Chapter 5

Ace's POV

The Lotus Club wasn't the kind of place you stumbled upon by accident. Hidden beneath a trendy sushi restaurant on the Strip, it catered to people who had more money than sense and fewer morals than either. The kind of place where a bad night could cost you your house, and a good night could buy you someone else's.

I'd been here exactly three times before, always as a player, never as someone with a personal agenda.

Tonight was different.

I sat at the bar, nursing a club soda and watching the room through the mirror behind the bottles. Eight tables, each with different stakes and different crowds. The minimum buy-in was fifty thousand, which kept out most of the tourists and amateur enthusiasts.

Knox had texted me the details two hours ago: Table seven. Blake would be there by ten PM, trying to impress potential investors with his poker skills and inside knowledge of "lucrative opportunities."

It was 9:47 PM, and I was already cataloguing every player in sight.

Table seven had five seats occupied, one empty. The empty seat would be Blake's—he always preferred to sit with his back to a wall, a habit I'd found charming when we were dating. Tonight, it would be a disadvantage.

The current players were easy reads. A tech entrepreneur in his fifties who kept checking his phone between hands—nervous money. A woman in her thirties with manicured nails and a Hermès bag, playing too aggressively to prove she belonged. Two men who looked like they'd stepped out of a mob movie, complete with gold chains and obvious tells.

Perfect. Blake would feel comfortable in this crowd, confident he was the smartest person at the table.

He was about to learn otherwise.

"Ace."

I turned to find Knox approaching, dressed in dark jeans and a black button-down that made him blend into the shadows. He looked different here—less polished businessman, more dangerous predator.

"Everything in place?" I asked.

"Blake just arrived. He's talking to Celeste Romano near the entrance." Knox nodded toward the front of the club. "She's the brunette in red."

I glanced in the mirror and spotted them immediately. Blake looked exactly like he always did—confident smile, expensive suit, the kind of casual arrogance that came from never facing real consequences. The woman beside him was stunning in the way that required both good genetics and serious money. She had her hand on Blake's arm, laughing at something he'd said.

"They look cozy," I observed.

"Business partners often do." Knox's voice was neutral, but I caught something underneath. Distaste, maybe.

"How well do you know her?"

"Well enough to know she's dangerous." He glanced at his watch. "Blake will join the game in ten minutes. Are you ready?"

I finished my drink and stood. "I was born ready."

Knox's smile was sharp. "That's what I'm counting on."

I made my way to table seven, bought in for two hundred thousand, and settled into the seat directly across from where Blake would sit. The other players barely glanced at me—exactly what I'd hoped for. In their world, women were either arm candy or nuisances, not serious competition.

Their loss.

Blake appeared at 10:03 PM, greeting the table with the kind of easy confidence that had once made me fall for him. He was good at reading rooms, good at making people comfortable, good at making them forget he was calculating every angle.

But I knew all his tricks.

"Well, well," he said as he settled into his chair. "Ace Delacroix. What brings you to Vegas?"

"Same thing as everyone else." I kept my voice casual, friendly. "Money."

He laughed, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. He was surprised to see me here, maybe even concerned. Good.

The first few hands were standard—feeling out the table, establishing rhythms, letting Blake get comfortable. I folded early on mediocre hands, letting the tech entrepreneur and the mob movie extras do most of the heavy lifting.

But I was watching. Always watching.

Blake had developed new tells since we'd been together. When he was bluffing, he touched his left cufflink. When he had a strong hand, his breathing got slightly shallower. When he was calculating odds, he pressed his lips together so subtly most people wouldn't notice.

I noticed everything.

On the seventh hand, I got my first real opportunity. Pocket queens, solid position, and Blake showing signs of a medium-strength hand. Not enough to fold, too much to call casually.

I raised, forcing him to make a choice.

He called, but the hesitation told me everything I needed to know. He was playing it safe tonight, being more careful than usual. Almost like he was expecting trouble.

From my peripheral vision, I caught Knox watching from the bar. He was doing that thing with his fingers again—tapping them against his glass in a specific rhythm. Three taps, pause, two taps, pause. It was subtle, unconscious, the kind of nervous habit most people developed without realizing it.

Something about that rhythm nagged at me, like a song I couldn't quite place.

The flop came down: Queen of hearts, seven of clubs, two of spades. Set of queens. Blake checked, and I bet half the pot, making it look like a probe bet rather than value.

Blake studied me across the table, and for a moment I saw the man I'd once loved. Smart, careful, trying to read my intentions. Then his expression shifted into something colder, more calculating.

"You know what I think, Ace?" He leaned back in his chair. "I think you're not here for the money."

The table went quiet. This wasn't typical poker banter—there was an edge to his voice that made everyone uncomfortable.

"Everything I do is for money," I replied evenly. "You should know that better than anyone."

"Should I?" He tapped his fingers against the felt, and I realized he was stalling, thinking. "Because the Ace I know wouldn't risk two hundred thousand on a trip to Vegas unless something big was at stake."