The bullet hole in Vincent Marchetti's forehead was surprisingly small.
Scarlett Vance noted this with the detached observation of someone who had seen worse. Much worse. She stood in the private elevator of the Red Ace Casino, watching the numbers climb. Floor 47. Floor 48. The mirrored walls reflected her current uniform: black dealer's dress, name tag reading "SCAR," expression reading nothing at all.
Three years. Three years of smiling at drunk hedge fund managers. Three years of calculating odds faster than the security algorithms. Three years of being invisible.
The elevator dinged. Floor 50. The penthouse.
The smell hit her first. Copper. Expensive cologne. And something else—acrid, chemical. Vincent sat in his custom leather chair, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Neon Bay. The city lights painted his dead face in purple and gold. His hands rested on the desk. No defensive wounds. Whoever shot him was someone he knew.
Scarlett filed this away. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She checked his pulse—unnecessary, but thorough—then opened the desk drawer.
The envelope was thick. Her name was on it. Not "SCAR." Not her employee ID. Scarlett Vance. Her real name. The name she hadn't used in three years.
If you're reading this, I'm dead. Surprised? Don't be. I taught you better.
The Red Ace is yours. So is the debt—$30 million to the Seven Houses. They think you'll crumble. Prove them wrong.
The key is in my left shoe. The password is the date you won your first fight. Don't trust anyone. Especially not the ones who smile.
—V
Scarlett read it twice. Then she checked the left shoe. A USB drive. Cold. Heavy. Encrypted. Of course it was.
The elevator dinged behind her. She didn't turn around.
"Vinny? The board meeting—"
A man's voice. Young. Nervous. Marcus Chen. Junior accountant. Twenty-three years old. Allergic to shellfish. Secretly dating a cocktail waitress from the Heart Island branch. Scarlett knew this because she made it her business to know everything.
"He's dead, Marcus."
Silence. Then: "Oh god. Oh god, oh god—"
"Call security. Not the house security. Thorne Security."
"But—"
"Now."
Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. Marcus scrambled for his phone. Scarlett finally turned. The kid was pale. Shaking. Useless. She stepped past him, pressing the elevator button.
"Where are you going?"
"To change."
The doors closed on his confusion.
Her apartment was twelve floors down. Employee housing. Six hundred square feet. One window. She didn't turn on the lights. The USB went into her laptop. Password prompt.
The date you won your first fight.
Scarlett's fingers hovered. March 15th, three years ago. The Hollow. Underground circuit. She'd been eighteen. Her opponent had been twenty-six. Former military. She'd broken his nose in thirty seconds. His ribs in ninety. His ego permanently.
She typed: 0315
Access denied.
She tried: 1503
European format. Vincent had spent fifteen years in London.
Access granted.
The files exploded across her screen. Financial records. Security footage. Names. Dozens of names. The Seven Houses didn't just own debt. They owned people. Politicians. Judges. Celebrities. And—Scarlett's breath caught—Dominic Thorne. CEO of Thorne Security. The man who taught her first hustle. The man with the mechanical arm. The man who'd disappeared ten years ago, leaving her in the Hollow with nothing but a knife and a warning: Trust is a liability.
He was on Vincent's payroll. Deep cover. Or deep trouble. The file didn't say which.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She answered.
Silence. Then: "You checked the shoe."
A man's voice. Processed. Distorted.
"Who is this?"
"The question isn't who. It's what."
"Enlighten me."
"What are you prepared to do with $30 million in debt and a target on your back?"
Scarlett smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "I'm going to win."
"Against the Seven Houses?"
"Against everyone."
The line went dead.
She showered in three minutes. Dressed in five. Black pants. Black turtleneck. The scar on her left shoulder—courtesy of that first fight—peeked above the fabric. She didn't cover it. She grabbed her go-bag. Cash. Passports—three, different names. The knife Dom gave her, ten years old, still sharp. And a new addition: Vincent's USB.
The elevator took her to the lobby. 3 AM. The casino never slept. Neither did she.
The floor manager spotted her. Elena Voss. Fifty-two. Thirty years in the business. She knew everything. She said nothing. Until now.
"Vincent's dead." Not a question.
