the VIP section, Alessia is the center of attention. She reclines on a plush velvet couch, a flute of champagne in hand, her laughter light and intoxicating. She leans in close to a high-roller whispering something that makes him grin. She is flirty, fun, untouchable. The perfect illusion of effortless glamour. A few tables away, Nix is at the DJ booth, seamlessly blending deep house with the pulsing energy of the room. He catches sight of Alessia and smirks. She always knows how to play the game.
Late Night | Ethan’s Dive Bar
The high of the fine dining shift has worn off. Ethan slouches in his usual seat at the Koval dive bar, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. The bartenders here know him too well. He has slept with both of them, and somehow, it is never messy. They tease him, roll their eyes when he pulls another girl from the bar at three AM, when he stumbles in at six AM with a party girl draped over his shoulder.
Tonight, he is alone. Drinking. Smoking. Losing. The hundred-dollar bill he fed into the video poker machine is already down to twenty. The machine beeps, mocking him. Jacks or better. He holds a queen and a jack and prays.
Nothing.
Another twenty in. Then another.
“Jesus, Blake, you ever win?” one of the bartenders laughs, wiping down the counter.
Ethan grins, flicking ashes into a tray. “Not my style.”
A new conversation sparks at the bar. The latest Strip gossip.
“Yo, did you hear about that escort that got popped for stealing three hundred K in crypto from some dude’s phone?” one of the bartenders asks.
Ethan’s eyes light up. “Oh, I know all about that.”
“How do you even steal crypto?” another asks, genuinely curious.
Ethan leans in, enjoying the moment. “Easy. Drunk high-roller starts bragging about his crypto wallet balance. She plays interested, gets close, probably slips something in his drink. Once he is out, all she needs is access to his phone, biometric scan, face ID, whatever. Transfers everything, Bitcoin, Ethereum, Bored Apes, straight to a ghost wallet. By the time he wakes up, it is already flipped and laundered.”
“That is insane.”
Ethan smirks. “That is Vegas.”
Then, his phone buzzes.
NIX: “Yo, where you at? Need a favor.”
Ethan stares at the screen, exhales slow. Nothing good ever starts with those words.
But he finishes his drink, grabs his jacket, and steps into the night.
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