Chapter 8
THE EXACTA
The Kentucky Derby unfolds far from the chaos of pool decks and champagne guns.
Roman DeLuca watches it from the rooftop of a private downtown lounge ~ velvet banquettes, white linen tables, and the kind of gamblers who still believe in superstition. The women wear hats. The bourbon is neat. The air smells like old money and fresh risk.
Above the soft jazz and clinking glassware, the screens flash with paddock shots. Roman leans against the bar, eyes fixed on one horse: #18, Sovereignty.
“Look for the ‘S’ horses,” Sal the Hat once told him, cigarette tucked behind one ear at Belmont Park. “The good ones always hide.”
That was 2009. Roman was just learning how to read people. Sal taught him to read silence.
Now, Sovereignty loads into the gate. Journalism, #8, edges beside. The odds aren’t crazy. But Roman didn’t need crazy. He needed calculated. Controlled.
When the gates break, he doesn’t flinch.
Sovereignty trails early. Glides along the outside. Journalism cuts inside. The race tightens. The woman beside him grips her mint julep and whispers, “Come on…”
And then: Sovereignty explodes.
#18 over #8. Sovereignty. Journalism. Exacta.
Roman finishes his drink. No smile. No reaction.
He’d spread $20K across multiple outlets.. through Ethan, through quiet favors, through a “thank you” tip from a high roller’s handler after Roman fixed a situation with Savannah. The payout clocks in north of $500,000.
He didn’t beat the house. He just learned how to live inside it.
THE RESET
Alessia Cruz doesn’t watch the race.
She’s at Palm Tree Beach Club, keeping a fire from jumping cabanas. VIPs are piling in.. athletes, tech founders, and trust-fund demons dressed like Burning Man monks.
Behind the DJ booth, above the mayhem, is the real zone: the elevated VIP platform, where the rich hide from the rich.
That’s where she spots Sydney Sweeney. Laughing. Barefoot. Untouched by the politics of the room.
Alessia checks her phone. A text from Roman.
ROMAN: We’re clear. Debt’s covered.
She exhales. One less person burning.
Earlier, she’d slipped an envelope into Savannah’s locker. No note. Just enough cash to walk or wait or breathe.
The house always wins. But this time, she made sure someone else did, too.
THE BRINK
Ethan Blake is in a Grand Cabana behind the DJ booth, sipping tequila like it’s free (it is), and scanning the crowd with the lazy confidence of a man with no immediate consequences.
His debts? Gone. His panic? Muted.
Two cabanas over: Sydney Sweeney, realer than he expected, dancing like no one’s filming even though everyone is.
He walks over. Half-slick, half-stupid.
“Hey,” he grins. “Sovereignty paid better than your last film.”
She laughs. Genuinely. He pushes.
“Wanna trade Instas?”
She grins. “I already have a type.”
He smirks. “Is it not-deeply-flawed bottle rats with food service trauma?”
She laughs harder. His cool dissolves like sugar in mezcal.
He walks back, ego bruised but shoulders loose.
Savannah’s sipping watermelon vodka. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Ethan lifts his glass. “I’m still here. That’s the win.”
THE CHOICE
Savannah Carter turns down the hush-hush Derby lounge gig.
Instead, she drives west at dawn, the Strip in her rearview. Red Rock is silent. Unfiltered. She sits on a boulder, wind ripping through last night’s curls, and just exists.
She texts Alessia: “You were right.”
There’s no reply. But there’s nothing more to say.
Back at the pool, Bryce from LA approaches again. She doesn’t even blink.
That night, she walks into a lounge audition. She can’t sing.
She just wants to try.
THE MIRAGE
Night falls slow.
Roman stands in his suite, placing the winning slip in a drawer beside a yellowed photo of him and Sal the Hat. Two ghosts from another Vegas.
Vegas didn’t lose. It just let them win – for now.
Alessia sinks into a marble tub, her bracelet on the edge of the porcelain. Champagne bubbles untouched. Her phone buzzes.
“After the Derby, we talk.”
She closes her eyes.
“The game never ends. The house always wins. But this time, we walked away holding chips.”
THE TEASE
A suite at Resorts World sits untouched. Nix Karras’s clothes still folded. Name scrubbed from the system. A flash drive gone.
Ethan gets a text from a promoter: “Nix resurfaced. Mykonos. Different name. You in?”
Roman gets another: “They’re coming for the pool crowd next. You in?”
Alessia looks out at the Strip, hungry and golden.
She doesn’t answer.
Not yet.