"Yes."
"The board meets at noon. They'll vote to liquidate."
"They'll try."
Elena's eyes narrowed. "You have a plan?"
"I have a casino."
"You have a headache. The Seven Houses—"
"—think I'm a Hollow rat who got lucky." Scarlett stepped closer. Lowered her voice. "Let them think it."
Elena studied her. Ten seconds. Twenty. "The high-roller suite. Chinese billionaire. Lost $2 million tonight. He's demanding a rematch. Private table."
"And?"
"And he only plays against the house representative."
"Vincent's dead."
"Vincent's dead," Elena agreed. "But you're wearing his shoes."
She walked away. Didn't look back.
The high-roller suite smelled like money and desperation. Mr. Li—fake name, real money—sat at the center of the room. Surrounded by bodyguards. And one other player.
Scarlett's steps faltered. Just for a second.
Asher Blackwood. Platinum hair. Ice-blue eyes. Three-piece suit that cost more than her annual salary. Her former fiancé. The man who thought she died in a fire three years ago.
He looked up. Their eyes met. No recognition. None. Her hair was short now. Red, not brown. Contacts turned her eyes green. The scar was new. She was new. But Asher had always been observant. Too observant.
"New dealer?" he asked. His voice hadn't changed. Polished. Precise. Cold.
"Acting manager," Scarlett corrected.
"Temporary?"
"Permanent."
She sat. Shuffled. The cards moved like water.
"You have a tell," Asher said.
"I don't play. I deal."
"Everyone plays. Everyone tells."
"What's mine?"
He leaned forward. Close enough to smell his cologne. Sandalwood. Expensive. Familiar. "You don't blink," he said. "When you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You haven't blinked in forty seconds."
Scarlett smiled. Blinked. Once. Slow. "Better?"
Asher's expression didn't change. But his finger tapped the table. Once. His tell. He was interested. Dangerous.
"Mr. Li," Scarlett said, turning to the billionaire. "You want a rematch. I propose different stakes."
"Name them."
"You win, I cover your losses. $2 million."
"And if you win?"
"You cover mine."
Li laughed. "You have $2 million?"
"I have a casino."
Silence. Then: "Deal."
The game was Texas Hold'em. Scarlett didn't play. She watched. Li was aggressive. Reckless. Used to buying wins. Asher was patient. Calculating. Playing a different game entirely.
The first hand, Li lost 50,000. The second, 100,000. By the third, sweat beaded his forehead. "You're not lucky," he accused Scarlett.
"I'm not playing."
"You're doing something."
"I'm dealing."
She was doing something. Counting. Tracking. Li's pupils dilated when he bluffed. Asher's breathing changed—imperceptible—when he had a strong hand. She couldn't control the cards. But she could control the information.
Hand four. Li went all-in. $1.5 million. Asher called. Scarlett revealed the river. Li had two pair. Asher had a straight.
The billionaire stood. Red-faced. "Cheat. She's cheating—"
"Mr. Li." Asher's voice cut through the rage. "You lost. Gracefully, if possible."
The bodyguards tensed. Scarlett's hand found the knife in her bag. Not yet. Not here.
Li stared at her. Ten seconds. Then he laughed. Ugly. Forced. "Another night, Ms...?"
"Vance."
"Ms. Vance."
He left. The money stayed.
Asher didn't leave. He stacked his chips. Methodical. Precise. "You knew his tell."
"I know everyone's tell."
"What's mine?"
"You don't have one."
"Everyone has one."
Scarlett stood. Collected the cards. "You have a habit," she said. "You watch people too closely. You miss the game."
"And what do you watch?"
"The odds."
She turned to leave.
"Ms. Vance."
She stopped. Didn't turn.
"Have we met?"
The question hung in the air. Three years. A fire. A funeral with no body. Scarlett looked over her shoulder. "I doubt it, Mr. Blackwood."
"I never gave my name."
Silence. Then Scarlett smiled. "Your face is on the cover of Tech Weekly."
"Last month's issue."
"I read."
She walked out. Didn't rush. Didn't look back. But she felt his eyes. Burning. Curious. Hungry.
