Shooter: Day 2, Chapter One: Vegas Bound

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER ONE Friday, October 2, 2026 · Marana, Arizona REMAINING: 144:00:00

Shooter's internal root process killed his sleep cycle at exactly 4:10 AM on Friday, October 2, 2026.

"Fuck."

His eyes snapped open to the dark ceiling of the master bedroom. No alarm. No noise. No particular reason to be awake at this ungodly hour. His internal clock had apparently decided he'd had enough sleep, and his ass didn't get a vote in the matter.

He lay there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling.

Then an idea popped into his head.

Let's go to Vegas.

Shooter blinked. Where the hell had that come from? He hadn't been planning a trip. Hadn't even been thinking about one. But the more he considered it, the better it sounded.

Nik was on fall break. Shooter had the day off thanks to his 9/80 schedule. Liz was unemployed. He had money in his pocket, a perfectly good truck in the garage, and nothing preventing him from loading up Liz and Nik and heading northwest.

Well, except for the dogs.

Trevor could handle the dogs.

Shooter grinned into the darkness. "Well, shit. Guess we're going to Vegas."

He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and stood. His lower back immediately registered a formal complaint.

"Yeah, yeah. You too."

He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, slipped into his Skechers, clipped his keys to his belt loop, and headed downstairs. The house was silent, which was good. He had a little time before he needed to wake everybody up.

He grabbed a heavy-duty contractor trash bag from beneath the kitchen sink and went into the garage. The 2019 Ram Rebel sat backed into its usual spot. The overhead fluorescents flickered on.

4:16 AM. Forty-four minutes.

"Alright, sweetheart. Let's make sure you're ready for a road trip."

He cleared the cab of receipts, empty water bottles, and miscellaneous junk, then went over the dash and center console with a microfiber towel. He popped the hood, pulled the dipstick, wiped it clean, and checked the oil. Coolant looked good. Washer fluid needed a little attention, so he topped it off. He checked the belts, looked for anything leaking, and made a pass around the truck with a tire gauge. The last thing he wanted was to be sitting on the shoulder of Highway 93 with two teenagers and a flat.

4:57 AM. "Good enough." He tossed the trash bag, headed inside, washed his hands, and flexed his shoulders. Time to ruin everybody else's morning.

At exactly 5:00 he climbed the stairs and stopped outside Liz's bedroom. He knocked sharply.

"Squirt! Rise and shine!"

A muffled groan came through the door. "Daaaaad. What?"

"Get up. Pack a bag for three days. Clothes, toothbrush, phone charger. We're leaving at six."

Silence. Then, "Leaving for WHERE?"

"Vegas."

"WHAT?"

"You heard me. Las Vegas. One hour. Move."

He heard a dresser drawer open. "You're insane!" Liz called.

"Been telling you that for years, sweetheart."

Nik's room was off the living room, near the back door. Shooter knocked three times. "Bubba! Up and at 'em!"

"What?" a sleepy voice answered.

"Get dressed and pack a bag. We're going to Vegas."

A moment of complete silence. Then something hit the floor. "WAIT, WHAT?"

"Vegas, son. Big buildings, bright lights, people making questionable financial decisions. You know the place."

"Are you serious?"

"No, Nik. I woke you up at five in the morning because I thought it'd be hilarious."

"DAD!"

"One hour, Bubba."

That took care of the kids. Now for Trevor.

Shooter knocked on the door downstairs. "Trevor! You awake?"

"No."

"Good. Then you won't mind me waking you up."

A few moments later Trevor emerged in gray sweatpants, rubbing his eyes. Bacon trotted up to him, tail wagging, apparently delighted that the entire household had decided to get up early. Nani and Lilo weren't far behind, and Nova watched from the sofa with an air of deep suspicion.

"What's going on?"

"How'd you like to make a thousand bucks?"

That got his attention. "Doing what?"

"Absolutely nothing. Well, almost nothing. Me and the kids are heading to Vegas. I need somebody to stay here, feed the dogs, make sure they've got water, and keep the house from burning down."

Trevor blinked. "You want to pay me a thousand dollars to stay here? I already live here."

"Congratulations. Your commute's gonna be spectacular."

Trevor laughed. "For a grand? Hell yeah."

In the kitchen Shooter pulled the folded stack of hundred-dollar bills he'd brought home from Thursday's casino run out of his jeans, counted off ten, and laid them on the quartz island. "Ten Franklins. All yours."

Trevor looked at the money, then at Shooter, then back at the money. "You're serious."

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't be standing here handing you a thousand dollars."

Trevor picked up the bills. "Thanks, man."

"Don't thank me yet. You gotta put up with these furry assholes while we're gone."

Bacon wagged harder. Shooter scratched him behind the ears. "Not you, buddy. You're a good boy."

He looked back at Trevor. "One more thing. If Krista shows up, don't let her in. Don't argue, don't get into a pissing contest. Just call the sheriff's department and let them deal with it."

Trevor nodded. "Got it."

"We'll be back in a few days."

"Have fun. And try not to lose all your money."

Shooter snorted. "That's the plan."

He set his 64-ounce matte black stainless Zulu tumbler on the counter and loaded it with a packet of Strawberry Watermelon Liquid I.V., a sleeve of Crystal Light, cracked ice, and cold water. He shook it like Krista had obviously shaken Cameron as a baby, which was probably why the kid was so fucked up. Beside it sat his Monster Rehab Peach Tea. He popped the tab and took a long drink. "Ahhh. Breakfast of champions."

Upstairs, Liz was moving around. Downstairs, Nik was apparently trying to pack his entire bedroom into a single bag. Shooter smiled. This was going to be fun.

At 5:45 he carried his things out to the garage, set the Zulu into the custom PETG cupholder mount he'd printed for the center console, and made sure the back seat was clear for the kids.

"Alright, people! Nine minutes!"

"WE KNOW, DAD!" Liz yelled from upstairs.

Nik appeared with a backpack and a duffel, wide awake and grinning like an idiot. "Are we really going to Vegas?"

"Nope. We're driving three hundred and fifty miles to look at a cactus."

Nik laughed. "Seriously, Dad!"

"Yes, Bubba. We're really going to Vegas."

Liz came down the stairs with her tote and a small suitcase, her flame-red hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing the expression of someone who was still deciding whether her father had lost his mind.

"So let me get this straight. You woke up at four in the morning and just decided we're going to Las Vegas?"

"Pretty much."

"No planning? No reservations?"

"Not yet."

She stared at him. He stared back. Finally she shook her head. "You're ridiculous."

"Love you too, Squirt."

He loaded their bags. Trevor appeared at the garage door with Bacon beside him. "Everybody ready?"

"Ready as we're gonna get."

"Thanks for watching the dogs," Liz said.

"No problem."

5:59. "Alright. Everybody in."

Nik climbed into the back seat. Liz took the front passenger side and pulled out her phone. Shooter eased himself into the driver's seat, his knees offering their usual objections. "Jesus Christ. Getting old sucks."

His key fob stayed clipped to his belt loop where it belonged. Foot on the brake. Push the start button. The Pentastar came to life. 6:00 AM. Right on time.

He shifted into drive and pulled forward out of the garage, down the driveway, and into the cul-de-sac. Trevor waved. Shooter waved back.

At the end of the street he stopped and glanced down. His hand drifted toward the coin pocket of his jeans. The old silver coin he'd bought yesterday was still there. He pressed a finger against it through the denim.

Funny. He'd owned the damn thing for barely a day, yet the idea of leaving it behind bothered him. It was just an old coin. A pretty cool one, but still just a coin.

He shook his head. Whatever. He turned toward Interstate 10.

From the back seat Nik leaned forward. "Dad? Where are we stopping for breakfast?"

"Wickenburg sounds good."

"What's in Wickenburg?"

"Breakfast, hopefully."

Liz laughed. "Do you actually have a plan for this trip?"

"Absolutely."

"What is it?"

Shooter grinned. "Get to Vegas."

"That's not a plan, Dad."

"Sure it is. It's just not a very complicated one."

He settled back, both hands on the wheel as the Rebel rolled toward the interstate. Three hundred and fifty miles of Arizona desert, two kids about to have one hell of a weekend, and a thousand possibilities waiting somewhere beyond the Nevada line.

Shooter had no idea what was coming. For once in his life, he wasn't particularly worried about it.

They were going to Vegas. And that was good enough for him.

Chapter Two: Silver Linings

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER TWO Friday, October 2, 2026 · Interstate 10 to Wickenburg

The morning sun had barely cleared the jagged teeth of the Tortolita Mountains when the 2019 Ram Rebel cleared the north edge of Marana.

Shooter sat behind the wheel with both hands resting easy on the leather, his key fob clipped to his belt loop and his Skechers resting against the pedals. In the PETG mount between the front seats, his Zulu tumbler sat locked in place. Beside it waited a cold, unopened can of Dr Pepper Zero for later. Outside, the Sonoran Desert unrolled in dusty ribbons of creosote and saguaro. Inside, the Pentastar hummed along Interstate 10.

"So," Liz said from the passenger seat, not looking up from her phone. "Are we taking bets on how long it takes Trevor to accidentally lock himself out of the house?"

"Trevor has a code, Squirt. He has a grand in cash, a house full of dogs, and instructions to call the sheriff if Krista so much as breathes near the property. The house will survive until Sunday."

"I give him six hours before Bacon tricks him into handing over a whole package of string cheese," Nik said from the back seat.

"Bacon is an opportunist," Shooter said, checking his mirror. "If Trevor gets hustled by a dog, that's between him, the dog, and God."

"Are we eating anytime soon? You woke us up at five in the morning, Dad, and my stomach thinks my throat got cut."

"We're hitting Wickenburg. Get some proper grease in you, then up ninety-three toward Kingman."

"Vegas on a Friday," Liz murmured with a faint smirk. "Totally normal behavior."

"Nik's on fall break, you're not working, and I've got a $40,000 casino check riding in my wallet. If you want to stay home and do job applications on the couch, I can turn this rig around."

"I'm good," Liz said dryly. "Just noting it for the record."

Shooter chuckled. He glanced at the fuel gauge, then brushed his thumb against the coin pocket of his jeans. The old silver coin was still there. He'd bought it yesterday from some worn-out stranger outside a Circle K for twenty bucks because he thought it looked cool. That was it. No grand reason, no investment strategy. But since he'd bought it, he'd found himself checking that pocket more often than he cared to admit. Maybe he ought to find a better way to carry it.

They worked their way through the Phoenix area and picked up US-60 toward Wickenburg. By nine the subdivisions had given way to open desert and the older buildings of town. Shooter pulled into a space outside a little café advertising home-cooked breakfast and chicken-fried steak. The bell chimed above the door as they walked in, and the smell of sizzling bacon, hot grease, and fresh toast greeted them.

A waitress waved them toward a booth near the front window. "Order whatever'll keep you from whining until Nevada," Shooter told the kids.

Nik took the command literally: a double stack of pancakes, three eggs, extra bacon, hash browns, and a large orange juice. "Make sure you bring extra syrup," Liz told the waitress with a straight face. "He eats like a captive bear." Liz ordered scrambled eggs, sourdough toast, and fruit.

When the waitress raised her coffee pot at Shooter, he held up a hand. "No coffee for me, ma'am. Tastes like burnt dirt. Just ice water, three scrambled eggs, four sausage patties, and a mountain of bacon. Throw some cheddar over the eggs if you've got it."

"No toast or potatoes, honey?"

"Nah. Trying to convince my doctor I can occasionally make a responsible decision."

Liz snorted. "Good luck with that."

"Nobody asked you, Squirt."

The food arrived on heavy ceramic platters. Nik attacked his pancakes like a teenager who hadn't eaten in three weeks while Liz laughed at the amount of syrup disappearing from the bottle. Shooter worked through his eggs and bacon, enjoying the chance to sit with his kids without worrying about work, schedules, or whatever disaster waited for him back home.

The check came to $52.60. He left a hundred-dollar bill on the table. The waitress noticed as they stood. "Sir, let me get your change."

"Keep it, darlin'. Breakfast was fantastic."

Her face brightened. "Well, thank you! You folks have a wonderful day."

Outside, Shooter stretched and looked along the storefronts. Across the street a narrow shop sat between two older businesses. Its painted sign read Lou's Coins, Estate Jewelry & Lapidary. He glanced at his pocket. Well, hell. That might solve a problem.

"Come on. I want to look at something."

"What?" Liz asked.

"Something shiny."

"That's not reassuring."

"Wasn't meant to be."

The brass bell above Lou's door rattled as they entered. The shop was small and cool, with glass cases full of old rings, turquoise jewelry, watches, and coins. Behind the counter an older gentleman looked up from a magnifying lamp. "Morning, folks. Looking for anything in particular?"

"Depends. You Lou?"

"Last time I checked."

Shooter grinned and laid the old silver coin on the velvet pad covering the counter. Lou leaned forward, then reached for his loupe. "Well now."

"That's either good or bad," Shooter said.

Lou examined both sides carefully. "Where'd you get this?"

"Bought it off a guy outside a gas station yesterday."

Lou looked up. "How much?"

"Twenty bucks."

Lou gave him a long look. "Well, you did better than alright. This is an 1878-CC Morgan silver dollar. The CC is the Carson City mint, and 1878 is the first year of the series. Ninety percent silver, ten percent copper."

Shooter leaned closer. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Carson City Morgans are chased hard by collectors. Depending on condition, it could be worth a good deal more than the silver in it. I'd have to look at it more closely to give you a proper appraisal."

Shooter laughed. "Well, I'll be. I just thought it looked cool. Not interested in selling it, though. Actually, I was wondering if you could put it on a necklace."

Lou looked up. "A necklace?"

"Something I can wear every day. I keep checking my pocket to make sure I haven't lost the damn thing, and I'm tired of it."

"Well, I wouldn't recommend drilling it. You'd damage the coin and whatever collectible value it has."

Shooter shrugged. "You're the expert, Lou. That's why I'm asking you instead of trying to figure it out myself."

Lou chuckled. "That's refreshing. Most people come in knowing exactly how to do my job."

"I get enough of that at work."

Lou disappeared into the back and returned with coin holders and chains. He explained that a properly fitted bezel could secure the coin by its rim without drilling or soldering anything to it, with both faces visible. "For you," he said, sizing up Shooter's build, "I'd go with a heavier sterling chain. Something sturdy enough for daily wear. Thirty inches ought to sit comfortably."

"You're the boss."

Nik stepped closer. "Dad, can we get one too?"

"Get what?"

"A coin necklace. Like yours."

Liz leaned against the display case, trying to look less interested than she clearly was. "I mean, if you're turning into a pirate, Dad, the rest of the crew should probably get some treasure."

Shooter looked from one kid to the other. "Oh, come on. I can't have anything without you two wanting one too?"

"Nope," Nik said.

Shooter shook his head and turned back to Lou. "What've you got for the kids? Real silver. None of that modern sandwich-metal stuff."

Lou smiled and returned with a wooden case of old Washington quarters. "These are pre-1965. Ninety percent silver. The standard circulating quarters changed composition in 1965."

Nik leaned over the case. "Can we pick?"

"That's generally how buying things works, Bubba."

Nik pointed at a bright coin. "That one. Nineteen sixty-four."

"Last year of the regular ninety-percent issues," Lou said, lifting it from the tray.

Liz took longer. She studied several coins before choosing one with darker toning around the eagle. "1952."

"Good choice."

"Happy?" Shooter asked.

"Very," Liz said.

Lou took the three coins to his workbench. Nik found an old pocket watch he thought looked interesting. Liz admired a turquoise bracelet until she noticed the price tag and quietly put it back. Shooter noticed. He didn't say anything. He was already buying three necklaces, and there was no need to turn the morning into a shopping spree.

After a while Lou returned with a black velvet pad bearing three silver necklaces. Shooter's Morgan sat in a sterling bezel on a substantial chain, and beside it were the two quarters, each in its own holder. "Nothing drilled, nothing soldered. The holder grips the rim. If you ever decide to take it out, you can."

"Perfect."

Lou helped settle the chain around his neck. The silver dollar rested against Shooter's chest beneath his shirt. He felt it through the fabric. There. No more wondering whether it had fallen out of his pocket.

Nik put on his 1964 quarter at once and checked his reflection in the case. "That's awesome." Liz slipped on her 1952 and looked at Shooter. "Thanks, Dad." She stepped closer and gave him a quick hug.

"Alright, alright. Don't get mushy on me. We've got a whole state to drive through."

"Two states," Nik corrected.

"Smart-ass."

"What's the damage, Lou?"

Lou checked his figures. "Two silver quarters, three sterling bezels, three chains, and the work. $485."

Shooter laid six $100 bills on the counter. Lou counted them and looked up. "You gave me way too much."

"Keep it, Lou. Damn fine work. You made my kids happy, and I don't have to worry about losing my coin. That's money well spent."

Lou shook his hand. "You folks enjoy Vegas."

Back outside, Nik was still looking at his quarter. "Can I wear this all the time? Even at school?"

"That's why we bought it. Just don't lose it."

"I won't."

"Famous last words," Liz said.

Shooter laughed as they climbed into the Rebel. He'd spent $100 on breakfast and $600 at Lou's shop, leaving $3,300 of the cash he'd brought from the casino. He still had the $40,000 check, which reminded him.

"We need to find a Wells Fargo. I want to get this check deposited before we get too far down the road."

Liz looked up from her phone. "Is there one here?"

"Don't know. If there isn't, we'll find one on the way."

He pulled up his banking app while Liz searched for a branch. The account dashboard loaded. Shooter frowned. That wasn't right.

Before leaving home he'd had roughly twelve hundred dollars in checking. He hadn't deposited the casino check yet. He hadn't transferred anything in. But the balance showed:

$32,636.40

"What the fuck?"

Liz looked over. "What?"

"Hang on a second."

He opened his transaction history. Payroll. Bills. Debit-card purchases. The ordinary collection of money coming in and money going out. Nothing that explained the difference. He backed out, refreshed, and checked again. Same balance.

He did the subtraction. $32,636.40. Minus the $1,200 he'd expected. $31,436.40.

That was a very specific amount of money to have absolutely no explanation for.

"Something wrong?" Liz asked.

"Bank account's doing something stupid."

"Like what?"

"Like showing money I don't remember putting in it."

Nik leaned forward. "How much?"

"Enough that I'm not laughing."

"Isn't extra money a good thing?"

"Not when you don't know where it came from."

He checked the list a third time. No deposit. No transfer. No refund. Nothing. Just a balance that was $31,436.40 higher than it had any right to be. He knew better than to assume the money was his. Banks made mistakes, and when somebody found the mistake, they expected their money back. He considered calling Wells Fargo immediately, then remembered it was Friday morning and he was supposed to be on vacation with his kids, not on hold with a bank. Still, he wasn't going to ignore it. He took a screenshot of the balance and the history and closed the app.

