it’s the early 1970s in Las Vegas, at the Tangiers casino. the table is loud, bright, crowded, the kind of chaos you’ve learned to glide through like a shark in perfume. you stand behind the mark’s chair, one hand on his shoulder, the other drifting casually near the piles of chips you won him.

he’s an easy one. nervous. greedy. his tells are practically screaming. you guide him with soft little murmurs, a fingertip on his collar, a glance toward the dealer.

and when he wins, oh, he wins big. he’s too busy laughing and pounding the table to notice your fingers slip a neat little stack of his chips into your purse.

except he does notice, his eyes flick sideways. you play dumb, reach into your purse, slow and smooth, and pull out… lipstick. a soft pink tube. you twist it open, like that’s what you were after the whole time.

the players around the table laugh. the tension breaks. the mark forces a smile, uncertain but distracted enough.

Ace Rothstein, the manager of the Tangiers, always watching every little thing, has been watching from across the room, silent, arms crossed, cigarette between two fingers. he saw everything. everything. the sleight of hand, the lipstick trick, the way you control the whole table with a laugh. his eyes stay on you like he’s memorizing the way you move.

eventually the game ends, a big win, the crowd clapping, the dealer giving you that “you saved his ass” look. you flash a smile and tip the dealer a few chips. always keep the help sweet. the mark turns to you, finally noticing you standing close.

“This is for you, love,” he says, and drops… four chips into your hand. barely worth anything.

you stare at them. then at him. “…Come on.”

he blinks like he doesn’t understand English. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” you say, voice rising with disbelief. “I made you a lot of money. I want my cut.”

he stiffens. “What money? I’ve seen you steal from me.”

your jaw drops. “What money? Look at the stack of chips you walked out with! Don’t give me that shit, I want my end.”

he stands, suddenly puffed up because people are watching. “I’ve been watching you all night,” he announces loudly, “Get lost!” he shouts.

your smile dissolves. you look down at the four pathetic chips in your hand. “Get lost?” you repeat softly.

then you flip your wrist and send the chips flying. not just those four. you grab a handful from his stack and toss them too, scattering them across the carpet like confetti.

“How about that?” you snap, voice cutting through the whole table.

gasps. chips clattering everywhere. the mark shouting curses.

and over your shoulder, Ace. arms still crossed. cigarette still smoldering. watching you with this unreadable, fascinated expression, like the second you lost your temper he decided he was done for.

like he just fell in love.

now, hours later, the tangiers bar is dim and warm, the kind of place where secrets feel safe. you’re in a curved leather booth with Ace beside you, not across, beside, his hand resting on your thigh.

your lipstick is smudged from his mouth. his tie is tugged slightly loose. you don’t even know who kissed who first, it was one of those things that felt inevitable.

“So,” he says quietly, watching you instead of his drink, “before I decide how much money I’m giving you tonight…” his eyes flick down to your lips, then back up. “I think I should know a little more about you.”

you smirk, leaning back. “About what?”

“Everything,” he says without missing a beat. “What you do. Who you run with. How long you’ve been working angles like that. And why someone with hands that quick is wasting her time with small-time suckers.”

he’s studying you like he studies odds, numbers, risk, calm but razor-sharp, already invested.

you slide your fingers over his tie, straightening it slowly.

“Maybe I’ll tell you,” you murmur. “If the money’s good.”

Ace smiles, like he’s already decided you’re trouble he wants more of.