The board meeting was in nine hours. She had $2 million in fresh capital. A dead mentor's secrets. A ghost from her past who didn't recognize her—yet. And a phone call from a stranger who knew too much.
Scarlett Vance sat in her apartment. Dark. Quiet. She opened her laptop. Typed a single search: Dominic Thorne. Current location.
The answer loaded in 0.4 seconds. Thorne Security Headquarters. Spade Island. Distance: 2.3 miles.
He was here. He'd been here all along.
She grabbed her jacket. The knife. The USB. Her phone buzzed. Same unknown number. One word this time: "Run."
Scarlett didn't run. She never ran. But she did check the window. Three black SUVs. No logos. No lights. Parking across the street. Seven Houses. They'd moved faster than expected.
She smiled. Tight. Feral. "Fine."
She grabbed the go-bag. "Let's play."
The fire escape was cold. Metal bit her palms. Three floors down. Two. One. She hit the alley running. Not away. Toward. Toward the SUVs. Toward the danger. Toward the only man who might know why Vincent really died.
Dominic Thorne wasn't just her past. He was her next move.
The alley opened to the street. Headlights blazed. Doors opened. Men in black. Guns drawn. Scarlett didn't stop. She reached into her bag. Not for the knife. For her phone. She pressed one button. Speed dial. Number she'd memorized ten years ago. Never used.
It rang once. Twice.
"Thorne."
His voice. Deeper now. Harder.
"You taught me to call when the odds were bad."
Silence. Then: "Who is this?"
"The girl from the Hollow."
"The Hollow's full of girls."
"The one who stole your watch."
Another silence. Longer. "You kept it?"
"I kept everything."
The SUVs were twenty feet away. Fifteen.
"I'm in trouble," she said.
"How much?"
"$30 million."
A laugh. Short. Surprised. "That's not trouble. That's Tuesday."
"They're pointing guns at me, Dom."
"Are they shooting?"
"Not yet."
"Then you're not in trouble yet."
Ten feet. "What do I do?"
"You tell me. What did I teach you?"
Scarlett stopped. Faced the men. Smiled. "When the house has the advantage—"
"—change the game."
She raised her phone. Showed them the screen. Live video. Thorne Security drones. Twelve of them. Hovering above. Red lights blinking.
"Gentlemen," she said. "You're trespassing on Thorne-protected property."
The lead man paused. "Bullshit."
"Check your frequency. Channel 9."
He did. His face paled. "Withdraw," a voice said from his earpiece. "Now."
They withdrew. Fast. Professional.
Scarlett watched them go.
"Impressive," Dom said in her ear. "You grew up."
"You got old."
"Thirty-two. Ancient."
"Where are you?"
"Close enough."
She turned. The alley's far end. A figure. Tall. Black coat. One arm slightly wrong. Mechanical.
He stepped into the light. Dom had changed. More scars. Less hair. Same gray eyes. Evaluating.
"You need protection," he said. Not a question.
"I need information."
"Same thing."
"Not to me."
He smiled. Rare. Dangerous. "Vincent was my friend," he said.
"Was?"
"You know he was."
"I know he left me a casino and a headache."
Dom stepped closer. Close enough to touch. He didn't. "The Seven Houses killed him."
"Why?"
"Because he was going to give you everything."
"He did."
"Not the casino, Scar." Dom's voice dropped. "The keys to the kingdom."
He handed her a card. Black. Embossed. No name. Just a symbol. A crown. Broken.
"The Hollow isn't a slum," he said. "It's a test."
"For what?"
"For who gets to join the real game."
Scarlett took the card. Heavy. Real. "I'm already playing."
"No." Dom turned. Walked away. "You're just getting started."
He disappeared into the dark. Like smoke. Like always.
Scarlett stood alone. The card bit her palm. The drones hummed overhead. And somewhere in the city, Asher Blackwood was searching her face in databases. Kai Nakamura was placing bets on her survival. Jules Sterling was hacking firewalls to find her location.
She had nine hours until the board meeting. $30 million in debt. And a broken crown in her hand.
Scarlett Vance smiled. For real this time. "Let them come."
She walked toward the street. Toward the neon. Toward the war.
The Red Ace was hers. And she wasn't giving it back.