"Well?" Liz asked.

"Well, we're going to find a Wells Fargo, deposit this check, and I'm going to ask somebody why my account suddenly thinks I'm thirty-one grand richer than I was yesterday."

Nik grinned. "Maybe you won another jackpot."

"That would be a trick since I was asleep."

"You have been pretty lucky."

Shooter snorted. "Not that lucky."

He put the truck in gear. The kids went back to comparing necklaces, Nik holding his bright 1964 beside Liz's darker 1952. Shooter glanced at them in the mirror. Three silver coins. His kids were happy. That part of the morning, at least, made perfect sense.

The bank account was another matter. He eased the Rebel onto the road toward Highway 93. Somewhere ahead was Las Vegas. And somewhere inside Wells Fargo's computer systems, apparently, was $31,436.40 that Shooter couldn't account for. He was going to get an answer, even if he had to make somebody explain it one penny at a time.

Chapter Three: Working

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER THREE Friday, October 2, 2026 · Wells Fargo, then Las Vegas

The Wells Fargo branch they'd found along the route sat back from the blacktop in a strip of sand-colored stucco. Shooter swung the Rebel between two white lines and left the Pentastar idling, the air conditioning keeping the cab cool. His key fob stayed clipped to his front belt loop. He hauled his phone out of the console.

The number was still there. $32,636.40. It hadn't vanished.

"What are we doing at a bank?" Nik asked from the back seat, leaning between the front buckets, turning his new 1964 quarter over and over in his fingers. "Did we run out of gas money already?"

"I've got plenty of gas money, Bubba. I'm depositing the casino check from yesterday, and I need to settle a glitch before we hit open desert. Sit tight. Keep the doors locked and the air blowing."

"Take your time," Liz said, studying her 1952 quarter in the sunlight. "Nik was just getting ready to explain the geopolitical history of his pancake syrup."

"It was boysenberry, Liz. It has nuance."

"It's corn syrup and purple dye, you heathen," Shooter muttered, grabbing his knockoff Ridge-style wallet from the console.

He stepped down onto the asphalt in his slip-ons, the Morgan dollar settling flat and solid against his sternum beneath his shirt. Inside, the branch was cool and quiet and smelled of carpet cleaner and toner. A teller in a maroon blazer looked up, but Shooter bypassed the line and went to the customer service desks along the low partition. A silver nameplate on the neat desk read Cynthia Miller, Personal Banker.

"Good morning, sir," she said, with a practiced, professional smile. She was in her late forties, hair pinned back, with the calm, immovable demeanor of someone who had spent two decades listening to people explain why their overdraft fees weren't their fault. "How can I help you today?"

"Morning, ma'am." Shooter sank his 275-pound frame into the guest chair, and the wood creaked once, then held. "I've got two things. First is a $40,000 casino check I need to put into checking. Second is an accounting discrepancy that's driving me out of my damn mind."

He spun his phone around so she could see the ledger. "Before I rolled out of Marana this morning, my checking account had around twelve hundred dollars in it. I checked my phone thirty minutes ago. It's showing $32,636.40. That is an extra $31,436.40 that does not belong to me."

Cynthia didn't flinch. She nodded, pulled her keyboard closer, and adjusted her glasses. "Let's take a look. May I see your debit card and ID?"

Shooter handed over his plain consumer debit card and his Arizona license. Cynthia swiped the card, punched in an override code, and began clicking through the ledger screens. Shooter crossed his thick forearms and waited for the shoe to drop. He knew what happened when a bank discovered money credited by mistake. They didn't ask politely. They yanked it back, froze the account, and left the customer holding the bag.

She clicked through three tabs, leaned closer to her display, and frowned slightly. "I'm looking at your transaction history for the past sixty days. I don't see any pending wire transfers, ACH recalls, or manual journal adjustments."

"Then check the deposit history. Go back as far as you need to."

"There are no deposits listed for this morning. Your last recorded activity before today was a purchase at Circle K yesterday morning and a fast-food transaction."

Shooter stared at her. "Ma'am. Do the math. If there are no deposits, where did the thirty-one grand come from?"

"It didn't come from anywhere recently," Cynthia said patiently, turning the screen toward him. "According to our core ledger, this is simply your collected balance. The funds are cleared and unencumbered. There are no flags, no holds, and no reviews on your profile."

The ledger balance was $32,636.40. Available balance: $32,636.40. No pending items. No mystery wire codes.

"That's impossible," Shooter rumbled, his North Carolina gravel dropping an octave. "I work defense IT. I monitor systems for a living. I know what was in that account when I went to bed Thursday night, and it sure as hell wasn't thirty grand."

"Sir, I understand this feels unexpected to you," Cynthia said gently, not patronizing, just completely grounded in her bank's reality. "But from Wells Fargo's perspective, this isn't an error. It is money you have always had. It's legitimate, it's fully verified, and it belongs to you."

Shooter rubbed a heavy hand over his stubble. His IT brain was screaming. Databases didn't fabricate historical liquidity out of thin air. He looked at the numbers, then at Cynthia's polite, unflinching smile.

Maybe moving some of the money would trip whatever alarm the bank's systems had slept through. If he took out a couple of thousand, somebody might notice, flag the account, and fix the thing. He wasn't about to spend money he couldn't account for, but a cash withdrawal would at least give the system something new to chew on.

"Alright, fine. You're telling me it's my money, it's always been my money, and there's no holds on it. Then I want to deposit this forty-thousand-dollar check, and I need two thousand dollars in cash, please."

He set the crisp casino check flat on the desk. "Of course," Cynthia said. "We can deposit the check, though our availability rules may apply to those new funds. But your existing thirty-two thousand is completely liquid."

"Works for me."

She scanned the check, had him sign the digital pad, and arranged the withdrawal with a teller. A few minutes later a white envelope arrived with twenty crisp $100 bills, counted and verified. "Your deposit is submitted," Cynthia said, handing him his receipt, card, and license. "Anything else I can do for you today, sir?"

"No, ma'am. You've done plenty."

He walked out into the dry, blazing mid-morning heat, shaking his head. He'd gone in looking for a bug report and been told the system was operating as intended since the dawn of time. It defied every rule of logic he possessed, but standing in the parking lot clutching $2,000 of cold, legal paper, there was nobody left to argue with.

He climbed back into the Rebel and tossed the envelope onto the console. He'd started the day with $5,000 in casino cash. He'd given Trevor $1,000, dropped $100 on breakfast, and paid Lou $600, leaving $3,300. With the teller's $2,000, his walking cash sat at $5,300 flat.

"Everything okay?" Liz asked, eyeing the envelope. "You look like you just spent twenty minutes trying to explain a printer to your grandmother's dog."

"Bankers. A whole building full of people who think arithmetic is a matter of opinion."

He still wasn't convinced the bank had it right. But he'd just deposited a legitimate $40,000 casino check. Even if the bank eventually decided that extra thirty-one grand wasn't his, they could take it out of that. He had enough of his own money to cover it. If the system finally caught the mistake, fine. He'd deal with it then.

He opened the banking app, tapped the Zelle tab, selected Liz's contact, keyed in $500.00, and hit confirm. Then he did the same for Nik. The cab filled with the synchronized chime of two incoming notifications.

Nik's phone buzzed in his lap. He squinted at the lock screen and gasped. "Whoa. Wait. Dad?"

Liz's eyebrows shot up toward her red hairline. "Dad, did you just Zelle us five hundred dollars each?"

"Sure did."

"Why?" She turned to fix him with her sharp stare. "You already bought us necklaces. You paid for breakfast. What is this?"

"It's Vegas scratch. We're gonna be in town two days. That's spending money so you don't have to ask me for twenty bucks every time you want an overpriced soda or some goofy tourist junk. Once it's gone, it's gone. Don't blow it on something plastic that'll be in a landfill by Tuesday."

Nik was grinning ear to ear, staring at his balance like he'd cracked a safe. "Five hundred bucks. Dad, you're a legend. I'm hitting the arcade. They've got that giant VR rig at the Luxor."

"Just don't make yourself throw up," Liz warned him, though she was already tucking her phone away with a rare, genuine smile. "Thanks, Dad. Seriously."

"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen your brother try to navigate a casino floor without walking into a wall."

He pulled out of the lot and pointed the Rebel north onto US-93. The miles rolled past in long waves of sun-bleached desert. The saguaros thinned out, replaced by the alien shapes of Joshua trees across the flats of Wikieup and the approach to Kingman. Shooter locked the cruise at the speed limit, left hand at twelve o'clock, his Zulu within reach. He didn't bring up the bank balance again, and the kids were too busy arguing over road-trip playlists and their silver chains to notice his quiet stretches. Every now and then his thumb brushed his chest through his shirt, feeling the sterling bezel and the cold rim of the Morgan. It felt right there. Unmoving.

They crossed into Nevada and went over the Mike O'Callaghan–Pat Tillman Memorial Bridge, high above the Colorado River, the concrete arches sweeping over the canyon. As the sprawl of Henderson thickened into the heavy multi-lane arteries of Clark County, Shooter tapped the dash screen to pull up the hotel map.

"Alright. Small technical oversight on my part."

Liz looked over instantly, her eyes narrowing. "What did you do?"

"I didn't book the room before we left Marana. It was four in the morning, Squirt. My logistics queue was focused on oil pressure and tire wear."

Liz pinched the bridge of her nose. "You hauled us three hundred and fifty miles without a hotel reservation?"

"We're going to the Luxor. There are four thousand rooms in that giant glass tent. They're not out of beds." He handed her the phone. "Open the MGM app. Look up Luxor. Two queens."

She tapped through. "Okay. Two options. First one: Pyramid Premier Two Queen. 420 square feet. $179.60 total for two nights, including the $90 in resort fees."

"Pyramid!" Nik yelled, practically shoving his head between their shoulders. "Dad, we have to stay in the pyramid! It's the whole point of the Luxor! The elevators move sideways!"

"Hold your horses, Bubba. What's the other one, Liz?"

"Tower Premier Two Queen. 449 square feet. $183.80 total for both nights with the resort fees."

"What's the difference?"

"$4.20."

"Call it five bucks. We're taking the tower."

"NO!" Nik groaned, throwing his head back. "The tower is just a regular building! A boring square!"

"The pyramid is an architectural gimmick, Nik. The tower room is bigger, we can get a high floor with an actual view of the Strip, and most importantly, the tower room has a bathtub."

Liz looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "A bathtub? You're choosing a hotel room based on a tub?"

"Damn right I am. I have stayed in both. The pyramid rooms only have those tiny fiberglass shower stalls where you knock your elbows on the plastic every time you reach for the soap. The tower rooms have that massive, deep soaking tub."

"You don't take baths."

"I don't take baths in standard tubs because I am six-foot-one and 275 pounds. A normal tub turns my knees into chin rests and leaves half my ribs freezing. But that Luxor tower tub? I actually fit in it. It's like sitting in a big-ass pot of soup. It's glorious."

Nik burst out laughing. "A pot of soup? Dad, you want to be a potato?"

"Laugh all you want, Bubba. My knees hurt, my back has been carrying 275 pounds halfway across Arizona and into Nevada, and that tub has my name on it."

"Dad, please," Liz pleaded, fighting back a smirk. "How often do you get to sleep inside an Egyptian pyramid?"

"Every time we come to Vegas. I'm paying for it. I'm doing what I want. Book the Tower Premier Two Queen, and put in a request for the seventeenth or eighteenth floor."

Liz rolled her eyes dramatically, but she tapped the screen and finalized the reservation. "Fine. Room booked. May your soup pot bring you eternal peace."

"It will. It truly will."

The massive black glass pyramid of the Luxor rose out of the desert floor ahead of them, the bronze sphinx sitting proud in the afternoon sun. Shooter bypassed the valet loop without a second thought. He preferred self-parking. It was simpler, and he liked knowing where he'd left his truck. He followed the signs into the garage, spiraled up to the third deck, and backed the Rebel into a wide space near the pedestrian walkway.

"Bags out."

They hauled their duffels from the truck, Nik teasing Shooter about the bathtub all the way across the enclosed moving walkway and into the cool, conditioned cavern of the hotel. The Luxor atrium hit them with its dizzying, hollow expanse. The angled black glass walls slanted inward toward an apex hundreds of feet above, the space buzzing with the roar of thousands of slot machines, clinking cocktail glasses, and tourist chatter.

The front desk agent, a polite young man named Marcus, pulled up the reservation. "Welcome to the Luxor, sir. I see you booked the Tower Premier Two Queen."

"Yes, sir. Any chance you've got something open around the seventeenth or eighteenth floor? Looking for a decent view for the kids."

Marcus tapped away. "As a matter of fact, I have a clean unit ready on eighteen. Room 18-204. Great north-facing view toward the Strip."

"Appreciate that, Marcus." Shooter slid his debit card into the chip reader for the incidental hold.

Keycards in hand, they bypassed the diagonal incline elevators, drawing one last theatrical pout from Nik, and took the tower bank straight up. The cab stopped with a soft chime on eighteen. Shooter tapped the keycard against the lock of 18-204 and let the kids pile in ahead of him.

The room was clean, spacious, and filled with cool air. Two pristine queen beds sat against the far wall, flanked by dark wood nightstands, and wide panoramic windows offered an unobstructed view of the Strip stretching north toward New York-New York and the Bellagio.

"Alright," Shooter announced, dropping his duffel onto the luggage bench. "Bed allocation follows house law. I get the queen by the window. You two share the other one. Same as it's been since you were toddlers."

"Dibs on the side away from the window," Nik yelled, tossing his backpack onto the mattress and collapsing face-down across the pillows.

"You kick me in your sleep, Nikolai, and you're sleeping on the carpet," Liz warned, setting her tote by the desk. She walked to the glass and looked out over the Strip. "Okay, the view is actually pretty great. I'll admit that."

Shooter didn't answer. He had already walked past the beds and pushed open the heavy double doors to the bathroom. There it was. Deep, long, and pristine, lined in polished tile with chrome fixtures, the soaking tub sat gleaming beneath the vanity lights.

He folded his thick arms across his chest with the deep satisfaction of a man whose tactical decisions had been vindicated. "Look at that. Go ahead. Look at it."

Liz peeked in with an amused smirk. "It's a tub, Dad."

"That is not just a tub, Squirt. That is an engineering marvel. That is a 275-pound man's salvation. Laugh all you want. Tonight, I'm soaking in that glorious son of a bitch."

"We're going to Vegas," Nik groaned from the bed, his voice muffled by the pillows, "and my dad is having an emotional moment with plumbing."

"Plumbing makes the world go round, Bubba," Shooter laughed, stretching his shoulders.

Under his shirt, the heavy Morgan dollar rested flat against his ribs, cool and solid. Downstairs, beneath eighteen floors of concrete and steel, the hum of the casino floor was waiting. The unexplained money in his bank account still made no sense, but standing in the quiet room with his kids laughing and the desert sun sliding low over the mountains, Shooter felt the last lingering tension of the work week snap.

Las Vegas was sitting right outside the door, and the weekend had officially begun.

Chapter Four: Oxana's Arrival

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER FOUR Thursday, October 1, 2026 (earlier) · Las Vegas, Nevada

The descent into Harry Reid International Airport was whisper-smooth, the Southwest 737 banking gently over the beige sprawl of Paradise before lining up on Runway 26L.

In seat 4F, Oxana closed her iPad Pro with a soft, magnetic snap and tucked the stylus into its leather loop. She had spent the 70-minute hop from Tucson International doing exactly what she had planned: refining the slide deck for tomorrow's morning symposium, tightening the comparative syntax models, and checking the timing on her concluding remarks.

She could have driven the 380 miles herself. Her BMW M3 sat in the reserved garage beneath her Foothills apartment, full of fuel and entirely capable of cruising at ninety miles an hour up Highway 93. But driving meant five hours of staring at sun-bleached asphalt and dodging rock haulers. Flying gave her a stretch of quiet time to work. She would arrive with crisp notes, an organized thesis, and no highway fatigue. For Oxana, efficiency wasn't a virtue born of frugality. It was simply a matter of controlling her schedule.

When the seatbelt sign flickered off, she stood with unhurried grace. At five-foot-five she did not dominate a room with height, yet the effortless poise in her shoulders, cultivated across years of European classical training, drew eyes as she pulled her cabin bag from the overhead bin. She wore tailored dark charcoal trousers, a cream silk shell, and an unstructured cashmere blazer that fell cleanly across her frame.

She moved through the Thursday afternoon crowd like water around river stone. Around her, tourists spilled into the slot-machine aisles lining the gates, bells chiming over the clatter of roller bags, but Oxana didn't look sideways at the machines.

Her phone vibrated. A text from Julian: Just pulled into passenger pickup, Terminal 1. Blue 911 Carrera. See you outside!

She permitted herself a very small, wry smile.

Julian had offered to pick her up three separate times before she packed her bag in Tucson. He was a research fellow in her department, sharp enough in cross-cultural phonetics, perfectly pleasant in seminars, and entirely convinced that persistent enthusiasm could wear down any boundary. She had accepted the ride because it was convenient, sparing her the taxi queue. She had no illusions about why the offer had been made.

Outside in the dry eighty-degree heat she spotted the car at once, parked along the curb with its hazards flashing: a gleaming chalk-blue Porsche 911 Carrera S that looked as though it had been hand-waxed twenty minutes ago. Beside the open driver's door stood Julian, twenty-five and slender, in an immaculate beige linen blazer over a dark polo, his hair carefully styled to look windswept. The moment he saw her his face lit with the eager, overly familiar grin she'd spent six months fielding across faculty lounges.

"Oxana!" He stepped around the front bumper with his arms slightly outstretched before thinking better of it and dropping his hands into his pockets. "You made it. How was the flight?"

"On time and productive," Oxana replied, her voice low and smooth, the Ukrainian cadence rolling through the vowels. "Thank you for the ride, Julian."

"Of course. Always happy to provide private transport for the department's most distinguished presenter." He offered a smooth wink and reached for her carry-on. "Here, let me take that. The front trunk has plenty of room."

"I have it," Oxana said gently, lifting the lightweight case with one hand and setting it in the frunk before he could fuss with the latches. She closed the lid with a firm, balanced click.

Julian cleared his throat and ran a hand along the polished fender. "What do you think? Handles like a dream. Took 93 the whole way up from Wickenburg. Did the drive in under five hours."

"It is a lovely vehicle," Oxana observed mildly as she walked to the passenger side. "Your father was very generous to lend it to you for the weekend."

Julian paused, his fingers freezing on the door handle. A faint blush crept up his neck, though he covered it quickly with a self-deprecating laugh. "Well, you know. He wasn't using it this weekend, and a road trip across the state line deserved proper engineering."

"Naturally."

She slid into the low leather bucket seat. The cabin smelled of expensive hides and Julian's heavy sandalwood cologne. As he dropped into the driver's seat and fired up the twin-turbo flat-six with a pronounced blip of the throttle, Oxana adjusted her side vent and turned the air away from her face.

