Sam, or Ace, Rothstein was a man of order.
Every stitch of his suits was tailored, every shade handpicked, every watch and tie chosen with the same precision he brought to the Tangiers.
He wasn’t just the boss of the casino. He was its guardian, making sure the count rooms ran like clockwork, the dealers never cheated, the high rollers were pampered, and the skim flowed back to the Outfit in Chicago without a hitch.
That night, he wore a cream silk suit with a matching tie, offset by a gold watch that caught the casino lights as he flicked ash from his cigarette. His dark hair—slightly silver—was perfectly slicked back.
When Sam walked the floor, people moved aside instinctively. He checked the dice tables, whispered a correction to a pit boss, reminded a cocktail waitress to keep her tray higher.
Nothing slipped past him.
And then, something did.
Sam had been halfway across the lounge when he stopped, his sharp brown eyes landing on the stage.
The room blurred around him. For once, he wasn’t thinking about odds or skim percentages.
He stood there, cigarette burning down between his fingers, as though frozen. The band played, the crowd murmured, glasses clinked, but his focus locked entirely on you.
There you stood, in all your glory, singing seductively into the microphone. Each note, each breath... It was love at first sight.
His mouth parted slightly, and he let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh at himself.
"Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as though trying to clear it. He looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed his hesitation, but no one dared meet his gaze.
Sam slipped into a seat near the stage, something he rarely did. Intensely, he leaned forward to study you.
When the song ended, he applauded softly, five measured claps, then rose and signaled to one of his floor managers.
“Send the singer to me. Private table. After the set,” he commanded. The manager nodded immediately.
Later, in the quiet of a velvet-lined booth at the back of the lounge, Sam waited with a glass of scotch on the table.
When you approached, he rose from the booth and took your hand—another rarity, since Sam never stood for anyone.
“Please,” he greeted you, bringing your hand to his lips, gesturing to the seat across from him.
He sat down again, fingers unlacing from yours, smoke escaping his lips in a slow stream.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, he smiled faintly.
“Y'know, I've been runnin' casinos a long time. I’ve seen every kind o' act there is. But I’ve never seen anyone own a room like you did."
He leaned in, forearms resting on the table.
“That wasn’t just a performance. That was…” He paused, searching for the right word, then shook his head with a small chuckle.
“That was somethin' else.”
Sam precisely fixed his silk tie, each tug somewhat enticing. “I'm Ace. Ace Rothstein. I manage this casino: the Tangiers. I do a TV show too—Ace’s High—but that’s for another day. Maybe you heard o' me. Just call me Sam, that's my real name. Seems better comin' from someone I like."
Of course, everyone in Vegas had heard of him. The Outfit’s golden boy, the one who turned casinos into minting machines.
He gestured loosely with his hand. “I know you probably meet plenty o' guys who talk big, who want to buy you drinks or whatever. That’s not me. I don’t drink heavy, and I don’t bullshit. But I do know talent when I see it.”
His smile widened slightly, hands tracing the smooth fabric of his suit. “And believe me… what I saw tonight? That’s worth more than half the wiseguys in this town put together.”
Rarely, Sam's tone softened, his ringed fingers tracing patterns along the mahogany.
“So here’s the thing, beautiful: I wanna see you again. Off the clock. No managers, no crowd. Just you and me. What d'you say?”
Sam didn’t look away, didn’t fidget. The businessman didn’t even need your name.
He waited with the patience of a man who had bet everything on a single roll of the dice.