Julian merged aggressively into the airport exit lanes, glancing into the rearview mirror before cutting his eyes toward her. "So," he began, resting his right hand on the center console near her knee. "I looked at the schedule. Your session on high-stakes forensic discourse isn't until tomorrow morning at nine, which means tonight is completely open. I was thinking we could drop our bags at the Bellagio, freshen up, and grab dinner at Picasso. The patio looks right over the fountains. I know the assistant sommelier. I can probably get us a prime table."

Oxana looked out the passenger window, watching the Luxor's dark glass pyramid loom against the southern skyline.

"Picasso is lovely, Julian, but I will be having a quiet dinner in my room tonight," she said evenly, without an ounce of sharpness. "I need to run through my audio samples one last time to be sure the codec plays cleanly on the Luxor's presentation system. Technical failures in the first five minutes ruin even the best thesis."

Julian's brow furrowed. "Come on, Oxana. You've rehearsed that monograph four times in Tucson. You could deliver it in your sleep, and half the visiting professors from Berkeley wouldn't understand the syntax models anyway. It's Vegas. We shouldn't waste the first night sitting alone in separate rooms staring at laptops."

"It is not a waste." She turned her pale gray eyes to meet his with cool, unblinking clarity. "Preparation is why the presentation will succeed. And after a flight and a busy week, I prefer solitude to a three-hour tasting menu."

Julian shifted his grip on the Alcantara wheel, his jaw working as he hunted for a fresh angle. He wasn't aggressive, and he wasn't a fool, but he belonged to that tier of comfortable young men who viewed a woman's professional focus as a minor obstacle to be flattered out of existence.

"Right. Of course. The dedication is admirable." He summoned a charming smile and signaled left onto Las Vegas Boulevard. "Still, we should at least celebrate afterward. Tomorrow night. No notes, no panels. Dinner, drinks, maybe the high-limit lounge. My father set me up with a fairly substantial line of credit for the weekend. We could have some fun."

"I do enjoy craps," Oxana said, resting her chin on her hand as the Bellagio's ornate façade came into view beyond the lake. "High-limit tables, too, when I'm in the mood. But I prefer to play with my own money, Julian. Your father's credit line isn't an invitation I need."

Julian laughed, though the sound was tighter now. "I was offering you a good time, not a loan."

"Then we are agreed. I will find a craps table when I feel like playing."

He eased the Porsche into the sweeping turn toward the Bellagio's porte-cochère, the fountains sending a fine, distant mist across the sunny air. "Well, since your symposium is down at the Luxor tomorrow morning, I can easily swing by and pick you up. Drive you down the Strip so you don't have to deal with the tram or a taxi. Eight-fifteen in the lobby?"

Oxana weighed the offer. It was an unnecessary gesture, but a five-minute ride saved the hassle of finding a rideshare on a busy Friday morning. "That would be very convenient. Thank you, Julian. Eight-fifteen will work well."

"Perfect." He brightened as if he'd secured a hard-fought diplomatic concession. "I'll have the car pulled around early."

The valet attendant opened her door, and she stepped out onto the pristine paving stones, the dry desert breeze catching the hem of her cashmere blazer. Bellmen retrieved her luggage while Julian fished a crisp bill from his money clip for the parking attendant with a rehearsed, casual flourish.

They walked together through the glass doors into the Bellagio lobby, a brilliant collision of European elegance and Nevada excess. Overhead the glass blossoms of Dale Chihuly's ceiling bloomed in amber and vermilion, casting rich reflections across the polished marble. Conference attendees with lanyards tucked beneath their collars and sleek casino hosts moved through the lobby in a steady, buzzing tide.

Oxana breathed in the faint, familiar scent of polished stone, expensive lilies, and the cool air of the casino floor beyond the archways. She felt completely at home, neither intimidated by the grandeur nor seduced by its manufactured glamour.

Julian stopped near the check-in desk with an expectant look. "I can wait while you register, and we could at least grab an espresso at the café before you head up to your suite."

"No need, Julian." She offered him a warm, definitive smile that clearly marked the end of the conversation. "I have mobile check-in. My key is already active. I am going straight to my suite to unpack and get to work."

Julian hesitated, his mouth opening as if searching for another sentence, then nodded with a quiet, resigned sigh. "Alright. Suite it is. Call me if you change your mind about dinner."

"Have a wonderful afternoon."

Oxana took the handle of her cabin bag from the bellman, tipped him $5 with a polite nod, and walked toward the private elevator banks. Beyond the lobby the casino hummed with conversation, electronic chimes, and the occasional cheer from a gaming table. She smiled to herself. She had always loved the sound of a lively craps table, though tonight she had other priorities. Friday would bring the conference, the academic panels, and whatever minor drama Julian chose to bring with him. But for now the room was quiet, her presentation was ready, and the weekend in Las Vegas was entirely hers to navigate.

Chapter Five

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER FIVE Friday, October 2, 2026 · Luxor, Las Vegas

The final panel of the International Forensic Discourse and Pragmatics Symposium concluded at 4:15 PM in the lower Galleria meeting rooms of the Luxor.

Oxana accepted the polite, vigorous applause of forty visiting academics with a graceful inclination of her head. Over the preceding forty-five minutes she had methodically dismantled three prevailing theories of conversational asymmetry in high-stakes legal arbitration, illustrating each point with clean acoustic spectrograms and flawless comparative syntax models. Her delivery had been poised, razor-sharp, and utterly commanding. When the chair opened the floor, the visiting professors from Stanford and Chicago hadn't challenged her findings. They had simply asked for advance copies of her monograph.

She gathered her iPad Pro from the lectern, flipped the magnetic cover over the glass, and stepped down from the dais. In her tailored charcoal trousers and cream silk shell, with the dark cascade of her hair, she moved with that fluid, aristocratic posture that made a hotel conference corridor feel like a private gallery.

She was intellectually satisfied, professionally respected, and entirely exhausted from maintaining academic diplomacy. For six hours she had measured her vowels, navigated egos, and smiled through polite inquiries from men twice her age who seemed disproportionately interested in whether she had plans for dinner.

Now she was done. What Oxana wanted, more than an expensive meal or a quiet corner of the Bellagio conservatory, was the kinetic electricity of green felt.

She loved craps. Not slots, not blackjack, not the sterile shuffle of baccarat behind velvet ropes, but the wild, chaotic camaraderie of the tub. She loved the physics of the throw, the raw mathematics of the odds, the collective roar of twelve strangers suddenly bonded across a three-point spread, and the unpredictability of human desperation under pressure. She watched the same dice-mechanics breakdown channels on YouTube as any dedicated gambler, understood the house edge down to the third decimal place, and had enough independent family wealth to buy into a high-limit game without batting an eye. But she didn't need high stakes to have fun. She just wanted to hear the dice hit the back wall.

"Brilliant work up there, Oxana. Absolutely transcendent."

She masked a weary breath and turned to find Julian falling into step beside her. He wore the same bespoke linen blazer he'd worn at the airport yesterday and held a conference program like a credential. He had spent the entire symposium planted near the front row, nodding emphatically whenever she spoke, as though he wanted everyone in the room to believe they were an intellectual partnership.

"Thank you, Julian. The committee's feedback was very constructive."

"Constructive? You owned the room." His chest puffed slightly as he matched her pace up the escalators toward the casino mezzanine. "Look, I know you said you wanted a quiet night yesterday, but we've got nothing on the docket until tomorrow afternoon. The 911 is parked here at the Luxor. I was thinking we head back, change, and grab a late lunch or early dinner at Spago. We can sit on the patio, watch the water, and celebrate."

"That sounds lovely for you, Julian. However, I am not going back to the Bellagio yet."

Julian blinked, thrown off script. "Why not? What else is there to do down here?"

Oxana tilted her chin toward the sweeping expanse of the Luxor gaming floor, where the chime of thousands of machines vibrated through the air, mingling with the low, rhythmic roar of the pit. "I am going to play craps."

He stared at her as if she had announced she intended to eat the carpet. "Craps?" His voice carried the nasal condescension he usually reserved for undergraduate essays. "Oxana, come on. You're an academic fellow. You understand basic probability. Craps is an operational meat-grinder designed to extract capital from statistically illiterate tourists. The house edge on proposition bets is daylight robbery."

"I am well aware of the vigorish on center-table action, Julian," Oxana replied evenly, not breaking stride past a bank of illuminated penny terminals. "I do not play proposition bets. I place the numbers, and when I play the line, I take odds."

"It doesn't matter." He hurried to stay at her shoulder, with the exasperated patience of a man explaining fire to a child. "Mathematically, the house always wins over sufficient volume. It's an irrational deployment of your intelligence. If you want stimulation, let's play chess at the lounge, or at least let me show you how to manage a shoe at the blackjack tables where basic strategy actually mitigates variance."

Oxana came to a graceful halt at the edge of the pit and turned her pale gray eyes upon him with cool, unblinking clarity.

"Julian," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, melodious cadence far more cutting than an insult. "I study human discourse for a living. I spend forty hours a week evaluating the structural integrity of communication. I do not need a lecture on probability from a man who spent five hours driving his father's car across the desert just to impress me, and I certainly do not need your permission to spend my own money on entertainment. I am playing craps."

Julian's mouth parted slightly, the blood rushing into his collar. He looked around, hoping no one had heard, his jaw tightening into a stubborn, defensive knot.

Oxana turned away and approached the table. It was a crapless craps layout, twenty-five-dollar minimum, in full swing, loud and kinetic. The stickman called the come-out roll, the dealers sized stacks of red and green chips, and players leaned against the leather rail with varying degrees of superstition and stress.

And standing at stick-left-one, occupying what looked like his personal, non-negotiable territory, was a mountain of a man.

Oxana's eyes caught him and lingered. He looked to be somewhere in his early fifties, built like an NFL offensive lineman who had retired fifteen years ago and gone into heavy machinery, a little over six feet tall, broad through the shoulders and thick around the middle. He wore a faded black graphic tee that said Nope across the chest, broken-in slip-on Skechers, and dark denim. Rough salt-and-pepper stubble framed his face, and there was a stiffness in the way he stood, as though his back and knees had been giving him trouble for years.

Yet there was no arrogance in him. Surrounded by men screaming at the felt, slamming their palms on the rail, and performing desperate rituals with their player cards, the big man stood completely relaxed. His hands rested flat on the padded wood, studying the numbers with the calm, methodical focus of an engineer watching a pressure gauge.

Oxana noticed the thick sterling silver chain disappearing beneath the collar of his T-shirt. Whatever hung from it stayed hidden against his chest.

As the dice rolled and the table groaned over an early out, the big man shifted his weight, and for a fraction of a second his gaze locked onto Oxana. There was no leer in his face. No sly, appraising smirk, no counterfeit swagger of a casino shark trying to make eye contact with an attractive woman. He simply registered her presence, acknowledged her with the quiet, appreciative gravity of an older man looking at something genuinely stunning, and went back to checking his chip stacks.

Oxana felt a flicker of amused respect. In a town where men treated eye contact like a down payment on a conversation, his lack of pretense was practically startling.

Beside her Julian had finally reached the boiling point of his wounded pride.

"Oxana, this is ridiculous." His voice rose above the chatter of the pit. "Look at this table. It's a circus. You're standing here in silk, rubbing elbows with degenerate gamblers in sweatpants."

"Julian, please walk away," Oxana murmured, stepping up toward the open rail near first base. "I am going to buy in."

"No, you're not."

His frustration, compounded by twenty-four hours of polite deflections and the public dismantling of his ego, short-circuited his manners. Julian reached out, grabbed Oxana firmly by the right wrist, and jerked backward to pull her from the table. The contact was sharp, possessive, and entirely beyond the line.

Oxana's reaction was instantaneous. Her posture dropped two inches, her core locking as she snapped her wrist downward against the weak point of his grip and broke his fingers from her skin with a sharp, fluid twist of her forearm.

"Do not touch me," she said, her voice an icy, dangerous hush, her gray eyes narrowed to needles.

Julian stumbled back half a step, startled by the quickness of the break, but his face flushed with defensive anger. He took an aggressive step toward her, hand reaching out again. "I am trying to help you, Oxana, if you would just listen—"

"Son."

The word boomed across the felt like a crack of thunder, cutting through the casino noise with the unmistakable authority of Shooter's gravelly North Carolina drawl. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Whatever Julian had been about to say died in his throat.

Down at stick-left-one, Shooter hadn't moved an inch from the rail. He hadn't puffed out his chest, raised his fists, or shifted his hands. He just turned his head and looked squarely at Julian with cold, impassive eyes that had spent five decades dealing with stubborn servers, bad wiring, and foolish men.

"Son," Shooter repeated, quiet, calm, and utterly immovable. "If you touch her again, I'm gonna fold your clothes."

Julian stood stiff, the fluorescent lights reflecting off his manicured hair. He took in the gray stubble, the Nope T-shirt, and the orthopedic slip-on shoes, and let out a short, scoffing bark of laughter.

"And?" Julian sneered, spreading his hands.

Shooter didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice by a single decibel.

"With you in them."

The table went dead quiet. The base dealer stopped cutting a stack of red chips. The stickman kept his cane planted flat against the wood. Two tourists at the far end of the rail slowly backed up half a step, recognizing the universal tonal signature of a man who was not running a bluff.

Julian's face went pale, then mottled red. He looked at Shooter's large hands resting on the rail, then at the sheer breadth of the man's shoulders. Knowing he couldn't back up the physical wager, he resorted to the only weapon he understood: vanity. He gave another sneering laugh, louder this time, pitched for the benefit of the crowd.

"Oh, come on. You actually think you've got a chance with her? Look at yourself. You're old enough to be her dad."

Oxana didn't hesitate. She turned smoothly toward Shooter, her hands coming to rest lightly on the padded leather rail. A slow, breathtaking, razor-thin smile spread across her lips, her pale gray eyes lighting with wicked, pure delight.

"Ignore him, Daddy," Oxana purred, her Ukrainian accent wrapping around the word with deliberate affection. She gave Julian one last dismissive glance before turning her attention entirely to Shooter. "Come on. Let's play some craps."

Julian went rigid. Daddy? He'd spent two days trying to impress her, and she'd barely given him the time of day. Now she was practically purring at some overweight stranger in a faded T-shirt and Skechers, a man old enough to be her father. And the worst part? She hadn't even bothered to look back at him.

"You..." Julian stammered, his voice cracking slightly. He looked around the pit, but every set of eyes was on him with open, mocking amusement. "You're insane. Both of you. This is ridiculous."

He took two frantic steps backward, nearly tripping over the patterned carpet, then spun on the heel of his Italian loafers and practically jogged toward the distant mezzanine elevators, vanishing into the crowd.

The pit slowly exhaled. Oxana watched him disappear with a calm, untroubled expression, then turned her full attention back to stick-left-one.

Shooter was still standing there in his Skechers, his 275-pound frame frozen in place. He blew out a slow, raspy breath through his nose, rubbed a hand over his stubble, and shook his head in disbelief.

"Daddy?" he rumbled, his Carolina gravel rough with dry amusement. "Lady, I don't know who the hell you are, but you play rough."

Oxana glided two steps closer along the wood and leaned her elbows against the leather apron. Up close, the faint scent of warm vanilla and clean silk cut through the dry casino air.

"He was tedious," she said smoothly, her eyes holding his without a flicker of apology. "And men who grab wrists deserve to be dismantled. Thank you for the assist."

"Didn't need my help," Shooter grunted, eyeing the way she held herself. "Looked like you were about two seconds from snapping his fingers like celery anyway."

"Perhaps," Oxana murmured, the corner of her lips curving upward. "But a gentleman who offers to fold a man's clothes is much more entertaining."

Shooter gave a low, gravelly chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest. The sheer absurdity of the moment had overridden his standard defense protocols.

Oxana gave him one last amused smile and went back to first base. She hadn't chosen that position by accident. From there she would be directly in Shooter's line of sight every time he picked up the dice and looked toward the far end of the table. If he wanted to see where his dice were going, he'd have to look at her. She settled against the rail, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

The stickman cleared his throat and tapped his cane against the middle of the layout. "Puck is off, folks. New shooter coming out. Place your bets."

Oxana reached into her small leather clutch, pulled out a neat, banded stack of hundred-dollar bills, and laid ten clean notes flat on the felt in front of the base dealer. "Change one thousand," she purred, her voice clean and musical. "All green."

Shooter looked from her thousand-dollar buy-in down to his own cash, his eyebrows rising a fraction beneath the gray stubble. "Well," he muttered, pulling a stack of $5,000 from his pocket and laying it on the felt, "looks like we're about to find out if you know how to roll the bones, sweetheart."

Oxana turned her pale gray eyes to him, her smile sharpening into something dangerous and bright.

"Oh, I know how to play, Daddy," she said. "Do you know how to hit the numbers?"

Chapter Six: Daddy, Hit the Numbers

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER SIX Friday, October 2, 2026 · Luxor, Las Vegas

Shooter looked at her over the rail. "That's a hell of a challenge to throw at a man you met thirty seconds ago."

"Forty-five," she corrected. "You spent fifteen of them threatening to fold Julian."

"His clothes."

"With him in them."

"Right. Important distinction."

She settled against the rail at first base, where he'd have to look straight at her every time he threw. The sparkle in her gray eyes made it obvious she knew exactly what she was doing. It was an entirely unreasonable distraction. Shooter decided he liked it.

A cocktail server stopped at his elbow. "Coffee or a cocktail, hon?"

"No coffee for me, ma'am. Tastes like burnt dirt. Just cold water if you've got it. Keep 'em coming."

"Cold water it is." She set down a fresh bottle and moved off through the pit.

The game was crapless craps, and he knew the difference. Two, three, eleven, and twelve could be established and placed. His system was Warring Nations: East was the six, five, four, three, and two; West was the eight, nine, ten, eleven, and twelve. Build outward from the six and eight, press the positions on that side, and collect what was left. No mysterious extra chips, no pretending a payout had funded a wager it couldn't cover.

From his $5,000 buy-in he placed $100 each on the two, three, four, five, nine, ten, eleven, and twelve, and $120 each on the six and eight, a total board of $1,040 working on the come-out. The coin rested beneath his black Nope tee. He wasn't thinking about it. His knees were already complaining, his back wasn't far behind, and the dice were finally in his right hand. He set the 3V, glanced down the table right at Oxana, and aimed for the patch of felt near the far wall.

Roll 1. Eight. "Eight! Easy eight! Point is eight!" The dealer paid the working eight. "Press my eight to $240," Shooter said, "and give the dealers five bucks each on the four, five, nine, and ten." The base dealer's eyebrows rose as four red $5 chips went across the numbers for the crew.

"Very methodical," Oxana observed from first base.

"That's the polite way of saying I'm a pain in the ass."

"I was going to say disciplined."

"Give it time."

Roll 2. Nine. He pressed it to $200 and gave the dealers five on the two, three, eleven, and twelve. Roll 3. Six. He pressed the six to $240 and gave the crew ten each on the six and eight. That made $60 total in wagers he'd handed the dealers across the first three rolls, and the crew pressed one unit on every hit, moving their six and eight up in proper multiples of six as the hand went on. He wasn't pressing for show. He was building the board one step at a time. The dealers caught his rhythm quickly. On a hit, he told them which number to strengthen.

Rolls 4 and 5 landed a ten and a five, and he pressed each to $200.

Oxana bought her own numbers down at first base. She wasn't following his lead because she needed permission, and she wasn't impressed by the size of his bankroll. She liked the game, and she liked the way he played it. Increasingly, she seemed to enjoy making him look up from the dice.

"Daddy," she called before Roll 6. "Give me the eleven."

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh, am I taking requests now?"

"I thought you might be inclined to take them."

He set the 3V, rolled, and the stickman called eleven. The table reacted before Shooter did. Oxana laughed, delighted, and he pressed the eleven and twelve to $200.

"You see?" she said.

"Beginner's luck."

"Whose?"

He looked at her, then down at the dice. "That's a damn good question."

Rolls 7 and 8 landed a five and a four, and by the eighth every number on the board had been stepped up to at least $200, anchored by a $480 six.

Before Roll 9 Oxana leaned her elbows on the rail. "Daddy, I would love a two."

Shooter stared at her. "You know there's only one combination on the dice for a two, right?"

"Do not make excuses, Daddy. Hit the two."

He shook his head, swung his arm, and threw. One and one. "Two! Snake eyes!" The table shouted as the two paid out, and he pressed the five, four, three, and two to $400 each.

He barely had the dice back in his fingers when she smiled again. "Daddy, hit the twelve for me."

"We just went to the bottom of the board, and now you want the top?"

"I like both ends."

Six and six. "Twelve! Midnight!" Players around the rail shouted in disbelief and looked from the dice to Oxana. By the eleventh roll she was asking for snake eyes again.

"Ma'am, I am not a jukebox," Shooter muttered. He threw. One and one.

For several seconds the whole table forgot how to behave. A man slapped the rail, the dealers stared as they pushed out the winnings, and Shooter pressed the six to $960 and the five, four, three, and two to $800. A man two positions down tried to copy him and got tangled in his own instructions.

"Buddy," Shooter said without looking away from the layout, "I wouldn't follow me unless you know why I'm doing it. And I barely know why I'm doing it."

Oxana's laughter floated across the felt. "Do you always talk to the dealers as though you are all working on the same problem?"

"We are working on the same problem. They have to understand what I want, and I have to make sure I haven't told them something stupid."

"You admit that happens?"

"Sweetheart, I'm fifty-one. I have a lifetime of supporting evidence."

Over the next seventeen rolls the pattern held. She called a two or a twelve and the dice delivered it, and each time Shooter pressed another step up the board while the pit grew louder and the floor supervisor drifted to the rail. The cocktail server set two fresh bottles of water within easy reach so he didn't have to break stride. By the twenty-eighth roll every number on the layout had reached its table limit: $3,000 each on the two, three, eleven, and twelve, $10,000 each on the four, five, nine, and ten, and $12,000 each on the six and eight.

"Well, shit," Shooter muttered, looking over the maxed-out layout.

"What is it?"

"Nothing left to press on the boxes."

"Then you work the Come and collect."

He pointed at her. "See? You get it."

From there he put out $10,000 Come bets, one after another, added odds as each traveled to a number, and collected as the numbers kept hitting: the five, the ten, the nine, the eight. On the thirty-first roll Oxana tapped a fingernail on the rail and asked for the twelve, and she got it. By the thirty-seventh roll the winning Come eight had paid and another $10,000 Come bet had slid onto the eight. Shooter looked at the towering stacks of chips filling his racks, felt his right shoulder and both knees protesting after standing at the rail so long, and made his decision.

He raised his left hand. "Collect the winning Come eight, and take me down. Remove all my Place and Buy bets and all my Come odds. I know I have to leave the flat Come bets working to resolve."

The floor supervisor stared at him. "Sir, you're sure?"

"My kids are waiting for me, and my back has filed a formal complaint. Yeah, I'm sure. Keep the dealers' bets working till we finish."

The dealers returned every Place and Buy wager and every removable Come odds bet to his racks, leaving only his flat $10,000 Come bets on the layout and the crew's pressed bets live.

The next eighteen rolls resolved what remained: a three, an eight, a two that Oxana had asked for, an eleven, a ten, an eight, a twelve that cleared a Come bet, a nine. The dealers cheered every hit as their own bets climbed. Oxana called for twelves on rolls 44, 49, 51, and 53, and each time the dice landed six-six while the crowd around the table erupted in laughter and applause.

"You sound like my kids asking for five more minutes on their video games," Shooter said before the last of them.

"And do you say yes?"

"Usually once. Then they try for six."

"Give me the twelve, Daddy."

He threw. Twelve.

Roll 55. Shooter checked the dice, set the 3V with his right hand, took his position, and sent the pair down the felt. Five.

"Five! Winner five!" His last remaining flat Come bet won and came down, and the dealers finally took down all their working bets across the board.

Fifty-five rolls. Not one seven.

From the $60 Shooter had put up for the crew on the first three rolls, the dealers' working bets had grown to $3,229. After all his bets resolved, he looked at the chips stacked in his rack. "Color me up."

The dealers brought his chips onto the felt and counted them under the supervisor's watchful eye. "$540,480," the dealer announced.

Shooter blinked, then looked at the stacks one more time. "All right. $500,000 for me, $39,000 for the boys, and the rest for that hard-working server."

He turned toward the players crowded around the rail. "And the rest of you cheap assholes better tip her well, too. I ain't the only one she brought stuff to."

The dealer cut out $39,000 for the crew. With the $3,229 their bets had earned during the hand, their total came to $42,229. Shooter took the separate $1,480 and handed it to the cocktail server who had kept his water coming throughout the session. Her eyes went wide as she thanked him.

He wasn't putting on a performance. He fist-bumped the crew, thanked them for a hell of an afternoon, and looked almost embarrassed when the people around the rail started applauding. The remaining $500,000 was colored up for him to take to the cage.

Oxana came around the end of the table. "You are not going to keep rolling?"

"Lady, I've got two kids to hug. Half a million's enough for one afternoon."

"Fifty-five rolls," the supervisor said, shaking his head. "Without a seven."

"Don't say that too loud. Somebody'll expect me to do it again."

Oxana slipped alongside him as they moved away from the table. Her perfume reached him before her hand brushed his arm. "Daddy?"

"Oh, here we go."

She slipped her arm through his. "Tell me something. Are you always this oblivious?"

"Oblivious to what?"

She stopped walking and stared at him. "I have spent the last two hours flirting with you. I have called you Daddy in front of an entire casino. I have practically begged you to pay attention to me, and you seem more interested in the dice."

Shooter considered that. "Well, in my defense, those dice just made me half a million dollars."

Oxana burst out laughing. "You are impossible."

"I've been told."

She stepped closer, looking up into his eyes. "Perhaps I should be more direct."

"Honey, I don't think you could've been more direct if you'd walked up and said, 'Hey, dumbass, I'm flirting with you.'"

She laughed again. "Then why haven't you done anything about it?"

"Well, for starters, I was a little busy making half a million dollars."

"And now?"

Shooter looked at her, smiling. "Now? Now you've got my undivided attention."

For the first time since she'd met him, Oxana seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then her smile returned. "Good. Because I would very much like to have a drink with you tonight. There is a lovely bar at Bellagio. We could sit, talk, and get to know each other without an entire casino shouting every time you throw the dice."

Shooter chuckled. "You mean you don't want me throwing twelves for you all night?"

"Oh, Daddy. I have other things I would like you to do for me."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're trouble, aren't you?"

"Perhaps. Is that a yes?"

"Let me go hug my kids first."

"That," Oxana said, "is the right answer."

She slipped her arm through his again, and they continued toward the cage. Shooter was still trying to process the fact that Oxana had spent two hours flirting with him when a well-dressed man approached from the casino floor. Dark suit, immaculate tie, polished shoes, the kind of man who looked like he belonged somewhere Shooter probably couldn't afford to eat.

"Excuse me, sir. Would you happen to be Shooter?"

"Depends. Who's asking, and how much is it gonna cost me?"

The man smiled pleasantly. "Rodolfo Castillo, sir. I'm a casino host with Bellagio."

Shooter glanced at Oxana, then back. "Okay."

Rodolfo waited a moment. Shooter waited right back. Oxana pressed her lips together.

"Mr. Shooter, I've been informed of your rather extraordinary session this afternoon. Fifty-five consecutive rolls without a seven. Quite remarkable."

"Yeah, my knees are starting to think so, too."

"I was hoping I might have a moment of your time."

Shooter narrowed his eyes. "You're not selling timeshares, are you?"

Oxana made a small choking sound. Rodolfo blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Timeshares. Vacation ownership. Come listen to a ninety-minute presentation, get a free breakfast, and spend the next three hours trying to convince somebody I don't want to own a piece of a hotel."

"No, sir. Nothing of the sort."

"Good. Because I've been standing here for two hours, and the only presentation I'm interested in right now involves a chair."

Oxana turned her face away. Her shoulders were shaking. Rodolfo, to his credit, never lost his professional smile.

"Of course, sir. I'll be brief. Bellagio would like to invite you and your family to stay with us as our guests, in a complimentary two-bedroom suite."

Shooter stared at him. "A what?"

"A two-bedroom suite, sir. At Bellagio. Complimentary."

Shooter looked at Oxana. She smiled innocently. He looked back. "Free? At the Bellagio? The one with the fountains?"

"That would be the one."

Shooter scratched his chin. "All right. What's the catch?"

"There is no catch, sir."

"There's always a catch."

"Not in this case."

"You're telling me you're just going to give me a two-bedroom suite at one of the fanciest hotels in Las Vegas because I had a good afternoon throwing dice?"

"An exceptional afternoon, sir. And we'd certainly welcome the opportunity to have you play at Bellagio. Our high-limit gaming facilities may be of particular interest."

Shooter nodded slowly. "There it is. You want me gambling at your place."

Rodolfo inclined his head. "We would be pleased if you chose to, but the suite is not contingent upon any amount of play."

"So I could take the room, sleep in the bed, use the shower, and never put a dollar on your tables? And nobody comes knocking at three in the morning asking why I haven't lost enough money yet?"

Rodolfo laughed. "No, sir. I can assure you that will not happen."

Shooter looked at Oxana. "Am I missing something here?"

She finally gave up hiding her amusement. "No, Daddy. He is offering you hospitality."

"Hospitality is when somebody offers you a beer and a place to sit. This man is offering me a room that probably costs more per night than my truck payment."

"Which is precisely why you should accept."

Shooter turned back to Rodolfo. "Okay, I've got a question. How big's the bathtub?"

There was a pause. Oxana closed her eyes. Rodolfo looked as though he'd prepared for any number of questions and this wasn't one of them. "The bathtub, sir?"

"Yeah. I'm six-foot-one, fifty-one years old, and my knees are about fifteen years older than the rest of me. If I'm staying in some fancy suite, I want a bathtub I can fit in without my knees sticking up around my ears. Most hotel bathtubs are designed for people who are four-foot-six and made out of rubber."

Oxana made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak. "What?" Shooter asked. "Nothing, Daddy. Please continue."

Rodolfo recovered beautifully. "I believe we can arrange a suite with a generously sized soaking tub, sir. I'll confirm the accommodations personally."

"Now we're talking."

Oxana leaned against his arm, laughing openly. "Of all the things you could ask about a suite at Bellagio, you ask about the bathtub?"

"Honey, I can sleep in a bed at Motel 6. A bathtub that doesn't require me to fold myself into a pretzel? That's luxury."

"And your children, sir? You mentioned you were traveling with family."

"Two kids. Daughter's nineteen, son's sixteen. They're at HyperX right now."

"Wonderful. The accommodations should be quite comfortable for your family."

"They've never stayed at Bellagio either. They'll be impressed by the hotel. I'll be impressed if the bathtub has hot water."

Rodolfo produced a business card. "My direct contact information, sir. When you're ready, we can arrange your accommodations and assist with your arrival."

Shooter examined it. "Rodolfo Castillo. Casino host. Huh. Never had a casino host before."

"Well, Mr. Shooter, I hope this will be the beginning of a very pleasant relationship."

"Long as you don't start calling me about timeshares."

Rodolfo laughed. "You have my word." He turned to Oxana. "Good afternoon, miss."

"Good afternoon, Rodolfo."

Shooter looked between them. "Wait. You two know each other?"

Oxana gave him a small, knowing smile. "We have met."

"Of course you have."

Rodolfo shook his hand and departed. Shooter stood with the card in his hand and an expression of mild disbelief. "Did that really just happen? Some guy walked up and offered me a free suite at the Bellagio, and the only thing I have to do is show up."

"That is generally how hotel reservations work."

"Smartass."

"You are learning."

He glanced back at the casino floor, then slowly turned to her. "Wait a damn minute. You knew what he was doing the whole time, didn't you? And you couldn't have said something?"

She smiled sweetly. "But you were doing so well."

"You enjoyed every damn second of that."

"Every. Single. Second."

"You're gonna be trouble."

"I certainly hope so, Daddy."

He tucked Rodolfo's card into his pocket as Oxana slipped her arm through his again. "Welcome to Las Vegas, Daddy."

"I've been to Vegas before, sweetheart."

"Perhaps," she said, smiling up at him. "But I think this time will be different."

At the cage, Shooter cashed out his $500,000 and received $100,000 in cash and a $400,000 casino check. He looked down at the check, then back toward the craps table. Fifty-five throws. Not a single seven. Half a million dollars. He'd walked up to that table expecting to have a little fun throwing dice. Instead he'd made more money in an afternoon than he had ever imagined making in a casino. And somehow, standing there beside Oxana, the money wasn't the only thing on his mind.

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "Come, Daddy. You have two children waiting for their father."

Shooter smiled. "Yeah. I reckon I've kept 'em waiting long enough."

They started walking. He had half a million dollars from the afternoon, a complimentary Bellagio suite waiting for his family, and a beautiful woman on his arm who had apparently decided that watching him make an ass of himself was quality entertainment. He looked down at her. She looked up at him, those gray eyes sparkling with amusement.

"What?" she asked innocently.

"Nothing, sweetheart. Not a damn thing."

Her laughter followed them across the casino floor. And Shooter realized that of everything that had happened during those fifty-five impossible rolls, the thing he kept replaying wasn't the money. It was the way she'd looked at him every time he set the dice. And every time he'd looked up, she'd been looking back.

Chapter Seven: The Good Luck Charm

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER SEVEN Friday, October 2, 2026 · Luxor and Bellagio, Las Vegas

Shooter left the Luxor cage with the paperwork secured, $100,000 in cash, and a $400,000 casino check. The transaction was finished. Now came the part he was looking forward to: telling his kids.

He rolled his right shoulder and winced. "Fifty-five damn rolls. Should've charged them for physical therapy."

He pulled out his phone and called Nik. His son answered on the second ring. "Hey, Dad!" Behind him Shooter could hear the unmistakable sounds of HyperX: people shouting, electronic explosions, and somebody losing their mind over a video game.

"Hey, Bubba. Where's your sister?"

"She's watching some Rocket League tournament. Why?"

"Round her up and meet me back at the room."

There was a pause. "Why?"

"Because I asked you to."

"Dad."

"Nik."

"Did something happen?"

Shooter smiled. "You could say that."

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you when you get here."

"Daaaaad."

"Five minutes, Bubba."

He disconnected before Nik could interrogate him further. For once in his life he was looking forward to explaining where the money had come from.

The door opened seven minutes later. Nik came through first, followed closely by Liz. Both wore an expression Shooter recognized immediately: suspicion.

"Okay," Liz announced, dropping her bag onto one of the beds. "What's going on?"

"Hello to you too, sweetheart."

"Dad. Nik said you sounded weird."

Shooter looked at his son. "Weird?"

Nik shrugged. "You did."

"Well, hell. I guess I ought to work on my telephone voice."

Liz folded her arms. "Dad."

Shooter grinned. "All right. Both of you sit down."

Nik dropped onto the nearest bed. Liz remained standing. "Am I in trouble?"

"No."

"Is Nik in trouble?"

"Hey!" Nik protested.

"No, neither one of you is in trouble."

"Did something happen to the truck?"

Shooter stared at them. "Why does everybody automatically assume something happened to my truck?"

"Because it's your truck," Liz answered.

"Fair point. Sit down, Squirt."

She finally joined her brother. Shooter settled into the chair opposite them, his lower back complaining until he shifted. "So. You know how I was going to play some craps while you two were at HyperX?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I did."

Liz raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And I had a pretty good run."

"How good?"

Shooter handed his daughter the envelope containing his casino paperwork. "Take a look."

Liz unfolded the paperwork and began reading. Her expression changed. She looked up, looked back down, then up again. "Dad. What am I looking at?"

"Numbers, mostly."

"Dad!"

Shooter laughed. "Five hundred thousand dollars, sweetheart."

Silence. Nik leaned toward his sister. "What?" Liz turned the paperwork so he could see. Nik stared at it, then at Shooter, then back at the paperwork. "Five hundred THOUSAND?"

"That's what I said."

"YOU WON five hundred thousand dollars?"

Shooter glanced at the wall. "Bubba, I'm pretty sure the people in the next tower heard you."

Nik looked like his brain had temporarily stopped processing information. Liz was still staring at the paperwork. "How?"

"Craps."

"I know that, Dad. How?"

"Well, you pick up two dice, throw 'em down the table, and hope they land on something other than seven."

Liz gave him a look. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

"How much did you start with?"

"Five thousand."

Nik's mouth fell open. "You turned five thousand dollars into five hundred thousand?"

"Actually, I won more than that." Both kids stared. Shooter leaned back. "I gave the dealers $39,000 at the end, on top of $3,229 their bets earned during the hand. And I gave the cocktail waitress another $1,480."

Liz blinked. "You gave away more than forty-three thousand dollars?"

"Yep."

"Dad! That's a CAR!"

"Depends on the car."

Nik was shaking his head. "That's insane."

"Probably. But those dealers earned every penny. Fifty-five rolls, no seven. The whole table was going nuts."

Liz studied him. "So what happens now?"

"Now we enjoy our vacation."

"Dad, I'm serious."

"So am I." He leaned forward. "Look, sweetheart. I'm not going to pretend this isn't a lot of money. It is. First thing when we get home, I'm setting aside what I need for taxes. Then we're paying off some bills, putting money away, and making sure we don't do anything stupid."

Nik raised a hand. "Question. Can we at least get a really good dinner?"

Shooter laughed. "Yes, Bubba. I think we can afford dinner. Within reason."

Nik grinned. "Awesome."

"Now, I've got something else to tell you. While I was playing, this casino host came over. Nice guy. Rodolfo Castillo."

"What's a casino host?" Nik asked.

"Basically, somebody whose job is to make sure people who gamble a lot of money keep gambling at their casino."

Liz smirked. "So they want you to give the money back."

"Pretty much. Anyway, Rodolfo offered us a complimentary two-bedroom suite at the Bellagio. Said he'd check whether they had a three-bedroom so you two could each have your own room."

Nik sat straight up. "The Bellagio?" Liz said. "Dad, that place is crazy expensive!"

"Well, good thing I'm not paying for it."

Nik leaned forward. "Wait. You think the suite overlooks the fountains?"

"Don't know. Rodolfo's checking on a three-bedroom, but I was more interested in whether they had a bathtub big enough for me to fit in."

Liz closed her eyes. "Of course you were."

"What? You try spending two hours standing at a craps table with my knees."

Nik wasn't listening anymore. "Dad. Seriously. If we get a room overlooking those fountains, I'm never leaving."

"Fine by me. Saves me having to find you."

"Dad, we have to!"

Shooter held up a hand. "Hang on. I haven't actually told the man yes yet."

Both kids stared at him. "Dad," Liz said slowly, "somebody offered you a free suite at the Bellagio, and you told him you'd think about it?"

"I had other things going on."

"You were throwing dice," Nik said.

"And doing a damn fine job of it, thank you."

Shooter pulled Rodolfo's card from his pocket and took out his phone. "All right. Let's see if the offer's still good."

"Ask about the fountains," Nik said.

"I'm going to ask about the room."

"And the fountains."

Shooter dialed. "Rodolfo Castillo."

"Hey, Rodolfo. It's Shooter. From the Luxor."

"Mr. Shooter. Of course."

"I talked it over with my kids, and we'd like to take you up on that suite, if the offer's still there."

"It most certainly is, sir. And I have good news. I was able to secure a three-bedroom suite for your family."

Shooter gave Liz and Nik a thumbs-up. "Well, that's mighty kind of you. Thank you." Liz mouthed, Three bedrooms? Shooter nodded. "Fountains," Nik whispered. Shooter covered the phone. "I heard you the first six times."

"Is there anything else I can clarify, sir?"

"Actually, yeah. My son's got a question. Does this place look out over the fountains?"

"Yes, sir. The suite overlooks the Bellagio fountains."

Nik threw both fists into the air.

"And the bathtub?" Shooter asked.

"I've confirmed a generously sized soaking tub, as requested."

"Now that's what I call customer service."

"Will you be joining us this evening?"

"That's the plan. We're still at the Luxor. Got to get everybody packed up."

"Of course. Call me when you're ready to come over, and I'll make sure your arrival is handled smoothly."

"Appreciate it, Rodolfo. Really."

Shooter ended the call. Nik grinned. "Three bedrooms. Fountain view." Liz shook her head. "Dad, that's insane."

"Yeah, well, apparently insane is what we're doing today."

Nik headed for his bag. "Where are you going?" Shooter asked. "Packing." "Well, that's a first."

Shooter looked around the room one last time, then picked up his bag. A little while later, the Rebel rolled out of the Luxor parking garage and onto Las Vegas Boulevard, carrying the same three people who'd arrived that morning. The difference was that Shooter now had half a million dollars, a complimentary suite waiting at the Bellagio, and two kids who couldn't stop talking about the fountains.

"Think they'll let us park right out front?" Nik asked.

"It's a hotel, Bubba, not Buckingham Palace."

The Bellagio came into view, its enormous façade glowing against the evening sky. Shooter guided the Rebel into the hotel entrance and followed the signs for valet. Liz looked over. "You're actually going to valet the truck?" "Well, I could drive it through the lobby, but I suspect they'd frown on that."

A valet approached as Shooter stopped the Rebel. "Good evening, sir. Welcome to Bellagio." "Evening. We're checking in. Rodolfo Castillo said he'd have something arranged." "Of course, sir. May I have your name?" "Shooter." The valet checked with the attendant, then nodded. "Welcome, sir. We'll take care of your vehicle and luggage."

Shooter climbed out and waited for his knees to finish complaining. A bellman collected their bags while he unclipped the Rebel's key fob from his belt loop and handed it to the valet along with a folded $100 bill. "Take good care of her, boss. She's gotten us a long way." "Absolutely, sir."

The lobby stopped Nik in his tracks. Overhead, the colorful glass flowers spread across the ceiling. "Okay. That's still pretty cool." Shooter looked up at the ceiling, then at his children. "All right. I'll give them that one."

A guest services representative approached near reception. "Mr. Shooter? Welcome. Mr. Castillo asked us to expect you."

Shooter glanced at Liz. "Apparently I'm famous now."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm considering having people carry me around in one of those chairs with poles."

Nik grinned. "I'd pay to see that."

"With what money?"

Nik opened his mouth, considered the question, and closed it again.

Rodolfo Castillo was waiting in VIP reception, a neatly dressed man with an easy smile and the comfortable confidence of someone accustomed to wealthy guests. "Mr. Freeman. Welcome to the Bellagio."

"Please, call me Shooter. Good to see you again, Rodolfo. These are my kids, Liz and Nik."

"A pleasure to meet you both." "Thank you," Liz said. "Thanks for the room," Nik said. Rodolfo smiled. "You're very welcome."

Their registration was handled without the usual wait. The representative confirmed that their three-bedroom suite was ready and complimentary. Shooter listened carefully. "Just so we're clear, nobody's gonna hand me a bill for this room tomorrow morning that requires selling a kidney?"

"No, sir. Your accommodations have been taken care of."

"Good. My kidneys have been through enough." Liz covered her mouth.

A few minutes later they followed Rodolfo down a quiet corridor to a set of double doors, and Nik stopped dead. "Whoa." The suite was enormous. The entrance opened into a spacious living room with comfortable seating, a dining area, and windows stretching nearly floor to ceiling. Beyond the glass lay Lake Bellagio. The fountains weren't running at the moment, but the view was spectacular. Liz walked straight to the windows. "Oh, wow."

"Dad, this place is bigger than some houses!"

"Well, I'll be damned."

"Each bedroom has its own bathroom," Rodolfo said. "The master suite is down the right hallway, and the other two bedrooms are on the left." Nik immediately headed left. "I'm claiming one!" "There's two of them, dummy!" Liz said, following. "Don't care!"

Shooter shook his head. "Children."

"Would you like to see the master suite?" "Actually, Rodolfo, there's only one thing I want to see." "The bathtub?" "Now you're catching on."

The master bedroom had an enormous bed and another beautiful view of the fountains. Shooter barely glanced at it. He went straight into the bathroom and stopped. Beside a large window sat an oversized soaking tub, deep, wide, and, most importantly, long enough to accommodate all six feet and one inch of him.

He stared. Then smiled. "Well, look at that magnificent bastard."

Rodolfo laughed. "I take it this meets your requirements?"

"Rodolfo, if I wasn't already married three times, I'd consider proposing to that thing."

Liz appeared in the doorway. "Dad! You're embarrassing yourself."

"Sweetheart, I am fifty-one years old. I passed the point of being embarrassed by a bathtub a long time ago."

Nik appeared behind her. "Dad! There's a huge TV in my room! And the bathroom has a TV! And there's another one in the living room!"

Shooter looked at Rodolfo. "Does every room in this place have a television?" "Nearly every room, sir." "Well, at least nobody's gonna miss the weather."

As the kids disappeared to keep exploring, Rodolfo turned to Shooter. "Is there anything else I can arrange for you this evening? I've also taken the liberty of arranging a $50,000 marker in our Club Privé high-limit room, should you care to play tonight. Mrs. Alvarez, our credit manager, can have the paperwork ready whenever you like."

"Good to know." Shooter glanced toward the hallway to make sure the kids were out of earshot. "Actually, Rodolfo, I've got an idea."

A few minutes later the two men had worked out the details, and Rodolfo assured him everything would be ready. Shooter grinned. "You're making it awfully easy for me to spoil these two."

"That's part of the service, Shooter."

"Keep it up and I'm gonna get used to it."

After Rodolfo left, the three of them spent a few minutes exploring. Nik investigated every television, remote control, and gadget he could find. Liz claimed the bedroom with the view she liked best. Shooter checked the minibar prices, decided some things in life were still ridiculous, and returned to the living room, where he found Liz standing beside the windows. Outside, the first notes of music began drifting across the lake. Then the fountains erupted, water rising into the evening sky, illuminated against the fading sunlight.

Nik hurried over. "Whoa!" The three of them stood together watching. For a little while nobody said anything.

Shooter glanced at his children. Nik was grinning. Liz had a small smile on her face. He thought about all the years he'd spent trying to make sure they had what they needed. The bills, the long hours, the worry. And now here they were, standing in a suite at the Bellagio, watching the fountains together.

Liz leaned against his arm. "Thanks, Dad." Shooter put an arm around her shoulders. "For what, sweetheart?" She gestured toward the windows. "All this." He kissed the top of her head. "You're welcome, Squirt."

"This is probably the coolest vacation we've ever had," Nik said.

"Bubba, it's only Friday."

A little later Shooter checked his watch. "All right, you two. I've got one more surprise."

Liz turned. "There's MORE?"

"Yep. I figured you two might want to see some of Vegas tonight."

"We're in Vegas, Dad."

"Very observant, sweetheart." He pulled out his phone. "So I made a couple arrangements with Rodolfo. A limousine."

Silence. Liz blinked. "A what?"

"A limousine."

Nik's eyes widened. "Like a real limo?"

"No, Bubba. A pretend one. Y'all sit in cardboard boxes and make engine noises."

"DAD!"

Shooter laughed. "Yes, a real limousine. Stretch limo. Driver. The whole nine yards."

"For us?"

"For you two."

Nik practically jumped off the couch. "THAT IS AWESOME!"

Shooter held up a finger. "Ground rules." Both kids settled. "You stay together. Phones charged, ringers on. If I call, you answer. No wandering off somewhere stupid, no accepting rides from strangers, and nothing that makes me have to come find you. And you're back here by midnight."

"Okay."

"I mean it. Here. At the room."

"Got it."

He handed Liz a thousand dollars. "Get yourselves something to eat, see the sights, take pictures. Have fun."

Liz looked at the money, then at him. "You're really letting us explore Vegas in a limo?"

"With a professional driver, yes. I'm not handing Nik the keys and telling him to figure out traffic on the Strip."

"Hey!"

Shooter grinned. "Besides, I have plans tonight."

Liz's eyes narrowed immediately. "Oh?"

Shooter realized his mistake. "What?"

"What plans?"

"Just plans."

"What kind of plans?"

"Adult plans."

Nik started laughing. Liz folded her arms. "Dad."

Shooter sighed. "I'm meeting somebody for a drink."

Liz's expression changed. Then a slow smile spread across her face. "Oh my God. There's a woman."

Shooter closed his eyes. "Here we go."

"THERE'S A WOMAN!"

Nik burst out laughing. "Dad got a date?"

"It is not necessarily a date."

Liz was grinning now. "What's her name?"

"Oxana."

"Where'd you meet her?"

"At the craps table."

Nik laughed harder. "You picked up a woman while winning half a million dollars?"

Shooter pointed at him. "First of all, I didn't pick anybody up. We talked. And second, she's an extremely intelligent woman. She's Ukrainian, a linguistics fellow at the University of Arizona, here for a conference."

Liz tilted her head. "Is she pretty?"

Shooter hesitated. That was all the answer Liz needed.

"Oh, she is!"

"Good Lord, you two."

Nik grinned. "Does she know about the Skechers?"

Shooter stared at his son. "Keep it up, Bubba. I'll cancel the limo and make you spend the evening watching documentaries with me."

Nik laughed. "Sorry, Dad."

"No, you're not."

"Nope."

Shooter shook his head. "Little smartass."

Not long afterward Shooter's phone rang. It was the Bellagio concierge confirming that the limousine was waiting downstairs. "All right, you two. Your chariot awaits."

Nik was on his feet immediately. "LET'S GO!" "Hang on, Speed Racer." Shooter looked at Liz. "You've got your phone? Charged? Ringer on?" She held it up. "See?" "Good. And you know the rules." "Together, answer our phones, don't do anything stupid, back by midnight." "See? You do listen occasionally." Liz rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

He accompanied them downstairs, where a chauffeur waited beside a long black stretch limousine. Nik stopped. "Oh, man." Liz stared at the vehicle. "Dad, you weren't kidding." "Generally don't joke about spending money on limousines, sweetheart."

The chauffeur stepped forward. "Good evening, Mr. Freeman. I'm your driver for the evening." Shooter shook his hand and introduced Liz and Nik. "They're good kids, and I want them brought back here by midnight. If there's any problem, you've got my number. And don't let this one talk you into letting him drive." He pointed at Nik. "DAD!" The chauffeur smiled. "I'll make sure to keep the keys, sir." "Excellent. We're gonna get along just fine."

The driver opened the rear door. Nik practically dove inside. Liz lingered. "Thanks, Dad." Shooter smiled. "Have fun, sweetheart." She hugged him. "We will." "And Liz? Keep an eye on your brother." "Always do." "HEY!" Nik protested from inside. Shooter laughed.

Liz climbed in beside her brother, and the chauffeur closed the door. A moment later the long black limousine pulled away from the Bellagio entrance. Shooter watched until it disappeared into the traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard. He shook his head, smiling. Those two were going to have one hell of a night.

Then he checked the time. He had somewhere to be himself.

Oxana Interlude: The Weekend She Didn't Plan

Friday, October 2, 2026 · Earlier That Morning · Oxana's Perspective

Oxana had planned a lovely weekend. She had also planned to spend most of it alone. These were not contradictory ideas.

She stood barefoot beside the enormous windows of her Bellagio suite, holding a cup of tea while the morning sun worked its way across Las Vegas. Below her the fountains were still. Across the Strip traffic crawled between hotels that seemed determined to outdo one another in size, extravagance, and architectural improbability. She smiled. Americans did have a gift for excess.

Her presentation was ready. She had reviewed the final slides the night before, checked the acoustic examples, and made one last correction to a comparative syntax model that had been bothering her. Today would be work. Tomorrow would be hers. She had deliberately left Saturday open: a leisurely breakfast, perhaps a massage, a little shopping, an excellent dinner. She might play craps. She might spend the entire afternoon reading. The beauty of the arrangement was that she didn't have to decide.

Her phone vibrated. Julian, of course. Good morning. I'll meet you downstairs. We can review your presentation over breakfast.

She had worked with Julian long enough to recognize his particular style of helpfulness. He was intelligent, well connected, and often useful in professional settings. He was also developing the unfortunate habit of behaving as though proximity to her work entitled him to supervise her life. She replied that the presentation was ready and she'd see him at the symposium. He immediately offered to drive her. Julian had been unusually proud of the Porsche 911 he'd driven to Las Vegas and had mentioned the car several times on the ride from the airport, though she had found his father's ownership of it rather less fascinating than he apparently expected. She had no objection to a nice car. She simply preferred the people inside them to be interesting.

By the time Oxana returned to her Bellagio suite that evening, the weekend she had planned was already becoming something entirely different. She had gone to the Luxor intending to enjoy a few hours at a craps table. And she had. More than she'd ever imagined. What she hadn't planned on was meeting Shooter. Somehow the enormous American with the bad knees, ridiculous sense of humor, and remarkable talent for throwing dice had become the most interesting part of her afternoon.

She stood before her wardrobe. She was going to meet Shooter for drinks. That was all. A pleasant evening with a man she'd enjoyed spending time with. She selected a dress. Considered another. Then a third. She stopped, looked in the mirror, and laughed. "Oh, Oxana." She was doing it. Dressing for a man.

Not because she lacked opportunities. There were always opportunities. But most became less appealing after ten minutes of conversation. Shooter had somehow managed the opposite.

And then there was Julian. She could still hear Shooter's perfectly matter-of-fact warning across the craps table. Son, if you touch her again, I'm gonna fold your clothes. Julian had demanded to know what that meant. With you in them. Oxana laughed aloud at the memory. It was a ridiculous threat, delivered without a trace of theatrics. Shooter hadn't tried to claim her attention or decide her evening for her. He had simply noticed that Julian wouldn't take no for an answer. He hadn't asked whether she needed rescuing. He hadn't puffed out his chest or made some grand declaration about protecting women. He had simply drawn a line, and when Julian challenged him, Shooter had explained exactly where that line was.

She had spent years dealing with men who confused her independence with an invitation to compete, men who wanted to impress her with expensive watches, luxury cars, influential acquaintances, or the size of their portfolios. Julian had mentioned his Porsche so many times she'd begun to wonder whether the car had registered for the conference. Shooter, meanwhile, had arrived at the Luxor wearing Skechers. She laughed again. A man who had just won an astonishing amount of money at a craps table, and she was reasonably certain he would have been just as comfortable standing there with twenty dollars in his pocket. He hadn't asked what she earned or attempted to establish whether her professional connections might be useful to him. He had asked about her work because he actually wanted to know the answers. And when she answered, he listened. That shouldn't have been unusual. The fact that it was annoyed her a little.

She held the third dress against herself and studied the mirror. No. Shooter would probably look at the price tag, whistle, and ask whether the dress came with a warranty. The thought made her smile. And when she'd called the enormous American Daddy just to watch Julian's reaction, the look on Shooter's face had been worth the entire afternoon. She had expected embarrassment. Perhaps annoyance. She had gotten surprise, but he'd recovered quickly enough to make her wonder whether teasing him might become a very enjoyable pastime. She liked that he didn't seem entirely certain what to make of her. Most men decided within minutes that they understood Oxana Vladokova. They saw the accent, the expensive clothes, the confidence, and constructed a woman in their imaginations who bore very little resemblance to the real one. Shooter didn't seem to have constructed anything. He looked at her as though he was still figuring her out. She found herself hoping he wouldn't finish anytime soon.

Then there were his children, Liz and Nik. He had mentioned them with the easy familiarity of a father whose life revolved around two people he loved more than himself. Not as an obligation. Not as an inconvenience. Certainly not as an apology. She wondered what they were like. Was Liz as quick with a sarcastic remark as her father? Did Nik inherit that ridiculous sense of humor? She could picture it far too easily. And she wondered what kind of father he was when nobody was watching. Did he cook? Did he sit through movies he didn't particularly enjoy because one of the children wanted to watch them? Did he worry when they were late coming home? Somehow she suspected the answers were yes.

She knew better than to confuse a charming afternoon with knowing a man. Julian was proof enough that people could be delightful for a few hours and thoroughly disappointing over a lifetime. Still, something about Shooter suggested that the man who stood at the craps table was the same man who went home afterward. Loud, funny, occasionally profane, and entirely himself.

Then there were those knees. She frowned slightly. He had tried to hide how much they bothered him, but she'd noticed the way he shifted his weight, the careful way he moved after standing still too long, the brief tightening around his eyes when he straightened up. His back, too, she suspected. He was only fifty-one. Not old. Certainly not to her. But a man shouldn't have to negotiate with his own joints simply to stand up. She wondered whether he had a good doctor, whether he'd ever tried physical therapy, whether he slept properly or simply pushed himself through another day because people depended on him.

Good heavens. She was already worrying about the man's knees. Next she'd be asking whether he'd eaten enough vegetables. She stared at herself in the mirror. "Oxana, what on earth are you doing?" Her reflection offered no useful answer.

She looked at the three dresses again, chose the first, and changed her earrings. She wasn't going to dress like someone trying to win a competition. She was going to spend an evening with a man who made her laugh, who treated her like an actual person, and who apparently possessed the ability to make an entire craps table lose its collective mind. That was enough. For tonight, anyway. She smiled at her reflection. If she was going to be ridiculous, she might as well enjoy it.

Shooter had reached an age where he appreciated a good chair almost as much as a good woman. At fifty-one, with knees that sounded like somebody crushing a bag of potato chips and a lower back that had apparently declared war on the rest of his body, a comfortable chair wasn't a luxury. It was a medical necessity. The chair at Petrossian was excellent. The company across from him was considerably better. And that was becoming a problem.

Oxana sat opposite him, one slender hand curled around her glass, watching him with an expression he hadn't quite figured out. She was a tiny little thing, especially next to his six-foot-one frame, with dark hair, pale gray eyes, and a smile that seemed specifically engineered to interfere with his ability to think. He had spent most of his adult life troubleshooting complicated systems: networks, servers, authentication failures, replication problems. Give him a sufficiently ugly technical problem and enough time, and he'd usually figure it out. This woman had been sitting across from him for twenty minutes, and he couldn't even figure out what to do with his hands.

Jesus Christ, Shooter. You're fifty-one years old. Act like you've met a woman before.

"So," Oxana said, setting down her glass, "three marriages?"

Shooter winced. "Yeah."

"And three divorces?"

"Two. Still working on the third."

"My apologies. I was counting ahead."

"Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence."

Oxana smiled. "Would you prefer I be optimistic?"

"Lady, at this point I think optimism is what got me into this mess. Apparently I ain't exactly marriage material."

"That is a rather sweeping conclusion."

"Lady, I can name you three different women that disagree with you."

"Perhaps you simply chose poorly."

He considered that. "Well, there is a common denominator."

"Yes," she said. "You."

"See? That's what I'm saying."

"But a common denominator is not necessarily the cause of the problem."

He pointed at her. "You're dangerous."

"I have been told."

"I believe it."

She leaned forward slightly. "Tell me about your children." And just like that the conversation became easier.

Shooter told her about Liz and Nik. About Nik's love of video games and his absolute obsession with cars. The boy could spend hours researching engines, comparing horsepower, and building a mental shopping list of every car he'd buy if money weren't an issue, and knowing Nik, he'd need a garage the size of a Walmart to hold them all. He told her about Liz's sharp tongue, her stubborn independence, and the protective streak she'd inherited from absolutely nobody Shooter was willing to admit.

He told her about raising them alone. Not the entire story. Not the ugly parts. But he did tell her about their grocery-store game: they'd fill the cart, then compete to see who could guess the total closest without using a calculator. They'd done it for years, and Shooter had always enjoyed watching the kids get better at estimating prices. It was one of those silly little family traditions that somehow made an ordinary trip to the grocery store fun.

Oxana listened. That was something he noticed almost immediately. She didn't wait for an opening to redirect the conversation toward herself. She didn't treat his children as an inconvenience attached to a man she found interesting. She listened.

"And you?" Shooter asked eventually. "What exactly does a forensic linguist do when she isn't tormenting old men at craps tables?"

"Old men?"

"Well, I'm not getting any younger."

She studied him over the rim of her glass. "I like my Daddy's age."

Shooter nearly swallowed his tongue. Oxana smiled. There it was again, that little smile, the one that said she knew precisely what she'd done.

"You're gonna kill me with that," he muttered.

"Then perhaps you should build up a tolerance."

"Been trying. Ain't working."

She laughed and began telling him about her work. She studied how people communicate under pressure, how a sentence could be technically accurate and still say something entirely different from what the speaker intended, and how courts and arbitrators and interrogators could be steered by a pause or a choice of verb. Shooter found himself genuinely interested.

"So you're basically troubleshooting people."

Oxana paused, then smiled. "That is a surprisingly good description."

"Except people don't come with event logs."

"No," she agreed. "And some are remarkably resistant to debugging."

"Lady, you just described half my users."

They laughed together. For a little while Shooter forgot about the casino, the money he'd won at the Luxor, and the fact that he'd promised himself he'd keep tonight relatively simple. He was having a conversation with a beautiful woman who was smart, funny, and apparently enjoying his company. That last part was the one he kept having trouble believing.

Then Oxana's expression changed. It wasn't dramatic. Her smile simply disappeared, and her eyes shifted to something behind his shoulder.

"Problem?"

"Unfortunately."

He started to turn. "Oxana." The man's voice was sharp, irritated, and entirely too familiar. Shooter closed his eyes for half a second. Oh, for crying out loud. Julian. Again.

The younger man approached their table wearing an expensive jacket and an expression suggesting someone had personally insulted his bloodline. He didn't acknowledge Shooter. "Oxana, I've been looking everywhere for you."

"That sounds exhausting."

"We need to talk."

"We are talking."

"Privately."

"No."

Julian glanced at Shooter. His lip curled. "You're still with this guy?"

Shooter took a slow drink of water. Here we go.

"His name is Shooter," Oxana said.

"I don't care what his name is."

"Then you have already made this conversation considerably shorter."

Julian planted a hand on the back of an empty chair. "Are you seriously going to throw away a professional relationship over some casino degenerate?"

Shooter lowered his bottle. "Son, you really oughta work on your opening lines."

Julian turned toward him. "You stay out of this, old man."

"Happy to. You're the one who came over here."

"This has nothing to do with you."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

Oxana covered a smile with her fingertips. Julian noticed, and his face darkened. "You think this is funny?"

"I certainly do," Shooter said with a smile.

"Julian," Oxana said, her voice losing its warmth, "I told you earlier that I was spending my evening as I pleased. You have now interrupted me twice. I am not interested in a third discussion."

"You're making a mistake."

"And it is mine to make."

"With him?"

"Yes. Or anyone else I choose."

Julian looked Shooter up and down: the black Nope shirt, the jeans, the Skechers, the gray stubble. Whatever conclusion he reached apparently didn't improve his mood. "Do you even know what this guy does?"

"Yes," Oxana replied.

"He's probably some retired mechanic blowing his pension."

Shooter glanced at his shirt. "Damn. I wore my good shirt and everything."

Oxana laughed. Julian didn't. "You think you're clever?"

"Not particularly. But I know when somebody's telling me to leave."

Julian stepped closer. "Listen here, old man."

"Julian." Oxana's voice cut through the conversation. He ignored her.

"You don't know who you're dealing with." He jabbed a finger into Shooter's chest.

Shooter looked down at the offending finger, then back up at Julian. "Son, I'd strongly recommend you don't do that again."

Julian sneered. "Or what?" He reached forward to poke Shooter a second time.

He never got the chance. Oxana moved. Shooter wasn't entirely certain how. One moment Julian was standing beside the table, reaching toward Shooter's chest. The next, his arm was twisted behind him and he was on his knees beside the chair, making a noise that sounded remarkably like a stepped-on cat.

The bar went quiet. Shooter stared. Well, I'll be goddamned.

Oxana stood beside Julian, perfectly balanced, one small hand controlling his wrist. "You were told to leave," she said calmly.

"Let go of me!"

"Certainly. When you stop struggling."

"You're hurting my arm!"

"Yes. That is generally how this works."

Shooter looked from Julian to Oxana, then back. "Ah, hell, son. She tried to warn ya." Somebody at a nearby table snorted. Julian's face went scarlet.

Security arrived moments later. Oxana explained what had happened. Several witnesses confirmed it. Julian, faced with being escorted out of the hotel, finally found a measure of cooperation and apologized to Oxana. She looked unimpressed. "And?" Julian glared at Shooter. Shooter raised his eyebrows. "Oh, don't look at me. I'm just sitting here." Julian ground out an apology. Shooter waved it away. "Go have yourself a better evening, son." Security escorted him toward the entrance, and the conversation around the bar slowly resumed.

Oxana returned to her chair and straightened the sleeve of her dress. Shooter regarded her for several seconds. "What?" she asked.

"Remind me never to piss you off."

"Then behave yourself, Daddy."

"Jesus Christ."

She smiled. "Are you frightened of me?"

"Lady, I was already intimidated before you folded that boy into a lawn chair."

Oxana laughed so hard she had to set down her glass. And Shooter realized something. He was in trouble. Not the sort that required a lawyer or a bank loan. Something considerably worse. He was beginning to like this woman far more than was sensible.

Oxana glanced at the time. "Well, Daddy, shall we go find something more entertaining than watching Julian embarrass himself?"

"Lady, I'm not sure Vegas has anything more entertaining than what I just witnessed." Shooter paused, then grinned. "But Rodolfo got me a fifty-thousand-dollar marker to play in the high-limit room."

Oxana's eyes brightened. "Oh, Daddy. Now you are speaking my language." She laughed and offered him her hand. "Come, then."

Shooter eyed the hand, then the chair. "You realize getting me out of this thing is going to take a minute, right?"

"I am a patient woman."

"Good. You're gonna need to be."

Shooter planted both hands on the armrests, shifted his weight, and rose with the careful determination of a man negotiating a ceasefire between his knees and gravity. His lower back contributed an unsolicited opinion.

"Fuck."

Oxana looked up. "Your knees?"

"My knees, my back, my shoulder. At this point I'm pretty sure the warranty expired."

"Perhaps you should sit down."

"And let you think I'm old?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Too late, Daddy."

Shooter looked at her. "You know, most women at least wait until the second date to start insulting me."

"Is this a date?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. "You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

He laughed despite himself. She stood and stepped beside him, and instead of merely walking alongside, she slipped her arm through his. Shooter glanced down. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, and he could feel the warmth of her fingers through the fabric. Well, would you look at that.

"Got myself an escort," he said.

"An extraordinarily expensive one."

"Yeah, I bet."

They left Petrossian together.

Chapter Eight: The House Doesn't Always Win

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER EIGHT Friday, October 2, 2026 · Bellagio, Las Vegas

The Bellagio stretched around them in polished marble, warm light, expensive perfume, and the steady mechanical music of a casino that never intended to sleep.

Shooter adjusted his pace to match hers. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

Oxana's arm stayed linked through his as they made their way toward Club Privé. There was a little extra spring in her step now, and Shooter suspected that mentioning the high-limit craps room had been the smartest thing he'd said all evening.

"You really do like craps, don't you?"

"Very much, Daddy."

"Well, I've got a fifty-grand marker, so I figured we'd start with a hundred thousand. Fifty mine, fifty theirs."

Oxana raised an eyebrow. "And if you lose?"

"Then I lose."

She studied him for a moment, then tightened her fingers around his arm. "Very well. Let us see what kind of luck you have tonight."

The high-limit salon was quieter than the main floor. Not silent, because casinos never were, but different. The sharp clatter of chips had given way to the muted movement of expensive plaques. The carpet swallowed footsteps. The dealers spoke with the calm precision of people who handled sums that would make most Americans physically ill.

Shooter stopped at the entrance. "Well, ain't this fancy. Do I need a reservation to lose money?"

Rodolfo Castillo stepped forward from the VIP partition, an immaculate blend of corporate polish and warm welcome. "Shooter. Welcome to Club Privé. I trust the transition from the Luxor has met your standards?"

They shook hands. "Everything's squared away, Rodolfo. Mrs. Alvarez is sharp as a tack, and the suite has a tub big enough to float a barge."

"I am delighted to hear it. The high-limit crapless table is waiting whenever you are ready."

The marker paperwork was already on file from his arrangement with Mrs. Alvarez. Fifty thousand dollars of Shooter's own cash joined the fifty thousand from the casino. He looked at the stacked plaques, then at Oxana.

"Lady, up until today, a hundred grand in front of me would've meant somebody made a serious accounting error."

"Then perhaps you should check your accounting."

"Believe me, I intend to."

He took stick-left-one. Oxana took the spot beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm. "Ready, Daddy?"

"About as ready as I'm gonna get."

The stickman pushed five dice toward him. Shooter picked two, set them in his familiar 3V, and squared up at the rail. Oxana watched him turn the dice just as she had at the Luxor.

"One moment, Shooter."

He turned. She rose onto the balls of her feet, rested her fingertips against the stubble on his cheek, and before he could ask what she was doing, kissed his cheekbone. Not a show for the dealers. Just a small, spontaneous gesture that knocked every useful thought clean out of his head.

When she settled back onto her heels, those pale gray eyes were sparkling. "For luck, Daddy."

A helpless grin spread across his face. "Well, hell. With that kind of encouragement, how can I lose?"

He found his landing zone and let the dice fly. Four. Then four again. Then a five, a three, an eight. Shooter worked the board outward the way he always did, every press deliberate, every number stepping up toward the table limits. And every time he glanced sideways, Oxana was watching him with that infuriatingly pleased expression.

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

"Glad one of us is relaxed."

"Are you nervous?"

"Lady, I've got enough on this table to buy a house."

"Then perhaps you should hit another number."

He stared at her. She smiled.

"Very helpful."

"I try."

Eleven. Eight. Twelve. The stickman's calls began drawing attention. By the seventeenth roll Shooter had reached the maximum Place and Buy wagers the table allowed, $760,000 working across ten numbers. He looked at the layout, then at the dealer.

"Well, shit. Nothing left to press."

Oxana leaned against his arm and laughed. God, he loved that laugh.

The eighteenth roll was a twelve. Shooter collected and started adding Come bets: ten thousand, then another, then another, each one traveling to a number and gathering odds behind it until the board looked less like a gambling layout and more like a financial statement somebody had spilled across green felt.

Oxana studied the Come bets stacking up behind the maxed Place bets, and a knowing smile spread across her face. "I see we are double dipping, Daddy."

Shooter glanced at her. "Only way I found to impress ya."

"Oh, Daddy. You managed that long before the money."

For once, Shooter couldn't think of a damn thing to say. The dice came back, and he was grateful for the distraction.

A crowd had begun to form. First a few curious players, then people from nearby tables, then a small collection of spectators who had apparently decided Shooter's table was more interesting than their own. The dealers stayed professional, but Shooter noticed the increasingly frequent glances toward the floor supervisor. He also noticed Rodolfo had stopped wandering. The host was watching the table closely now.

"Something wrong?"

"Not at all, sir."

"You look like somebody just unplugged your server."

Rodolfo blinked. Oxana laughed. "He's a systems administrator," she explained.

"Ah," Rodolfo said.

"Computers. Networks. All that boring stuff," Shooter said.

"I suspect your evening is rather more exciting than your usual work."

Shooter looked at the growing stacks in his rack, then at Oxana. "You could say that."

Somebody shouted every time he picked up the dice, as though the act had become an event.

"Y'all realize I'm just throwing two little plastic cubes, right?"

"RED CUBES!" someone yelled.

"All right. Two little red plastic cubes."

The crowd laughed. Oxana squeezed his arm. "You have an audience."

"And I didn't even charge admission."

"You should have."

They talked during the pauses while the dealers settled the Come bets. He told her about Nik, the boy who could spend hours explaining an engine modification Shooter hadn't asked about. He told her about Liz, who could spot bullshit from three counties away.

"She sounds formidable."

"Oh, she is."

"Like her father?"

Shooter snorted. "Lady, she makes me look reasonable."

"You are very proud of them. I remember what you told me at Petrossian. You have given them so much of yourself." There was no teasing in her expression now. "That is a very attractive quality in a man."

Shooter looked down at the dice. Oh, hell. "Well, they're good kids." He glanced toward the stickman. "Can I get my dice back before this woman kills me?"

The crew laughed. Oxana looked delighted.

By the fiftieth roll, the sums crossing the layout were larger than anything he had expected to see in his lifetime, and he was tired. He flexed his right hand, rolled his shoulder, and shifted his weight from one aching knee to the other.

Oxana noticed immediately. "You are hurting."

"A little."

"Shooter."

"Okay, more than a little."

She looked toward the wagers still working. "Perhaps you should take some of that down."

He studied the layout, then nodded. When the dealers had settled the action, he raised his left hand. "All right, gentlemen. Take down the Place and Buy bets and bring back the odds."

$760,000 in Place and Buy bets came back to his rack, followed by the Come odds. The flat Come wagers stayed working.

"Much better."

"You look relieved."

"Lady, I just took several million dollars off a table. Relieved doesn't begin to cover it."

"Are you finished?"

"Not quite. Let's let those finish up."

The next fifteen rolls were almost surreal. Two. Five. Twelve. Six. Eight. Ten. No seven. By then Shooter was no longer thinking about records. He was thinking about a chair, that ridiculous tub, and, increasingly, the fact that eventually he'd have to say goodnight to Oxana. That bothered him more than it had any right to. He had met this woman only hours earlier, and now she stood close enough that he could smell the faint vanilla of her perfume.

He didn't want the evening to end, which was ridiculous. He was fifty-one years old with two kids, responsibilities, and a back that was attempting to murder him.

The sixty-sixth roll was an eleven. The stickman called it, and the dealers paid the last winning Come wager. Shooter looked at the table, then the clock, then Oxana.

"All right. I'm done."

He raised his hand. "That's it, gentlemen. Color me up."

Rodolfo stepped forward. "Shooter, are you certain?"

"Boss, my shoulder feels like somebody's been beating it with a tire iron, my knees are two minutes from quitting, and I would very much like to sit down before I fall down."

A few people laughed. Rodolfo smiled. "Of course, sir."

Shooter looked over at Oxana. "And besides, I've had a pretty good night."

"Extraordinary."

"Yeah." His eyes stayed on hers a moment longer than necessary. "Sure has been."

The color-up took a long time. The crew organized the plaques, verified the amounts, and coordinated with the cage while Shooter leaned against the rail.

The final figure was confirmed: $18,168,000.

Shooter stared at it. "Well, shit."

"That seems to be your favorite expression."

"Lady, I think I've earned it."

The marker came first, $50,000 paid in full. He watched the obligation disappear with a satisfaction that had nothing to do with gambling. He had never liked owing people money.

Then the gratuities: $110,000 for the dealer crew and $8,000 for the cocktail server who had kept his water cold through the whole marathon. He thanked them personally. He didn't make a speech or ask for applause. He simply thanked the people who had taken care of him.

Oxana watched quietly.

By the time everything was settled, exactly $18,000,000 remained.

Rodolfo escorted them toward the private cage. Shooter walked slowly, not to look important but because his knees had decided walking was optional. Oxana slipped her arm through his. "Are you all right?"

"Ask me after I sit down."

"Perhaps I should carry you."

Shooter looked at her, all five feet and change of her, then down at his own substantial frame. "Sweetheart, we'd both wind up in traction."

She laughed. And somehow, despite the exhaustion and the aching joints and the absurd amount of money, he found himself wishing the walk were longer.

The private cage was quiet and professional, almost anticlimactic. Shooter had already given his distribution instructions: three cashier's checks. Five million dollars for Nik. Five million for Liz. Eight million for himself.

Simple. At least, it was supposed to be.

Oxana's hand still rested on his forearm. Every now and then her thumb moved slightly against his sleeve, and he was becoming painfully aware of that tiny movement. Eighteen million dollars, Shooter. Pay attention to the eighteen million goddamn dollars.

The cashier finished reviewing the paperwork and looked up with a professional smile. "Just to confirm your instructions, Mr. Shooter. Three checks. Five million dollars payable to Nik. Five million dollars payable to Liz. Eight million dollars payable to you."

"That's right."

She returned a moment later with three checks, each in its own envelope, and read the payee and amount from each before handing it over. Shooter checked them against his paperwork, tucked the envelopes together, signed where she indicated, and accepted his receipt.

He looked down at the envelopes. $18,000,000, reduced to three pieces of paper. He gave a tired little laugh.

"What?" Oxana asked.

"Just trying to figure out how I'm supposed to explain this to my kids."

She slipped her arm through his again. "Perhaps start by giving them their checks, Daddy."

Shooter shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Yeah. That ought to get their attention."

Chapter Nine: A Different Kind of Fortune

WEEK ONE · DAY TWO · CHAPTER NINE Friday, October 2, 2026 · Bellagio, Las Vegas

Rodolfo Castillo approached with the polished expression of a man who had spent years around extraordinarily wealthy people and had still seen something tonight that would be discussed in the Bellagio offices for a very long time.

"Everything is in order, Shooter. Security is ready to escort you and Miss Oxana to the private elevators."

"Appreciate it, Rodolfo."

"It has been an extraordinary pleasure hosting you this evening."

"Boss, I imagine y'all are gonna remember me for a while."

Rodolfo allowed himself a genuine smile. "I believe that is a safe assumption."

Shooter shook his hand. "And thanks for taking care of my kids. That suite's something else."

"If you require anything at all, please contact me directly."

Oxana slipped her arm through Shooter's, and two armed security officers fell in behind them. Shooter glanced back, then at the envelopes in his hand, then at her. "Well, shit. Guess we're officially important."

"Only officially?"

"Yesterday I was just some asshole fixing computers."

"And today?"

"Same asshole. Considerably better funded."

Her laughter followed them out of Club Privé.

The walk toward the private elevators felt strangely ordinary. Slot machines chimed. A cocktail server passed with a tray of drinks. Somewhere across the floor a man argued with a machine that apparently owed him money. Nobody had announced that a fifty-one-year-old systems administrator from Arizona had just won $18,000,000. Shooter was still in his black Nope shirt and slip-on Skechers. His knees still hurt, his lower back was threatening to file a formal complaint, and the tiny Ukrainian woman on his arm was still making him feel like a teenager.

"You are very quiet," Oxana said.

"Just thinking."

"About the money?"

"Mostly about how I'm gonna explain all this to Liz and Nik."

"I imagine they will be very happy."

"Oh, they're gonna lose their minds."

"And you? Are you happy, Shooter?"

He thought about it. $18,000,000. His kids safe. A future that, for the first time in years, didn't consist entirely of obligations waiting to happen. And Oxana, right beside him.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."

"Good."

"Had some pretty good company tonight, too."

Her expression softened. "I enjoyed your company very much."

Something warm settled in his chest. Oh, hell.

At the elevator vestibule he turned to the security officers. "Gentlemen, I think we can manage from here. It's an elevator and a hallway. Besides, if somebody gives us trouble, I've got a woman here who can fold a grown man into a lawn chair."

Oxana burst out laughing. The senior officer looked at her, then at Shooter, and apparently decided the story behind that statement was none of his business. "Very good, sir. Have a pleasant evening."

The elevator doors opened. "After you, darlin'."

The cab was almost unnervingly quiet after the casino. Shooter shifted his weight, trying to find a position that didn't make his knees feel like somebody had replaced the cartilage with crushed gravel.

"Fuck."

Oxana turned toward him. "Your knees?"

"Among other things."

"Your back? Your shoulder?"

"Yep. Them too."

She shook her head, smiling. "You are falling apart, Daddy."

"Lady, I was falling apart before I met you. Tonight just accelerated the process."

She rested her hand on his forearm. "You should rest. And perhaps see a doctor about your knees."

"Been telling myself that for years."

"Perhaps you should listen."

"That's what my daughter says."

"Then your daughter is clearly intelligent."

"Too intelligent. Gets that from me, obviously."

"Obviously."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. That surprised him. Three marriages' worth of experience had taught him the difference between comfortable silence and the kind where somebody felt obligated to say something before the whole interaction collapsed. This wasn't the second kind.

Oxana stood close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. Her perfume was faint, vanilla with something softer underneath, and he was becoming dangerously fond of it. The elevator lighting caught the curve of her cheek, her dark hair, those pale gray eyes. He looked away. Too late.

"Something interesting, Shooter?"

Busted. "Just admiring the scenery."

She looked around the elevator. "The scenery?"

"Pretty spectacular elevator."

Her lips curved. "Of course."

She stepped a little closer. "And what, exactly, were you admiring?"

Those gray eyes were practically daring him. He could make another joke. Probably should. Instead he told her the truth.

"You."

It came out quieter than he'd intended. "Oh," Oxana said.

Shooter rubbed the back of his neck. "You're a beautiful woman, Oxana. Figure you probably already know that."

"Perhaps."

"Not exactly a secret."

She studied him a moment, then smiled. "Thank you, Shooter."

He glanced at the floor indicator. Smooth, dumbass. But when she slipped her hand back through his arm, her fingers settled more firmly against him, and she didn't let go.

The elevator chimed and opened onto the suite level. The hallway carpet was thick enough to swallow their footsteps, and muted amber lights lit the walls. They passed one suite, then another. Shooter noticed the numbers climbing toward hers, 29-108, 29-110, 29-112, and became acutely aware that the walk was about to end. That bothered him more than it should have. He'd had an extraordinary evening, won a fortune, met a beautiful woman, and now the thing he least wanted to do was say goodnight.

They stopped outside Room 29-114. Oxana released his arm, and for the first time since leaving the casino he noticed the absence of her touch. It was a ridiculous thing to notice. He noticed anyway.

"Well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I reckon this is you."

"It is." She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "Thank you for tonight, Shooter. It was extraordinary."

"That's one word for it."

"Do you have another?"

"Several. Most of 'em involve profanity."

She laughed. "I should thank you," he said. "For hanging out with me. Putting up with my dumb ass."

Her eyebrows rose. "Putting up with you? Shooter, I believe you have misunderstood something. I was not putting up with you. I was enjoying myself. Very much."

Something shifted in his chest. "Well, I'm glad."

"So am I."

He should say goodnight, walk back to his suite, go see his kids, and try to comprehend the absurd amount of money he'd just won. Simple, reasonable. Instead he heard himself say, "I don't know what your conference schedule looks like tomorrow, but I was wondering if I'd get to see you again before we head back to Arizona."

Oxana tilted her head. "Would you like that?"

"Yeah. I would."

"Why?"

He blinked. "Why?"

"Yes."

She wasn't mocking him. If anything she seemed genuinely interested, so he decided against another joke.

"Because I like you. You're smart. You're funny. You're beautiful. You make me laugh, and I haven't had this much fun with somebody in a long damn time." He shifted his weight. "And I don't know what the hell a woman like you sees in an old, overweight sysadmin with almost three divorces and knees held together by spite. Anyway. I'd like to see you again."

For a moment she didn't answer. Then she stepped closer. "Shooter, may I tell you something? I have spent a great deal of time around wealthy men."

He glanced at the envelopes. "Well, I guess I qualify now."

"That is not what I mean." She moved another step closer. "I have met men who believe their money makes them interesting, men who believe a beautiful woman should be grateful simply because they have chosen to notice her. You were interesting before you won anything. You made me laugh before I knew your name. You stood up for me when Julian grabbed my wrist, even though you had no reason to involve yourself, and when I showed you I could handle him myself, you did not become angry or embarrassed."

She glanced briefly at the envelopes. "And tonight, when you won more money than most people will ever see, you still thanked the dealers. You remembered the woman who brought you water. You worried about your children. Those are the things I noticed."

Shooter didn't know what to say. That was becoming a recurring problem.

Oxana stepped close enough that the toes of her shoes nearly touched his Skechers. "And as for your age," she said, her smile turning playful, "I believe I have already expressed my opinion."

He laughed softly. "Yeah. You have."

She lifted both hands and rested her palms against his chest. Shooter went very still. Her gray eyes were warm, not teasing now, not challenging him, just looking. His heart was pounding.

She rose onto her toes. Shooter instinctively leaned down.

And then she kissed him. Not the playful kiss she'd pressed against his cheek before his first throw. This one was soft, almost cautious at first, as though she were giving him the chance to decide whether he wanted this as much as she did.

He did. God help him, he did.

For one stunned heartbeat he simply stood there. Then his free hand moved to her waist, not pulling, not demanding, just resting there as he returned the kiss. She leaned closer, her fingers curling gently into his shirt. The kiss deepened, slowly, naturally. He forgot the envelopes, the eighteen million dollars, his knees, his back. For a few wonderful seconds he forgot everything except the woman in front of him.

When they finally separated, neither moved far. Oxana rested one hand against his cheek. "Well? Was that satisfactory?"

"Lady..."

"Yes?"

"That was considerably better than satisfactory."

Her smile widened. "Good. I have been wanting to do that for quite some time."

His eyebrows rose. "Since when?"

She pretended to consider. "Somewhere between your threatening to fold Julian inside his clothes and your explaining that people do not come with event logs."

"That's a hell of a range."

"I am a complicated woman."

She lowered her hand and took her keycard from her handbag. And Shooter realized there was something obvious he hadn't done, something any reasonably functioning adult would have remembered ten minutes ago.

"Hey, Oxana?"

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Can I have my number?"

Silence. Oxana blinked. Shooter blinked back. His brain caught up with his mouth. Oh, for fuck's sake.

He closed his eyes. "Your number. I meant your number."

Her lips twitched. Then she laughed, not a polite little laugh but head back, genuine delight. Shooter looked at the ceiling. "Go ahead. Get it out of your system."

"Oh, Shooter! You want your own telephone number?"

"Lady, I just forgot how to speak English. Forty-something years with the language, and apparently I picked tonight to stop."

That made it worse. She leaned against the doorframe, laughing so hard she covered her mouth. When she finally recovered, barely, she said, "Give me your phone, Daddy."

He handed it over. She entered her number, called her own phone to capture his, and returned it. "There. Now you have my number."

"Thank God. I was afraid I'd have to ask again."

"You may ask me anything you like."

"Careful. I might take you up on that."

"I hope you do."

The words were quiet, sincere. She touched the keycard to the lock, and a green light appeared. She opened the door a few inches, then turned back. "Goodnight, Shooter."

"Goodnight, darlin'."

She stepped toward him one last time, caught the front of his shirt, rose onto her toes, and kissed him again. This one was shorter, but nothing about it was uncertain. When she lowered herself, her gray eyes sparkled. "Goodnight, Daddy."

She slipped through the doorway. The door closed with a soft click.

Shooter stood alone in the hallway for five full seconds. Then he looked at the envelopes in his left hand, at the closed door marked 29-114, and at the phone in his right, where Oxana's number waited. He had just won $18,000,000. And somehow the thing making his heart pound was a kiss.

He started down the hallway toward his own suite. His knees hurt, his back hurt, his shoulder hurt, and he couldn't stop smiling.

The suite was quiet when Shooter let himself in. He set the envelopes on the coffee table and looked around the enormous three-bedroom, fountain-view suite Rodolfo had arranged. It was beautiful and ridiculous. He'd lived in smaller houses. Beyond the windows the Bellagio fountains rested in their dark pool, the Strip glittering behind them.

He texted the kids: Back at the suite. Come up when you're done. Then he lowered himself onto the couch and his knees immediately lodged a complaint.

For the first time all evening he had nothing to do. No dice to throw, no wagers to calculate, no dealers waiting for instructions, no host asking if he needed anything. And no beautiful Ukrainian woman beside him, looking up with those gray eyes and calling him Daddy. He grinned. Then he remembered the kiss outside Room 29-114, and the grin got worse.

He picked up his phone. Oxana. He hadn't even needed to invent a clever contact name. He'd barely managed to ask for her number without requesting his own. "Smooth, Shooter. Real smooth."

Exactly five minutes later the front door opened.

"DAD!" Nik's voice carried across the living room before the boy was fully inside. "Dad, you should've seen—" He stopped.

Liz came in behind him with a shopping bag, looking considerably more composed than her brother, at least until she saw Shooter on the couch. Then she noticed the envelopes on the coffee table. "Dad?"

Shooter took a slow breath, straightened, folded his hands in his lap, and put on the most somber expression he could manage. "Sit down, kids. We need to talk."

Nik froze. Liz's expression changed instantly. "What happened?"

He said nothing. He simply looked at them. "Dad?" Nik said.

"Sit down."

Liz crossed the room at once. "Dad, are you okay?"

"Fine, sweetheart. Sit."

"Elizabeth." That did it. She sat. Nik dropped into a chair.

Shooter waited until both children were looking at him, then sighed. "Kids, I don't really know how to tell you this."

Nik's face went pale. Liz leaned forward. "Dad, you're scaring me."

"Yeah. Well. It's been a hell of a night." He looked at the envelopes, then back at them. "I need you both to understand that our lives are never going to be the same."

Silence. Nik swallowed. "What happened?"

Shooter reached for the envelopes, opened two, pulled out two cashier's checks, and placed one in front of each child. "You're both millionaires."

For three full seconds nobody moved. Nik picked up his check, read the amount, read it again, and counted the zeros. "Dad."

"Yeah, son?"

"DAD!"

Shooter laughed as Nik shot out of his chair. "FIVE MILLION DOLLARS?!"

"Inside voice, son."

"Holy shit."

"Language."

"Dad, it's FIVE MILLION DOLLARS!"

"Still got ears, son."

Liz hadn't moved. She was staring at the check. "Is this real?"

"Sure is."

"For me?"

"For you. Same as Nik."

She looked at her brother, who was holding his check with both hands as though it might evaporate. "Careful, son. You're gonna wear the ink off."

"Dad, I can buy a Shelby."

"Son, you could buy the whole dealership. Doesn't mean you're going to."

Liz finally set hers down, very carefully. "Dad, where did this come from?"

"Bellagio."

"You won ten million dollars?"

"Eighteen."

Silence. "Eighteen million?"

"After everything was settled. Marker. Dealer tips. Cocktail server."

Nik blinked. "How much did you tip?"

"$110,000 to the dealers. $8,000 to the cocktail server."

Liz closed her eyes. "Dad. You tipped somebody eight thousand dollars?"

"She kept my water cold."

Nik started laughing. Liz stared at her father as though he had suffered a traumatic brain injury. "Elizabeth, I just won eighteen million dollars. I think I can afford to tip the lady."

She opened her mouth, closed it, looked at the check, then at him. "Okay. Fine. Whatever."

Nik looked up. "And you?"

"Eight for me."

Nik returned to his check. "Five million dollars."

"Son, I'm gonna have to tattoo that on your forehead, aren't I?"

Nik grinned. "Maybe."

Liz studied the check again. "Dad, why did you have them make these out separately?"

"Glad you asked." He leaned forward, ignoring the grinding complaint from his knees. "Because I don't want that money sitting where somebody can talk you into doing something stupid with it."

"Like buying a Shelby?"

"Exactly like buying a Shelby."

"Aw, man."

Liz laughed. Shooter smiled, then grew serious. "I told the casino I wanted separate cashier's checks earmarked for each of you. Five million apiece. Those checks aren't getting cashed. They go in a safe until we have an attorney set up two trusts, one for each of you, and then the money goes in. Not into your checking accounts."

"Trusts?" Nik said. "Like a trust fund? Dude. I'm a trust fund baby."

"Don't ever say that again."

Liz burst out laughing. "Anyway," Shooter said, "we're gonna get a good attorney and a financial advisor, somebody who knows how to set these things up. And we're gonna structure them to pay you a stipend. Money coming in every single week, whether you're working or not."

"Like a paycheck?"

"Something like that."

"How much?"

"Don't know yet. I'm leaning toward around fifty grand a year each, if the professionals agree."

Nik did the math. "That's like nine-sixty a week."

"Look at that. Math."

"But what about a car?"

"Son, can we get through one conversation without you buying a car?"

Liz snorted. "Just checking," Nik said.

Shooter's expression changed. "Listen. Both of you."

They looked at him. "I want you to go to school. I want you to find something you love and work at it, build careers, start businesses, whatever makes you happy. I don't want either of you sitting around waiting for a check every week. But there's something I want even more." He paused. "I don't ever want either of you to be afraid of what happens if life goes sideways."

Liz's expression softened. "You get laid off? Fine. You've got money coming in while you find another job." He looked at Nik. "You get hurt and can't work for six months? Your bills still get paid." Then Liz. "You get sick? Something that keeps you from working for a year, or two, or maybe ever again? You're still gonna have a roof over your head and food on the table."

Liz swallowed. Shooter glanced at the checks. "That's what those are for. Five million dollars sounds like an impossible amount of money. But people have blown through more than that doing stupid stuff. I'm not setting this up so you can quit working at twenty and drink margaritas by a pool. It isn't 'I don't ever have to work again' money. It's 'if shit happens and you can't work, and Dad isn't around anymore, you ain't gonna fucking starve' money."

The room went quiet. Nik stopped smiling. "Dad..." Liz began.

Shooter held up a hand. "No, sweetheart. Listen. I'm fifty-one years old. I'm not gonna be around forever."

"Dad, don't."

"Elizabeth." She pressed her lips together. He softened his voice. "I'm not planning on going anywhere. Hell, I'm too stubborn to die. Death would take one look at me and decide it wasn't worth the paperwork."

Nik laughed. Even Liz managed a small smile. "But someday I won't be here, and I've spent a lot of years worrying about what happens to you two if something happens to me. Whether you'd keep a roof over your heads. Whether somebody would take advantage of you. Well, that last one I'm still gonna worry about. That's just part of being your dad. But the money part?" He tapped the checks. "That I can finally do something about."

He turned to Liz. "I want you to be able to walk away from a job that's treating you badly without wondering how you'll pay rent." Then to Nik. "And I want you to chase whatever career you decide you want without taking the first miserable job that comes along because the electric bill's due." He paused. "And if either of you ever ends up in a bad relationship, I don't want money to be the reason you feel like you can't leave."

Liz looked down. That one landed. "I want you to have real choices, not just whatever's left after the bills. I spent most of your lives figuring out how to make everything work. Sometimes two jobs, sometimes nights, sometimes three hours a day in the truck. I don't regret any of it, not for one second. But I don't want you to have to live that way if you don't have to."

Nik set his check carefully on the table. For once he wasn't thinking about cars.

"So yeah, you're both millionaires. But we're gonna be smart about it. We're gonna protect that money and make sure it lasts." He smiled. "And if either of you ends up making your own fortune, fantastic. Maybe someday you do the same thing for your own kids."

Liz looked at him for a long moment. "So you're not just giving us five million dollars."

"No, sweetheart. I'm buying myself a little peace of mind."

Her face crumpled. "Oh, Dad."

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his neck. Shooter caught her, wincing as his shoulder protested. "Easy, sweetheart. Old man. Bad warranty."

She laughed against his shoulder. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, baby girl."

Nik came around the other side. "What, you too?"

"Yeah."

Shooter sighed theatrically. "Well, hell. Guess we're doing a group hug." For a moment the three of them stayed like that, with no casino, no crowds, no screaming stickmen or mountains of chips. Just a father and his two kids, and a future that suddenly looked a whole lot less frightening.

After a while Nik straightened. "Dad? Hypothetically, if the trust pays me every week, can I save up for a Shelby?"

Liz burst out laughing. "Yes, Nikolai. You can save up for a Shelby."

Nik grinned. "Sweet."

"But you're paying your own insurance."

Nik's smile faltered. "Wait. How much is insurance on a Shelby?"

"Welcome to adulthood, son."

He leaned back against the couch. "Remember all those times we talked about what we'd do if we ever won the lottery? Bigger house, everybody gets their own space, a yard big enough for Bacon?" Liz smiled. "Well, we're not talking about lottery tickets anymore. This is real. We don't have to rush out and buy a bunch of stuff tomorrow, but we're gonna start thinking about what we actually want our lives to look like."

"And Bacon?" Nik asked.

"That dog is about to become the most spoiled dog in Arizona."

"He already is," Liz said.

"Well, now he's got a retirement plan. Same as mine. Eat, sleep, complain about our joints, and occasionally go outside to piss."

Liz nearly fell off the couch. "DAD!"

"It's a solid plan."

Shooter smiled at both of them. "But seriously. This isn't just about money. It's about us finally having some breathing room. I've spent a long time making sure you two were okay, and now, for the first time in a long damn time, I can stop worrying whether one bad month is gonna knock everything sideways. First thing when we get home, I'm setting aside what I need for taxes. Then we pay off some bills and put money away and don't do anything stupid."

He looked at them. "That doesn't mean we're going to become different people. I still expect you to clean up after yourselves and treat people right. And if either of you starts acting like an entitled asshole because you've got money, I promise I will find a way to make your life unpleasant."

Nik grinned. "Even with five million dollars?"

"Especially with five million dollars."

Liz laughed. Shooter leaned back. "The important part is this. We get to build something better. Together."

For a moment he let himself enjoy the sight of his children looking at the future without fear. Although the next conversation was going to be considerably less pleasant.

Oh, boy.

"Now," Shooter said, "tomorrow morning."

Liz looked at him. "What about it?"

"I got a proposition."

Nik perked up. "Can I buy a car?"

"Breakfast, Nikolai. I'm talking about breakfast."

"Oh."

Liz laughed. "What's the proposition?"

"Anywhere in Vegas. Pick a place. Fancy restaurant, buffet, whatever. If it's open and serves breakfast, we'll go."

"Even somewhere really expensive?" Nik asked.

"Son, I don't think we have to worry about the price of pancakes."

Liz smiled. "What's the catch?"

Shooter hesitated. That was his first mistake. Liz noticed immediately. Her eyes narrowed. "Dad. What's the catch?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well..."

"Can I get steak for breakfast?" Nik asked.

"Yes, son." Shooter took a breath. "There's somebody I'd like to invite."

Liz raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me. The Ukrainian academic from the Luxor?"

Shooter smiled despite himself. "Oxana. Yeah."

Nik looked up briefly. "The lady you told us about before the limo ride?"

"That's her."

Liz's eyes narrowed further. "And now you want to invite her to breakfast?"

Shooter sighed. "Well, sweetheart, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

Liz leaned back and crossed her arms. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"What?"

"Dad."

"Elizabeth."

"We aren't even done with Krista yet!"

The words hit harder than Shooter expected. He didn't interrupt.

Liz continued. "We're still dealing with all of her crap. Hell, she still has crap in the house, and you just met this random woman in Las Vegas?"

"You already know she's not some random stranger I picked up."

"You met her today!"

"Yes."

"Today, Dad!"

"I understand how calendars work, sweetheart."

"Don't do that."

Shooter stopped. Liz was looking at him with an intensity he recognized immediately. This wasn't ordinary teenage irritation. This was fear. Anger, too, but mostly fear.

"You don't know anything about her," Liz said.

"That's not exactly true."

"Oh, really? Then tell me."

Shooter looked at her. Liz uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. "Tell me about this woman you met today who you apparently want to bring to breakfast with your kids."

Nik looked between them, then down at his check, five million dollars, trying very hard to remain interested in the conversation. It wasn't working.

Shooter took a breath. "All right. You want to know about her? I'll tell you."

"Good."

He settled back against the couch. "Like I told you before the limo ride, Oxana's Ukrainian and here for a conference. She's a linguistics fellow at the University of Arizona. Forensic stuff. How people say one thing and mean another. She's smart as hell. Speaks more languages than I can count. Funny. Independent. Got her own money, from what I understand."

That caught Liz's attention. "Her own money? How much?"

"Didn't ask."

Liz gave him a look. "Wasn't exactly conducting a financial audit, sweetheart."

"Maybe you should have."

"Elizabeth."

"Keep going."

He did. "She's beautiful. Dark hair. Gray eyes. Little bitty thing."

Liz rolled her eyes. "Of course she is."

Shooter ignored that. "She likes craps. We met over at the Luxor. And I haven't even asked her yet, because I figured I'd talk to you two first."

That gave Liz a moment's pause. "She's got a colleague named Julian," Shooter continued. "Real piece of work. He was giving her trouble earlier, grabbed her wrist, and I stepped in."

Liz's expression changed. "He grabbed her? And you got involved?"

"Yep."

"Dad."

"Elizabeth, I wasn't gonna stand there and watch some asshole put his hands on a woman."

She looked away, because she knew he wasn't. She'd seen him do exactly that sort of thing before.

"Anyway, later the idiot came back around while we were having drinks and started running his mouth again. And Oxana folded his ass like a lawn chair."

Nik looked up. "What?"

Liz blinked. "She what?"

Shooter laughed. "Little woman grabbed his arm, twisted him around, and put him on his knees before I could get out of my chair."

Nik burst out laughing. "No way."

"Way. Security came over, and she made the dumbass apologize."

Nik was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his check. Shooter pointed at him. "Careful with that, son. That's an expensive piece of paper." Nik immediately straightened it.

Liz wasn't laughing. She was thinking. Shooter could practically hear the gears turning. Then she asked the question.

"How old is she?"

Shooter hesitated. Another mistake. Liz caught it immediately. "Dad."

"She's younger than me."

"Everyone is younger than you, Dad."

Shooter sighed. "Twenty-two."

Liz stared at him. For several seconds she said absolutely nothing. Then she slowly placed both hands flat on her knees. "I'm sorry. How old?"

"Twenty-two, sweetheart."

Liz turned slowly toward Nik, then back toward her father. "Twenty. Two."

"Yep."

"DAD!"

Shooter winced. "Inside voice, Elizabeth."

"SHE'S TWENTY-TWO!"

"That's what I said."

"SHE'S THREE YEARS OLDER THAN ME!"

"I'm aware of that."

"YOU'RE FIFTY-ONE!"

"Also aware of that."

"THAT'S A TWENTY-NINE-YEAR AGE DIFFERENCE!"

Shooter sighed. "Your math continues to impress me."

"THIS ISN'T FUNNY!"

Nik glanced up from his check. "I think it's kind of funny."

"SHUT UP, NIK!"

Nik looked back down. "Five million dollars."

Shooter closed his eyes. Oh, this breakfast is gonna be a real adventure.

Liz leaned forward. "Dad, she's barely older than I am. She could be your daughter!"

"She's not my daughter, Elizabeth."

"THAT IS NOT THE POINT!"

Shooter held up both hands. "Okay. Okay." Liz stared at him. He let the silence settle. "Sweetheart, I know how old she is. I know how old I am. I'm not confused about either number."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I don't know. But I think it's called getting to know somebody I like."

"You met her today!"

"Yes."

"And you're already inviting her to breakfast with your children?"

"That's generally how getting to know somebody works, sweetheart. You spend time together."

Liz gave him a look of pure disbelief. Shooter sighed. "Look, I'm not asking her to marry me. I'm asking her if she'd like some eggs."

Nik snorted. Liz shot him a murderous look, and he returned his attention to the check.

"And before you ask, yes, I understand the age difference is substantial."

"Substantial?"

"Fine. Enormous. Astronomical. Gigantic. Pick your adjective."

"Dad!"

"Elizabeth, I'm trying to have an actual conversation with you."

"So am I!"

"Then quit yelling long enough for us to have one."

That stopped her, not because she agreed, but because he almost never used that tone with her unless he meant it. Shooter softened his voice. "I know you're worried. And I'm listening."

Liz crossed her arms again. "Good."

He nodded. "Now, where was I?"

Nik looked up. "Twenty-two."

"Not helping, son." Nik grinned.

Shooter tried again. "I didn't know how old she was when we first met. We were playing craps, having fun, talking. She made me laugh."

"Talking about what?"

"All kinds of things. Her work. My work. You two."

"You told her about us?"

"Of course I did. Enough that she knows you're nineteen, Nik's sixteen, and you're both pains in my ass."

Nik laughed. Liz didn't. "She listened when I talked about you. Actually listened. Asked questions. Wanted to know what you were interested in."

Liz's expression shifted slightly. "She didn't treat you two like some inconvenient baggage I came with."

Liz looked down. Shooter knew that one had landed.

"And she didn't know I was gonna win eighteen million dollars when she started flirting with me."

Liz looked up sharply. "Flirting?"

Shooter smiled. "Oh, yeah."

"How?"

He should have stopped there. He really should have. Instead, because he was Shooter and apparently incapable of recognizing a conversational land mine until he was standing directly on top of it, he answered honestly.

"Well, for starters, she spent most of the evening calling me Daddy."

Nik made a choking noise. Liz stared, then her face twisted in absolute horror. "Oh, my GOD!"

Shooter laughed. "What?"

"DAD!"

"What?"

"THAT'S DISGUSTING!"

Nik started laughing again. Liz made a gagging noise. "Ugh! No! Absolutely not!"

Shooter was laughing hard enough that his knees hurt. "Sweetheart—"

"Don't sweetheart me! She called you WHAT?"

"Daddy."

Liz gagged again. Nik nearly fell out of his chair. "Lord, you two," Shooter said.

Liz covered her face. "I cannot believe you just told me that."

"You asked!"

"I DID NOT ASK THAT!"

"You asked how she was flirting!"

"I DIDN'T NEED DETAILS!"

Shooter was still chuckling. "Well, now you know."

"I WISH I DIDN'T!"

Nik wiped tears from his eyes. "Dad, that's hilarious."

Liz pointed at him. "Shut up, Nik."

He immediately looked down at his check. "Five million dollars."

Shooter lost it again. For a moment the suite was filled with laughter. Even Liz's mouth twitched, but only for a second. Then she looked at her father, really looked at him, at the grin he couldn't quite hide, at the way his eyes softened whenever he mentioned Oxana, at the unmistakable expression of a man who was beginning to hope for something.

And Liz's amusement disappeared.

"Dad."

Shooter heard the change in her voice. He stopped laughing. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

She looked down at the cashier's check in her lap. Five million dollars. Enough money to buy almost anything she could imagine, enough that she'd never have to worry about tuition or rent or car payments, enough to build an entirely different life. She stared at it for a long moment, then set it on the table.

"Dad, I need you to understand something."

Shooter sat forward. "Okay."

Liz looked at him, her eyes wet. "I don't care about this." She gestured toward the check. "Not compared to you."

Shooter's expression changed. "Liz—"

"No. Let me finish." He closed his mouth.

She took a shaky breath. "I watched what happened with Krista. I watched you try to make things work. I watched you give everything you had, and I watched how much it hurt you when it fell apart." Shooter looked down. "And we're not even done dealing with all of that yet." Her voice cracked slightly. "So when you tell me you met some beautiful twenty-two-year-old woman in Vegas who spent the night calling you Daddy, and now you want to bring her to breakfast with us..." She shook her head. "I'm scared, Dad."

The room went very quiet. Even Nik stopped looking at his check. Liz wiped her eyes. "I don't want to watch somebody hurt you again."

Shooter swallowed. She pointed at the check. "I would set that thing on fire before I'd let somebody hurt you."

Shooter looked at his daughter. For a long moment he couldn't speak. Then he slowly stood, ignoring the protests from his knees and his back, crossed the room, and sat beside her.

"Liz." She looked away. "Sweetheart." Her eyes returned to his. He took her hand. "First off, nobody's setting five million dollars on fire. That's just bad financial planning."

A reluctant laugh escaped her. Shooter smiled gently. "Second, I hear you."

"I know you do."

"No, sweetheart. I mean I really hear you." He glanced at Nik, then back. "You two have watched me go through some things I wish you'd never had to see."

Liz nodded. "And you're right. We aren't done dealing with everything from Krista." He sighed. "Believe me, I know. But I need you to understand something, too. I'm not asking you to trust Oxana tonight. I'm not asking you to love her. I'm not asking you to pretend she's part of the family. Hell, I'm not even asking you to like her." He paused. "I'm asking you to have breakfast with her."

Liz blinked. Shooter smiled faintly. "That's it. Breakfast. Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Maybe some overpriced orange juice."

Nik looked up. "Bacon?"

"Food, son. Not the dog."

"Just checking."

Liz laughed despite herself. Shooter continued, "If you meet her and decide you don't like her, that's fine. You're allowed your own opinion. But I'd appreciate it if you'd give her a chance before deciding she's the Antichrist."

Liz sniffed. "That's not what I said."

"Pretty close." She rolled her eyes. "Thanks." She managed a small smile.

"I know I've made mistakes. More than a few." He looked toward the windows. "But I can't spend the rest of my life afraid to meet somebody because the last person hurt me."

Liz's expression softened. "I'm not asking you to be alone."

"I know."

"I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Neither do I." He looked at her. "And for what it's worth, Oxana didn't ask me for anything tonight. Not money. Not gifts. Not a damn thing. She just wanted to spend time with me."

Liz studied his face. "And you like her." It wasn't a question.

Shooter looked at his daughter. "Yeah." He smiled. "I do."

Liz closed her eyes briefly. "Oh, Dad."

"I know."

She leaned against him. Shooter wrapped an arm around her shoulders. For a while neither spoke.

Nik looked down at his check, then at his father, then at his sister. He cleared his throat. "So... does this mean I can get a Shelby?"

Shooter stared at him. Liz stared at him. Nik grinned. "Just asking."

"Son, I swear to God."

Liz started laughing, then Shooter did, and finally Nik joined them. The tension broke, not completely, because Liz still had questions and Shooter knew she'd have plenty more, but she was sitting beside him now, leaning against his shoulder, and that was enough for tonight.

After a moment Liz straightened. "Fine. I'll meet her."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"But I'm not promising to like her. And if she turns out to be some gold digger..."

"Elizabeth."

"I'm serious." She looked him directly in the eyes. "I will ruin her."

Shooter blinked. Nik started laughing; Liz didn't. Shooter studied his daughter, then smiled. "Well, hell. Guess I oughta warn Oxana."

"You probably should."

"Fair enough." Then, more serious: "But Liz? If you have a problem with her, tell me. Don't make it a war before anybody's had a chance to say hello."

Liz considered that, then nodded. "Okay."

"And don't interrogate her like she's applying for a security clearance."

"No promises."

Nik grinned. "I want to watch."

"Of course you do."

Shooter reached for his phone. "Now. About breakfast."

"Steak," Nik said.

"Yes, Nikolai. You can have steak."

"With eggs?"

"Yes."

"And pancakes?"

"Son, you can order the entire menu if you want."

"Awesome."

Shooter looked at Liz. "And you, sweetheart? Anywhere you want."

She considered him a moment, then smiled faintly. "Somewhere nice. Somewhere we can actually sit down and talk."

"That sounds reasonable."

She glanced at his phone. "Are you going to invite her?"

"That's the plan."

Liz sighed dramatically. "Fine." Then she pointed at him. "But Dad? If she calls you Daddy at breakfast, I'm leaving."

Nik collapsed into laughter. Shooter grinned. "Sweetheart, I ain't making any promises I can't keep."

"Oh, my GOD!"

Shooter laughed. He looked at his son, still clutching a five-million-dollar check like a winning lottery ticket. Hell, it literally was. He looked at his daughter, who had just threatened to destroy anyone who hurt him, and at the phone in his hand, where Oxana's number waited.

For the first time in a very long time, the future didn't feel like something he had to survive. It felt like something they could look forward to, all three of them. And Bacon. Especially Bacon.

Shooter opened his messages and began typing:

Good evening, beautiful. The kids have agreed to breakfast tomorrow, assuming you're available. They get to pick the restaurant. Fair warning: my daughter has questions.

He read it twice, then added: Lots of questions. He hit send. Almost immediately, three little dots appeared.

Nik leaned forward. "Is she answering?"

"Apparently."

Liz crossed her arms. "This should be interesting."

The reply appeared: I would love to have breakfast with you and your children, Daddy. And please tell your daughter I look forward to meeting her. Then a second message: Should I be frightened of her?

Shooter looked at Liz, at her crossed arms and the expression that suggested she was already preparing a comprehensive background investigation. He typed: Probably.

Oxana's reply came almost immediately: Excellent. I like strong women.

Shooter laughed. Liz narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"Nothing, sweetheart."

"Dad. You're smiling at your phone."

"Yeah."

Liz sighed, a long, deeply suffering sigh. "Oh, we're in trouble."

Nik looked up from his check. "Five million dollars."

Shooter closed his eyes. "Well, hell."

And somewhere down the hallway, a twenty-two-year-old Ukrainian woman was probably laughing at her phone. Tomorrow was going to be interesting.