Ian

I'd love to say I swaggered into the Le Château d’Or at Brynna Hynafol’s side, that I was confident and suave and cool, that the punters who turned in their seats to stare at her or Horace withered before my glare and turned away, but actually I went in with shoulders hunched and eyes narrowed. Casinos are basically hell for a PI, all noise and sound and misdirection.

The heart of the Castelloro empire was no better than any other I'd been to. Low-ceilinged bays of slot machines surrounded the bars and roulette tables in the middle of a room that, without its ornamentation, would have comfortably fit several warehouses inside. Screens were everywhere, promising deals at the restaurant for high betters, high payouts for the expensive games, guaranteed rewards for unthinkable costs.

By the time we were halfway across the hall, I couldn't have pointed to the exit, despite my best efforts to keep track. Brynna seemed to know where she was going, though, and presumably whatever bits of Horace were machine were undistractable. I'd been watching the old lady for the entire eighteen-hour slog of our journey and still hadn't figured out her deal, but there was something uncanny about her, for sure.

Whatever wisdom guided her, it took us, apparently unerringly, to the grandiose doors of the high-roller's room. There was something familiar in the way she pushed through, leaning on the right-hand panel and rolling her eyes at its weight. It certainly wasn't the spectacle of throwing them wide and bursting in.

At least the room beyond was quieter, visually as well as auditorily. The ceiling was high and airy, somewhere between an old library and a dentist's reception. Mild lighting made the layout of the space straightforward, a long bar down one wall, next to two big roulette tables, and on the other side of the central aisle card tables hosting baccarat, blackjack and poker. The tables were busy with the peak of Saturday evening's business, but few of the players paid us any mind.

The intensity of this room came from its heat, and the cocktail of stress hormones in the air. On the tables, chips stacked fatally high. It put you on edge just to think about the likelihood of one of these fancily-dressed people walking out of here with their life in ruins.

Fortunately, Brynna didn't linger long, leading us to another fancy door on the wall opposite the bar, over which gold paint formed the cursive shapes of the words Salon de la Maison. Here again she didn't hesitate, turning the handle and stepping inside, holding the door for me with Horace bringing up the rear.

Before I could take the room in at all, its occupants seized my attention. An oval card table took up the centre of the room, end-on to the door, and at the far end was Angelo Castelloro. There could be no mistaking him – honey-silk blonde hair, long, sharp eyes, a white pinstripe suit over a black shirt whose open collar revealed sprawling tattoos and a striking physique. Only the freshness of his face was a little incongruous – too young for my taste, too cheerful for his position, with little sign in his expression of the cruelty his organisation could mete out.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Arrayed around the back of his chair were half a dozen men, all older, a couple of them significantly so. Their suits were less ostentatious, and they perhaps wore a little less jewellery, but they projected the same aura of power and money. I recognised a couple of them, senior Castelloro lieutenants both. The only odd face was a slight, short prettyboy with spectacular purple hair who had to be Castelloro’s preferred psychic. He looked terrifyingly young, but psychics were often a bit ageless.

As we entered, Angelo bounded to his feet, long legs bringing him round the table in two strides, hand extended to Brynna. "Brynna! It's nice to see you again."

She bypassed the handshake and reached up to embrace him, pecking him on the cheek. The embrace of a mother, or maybe a sprightly grandmother, to a son. I looked again at her face. I hadn't taken her for that old, but Angelo didn't seem too surprised or embarrassed. As she pulled back, he caught her forearm and nodded in my direction. "Who're your friends?"

I watched her look at me, thinking how best to answer. I didn't doubt for a second that if Angelo decided he wanted us gone he'd have us removed however he saw fit, and I wasn't planning to fight it. Horace probably wouldn't, either – I didn't know exactly what hold Lachlan had over him, but he'd made clear it wouldn't buy him lifting a finger more than he was paid for.

Brynna said, "This is Ian and Horace, sweetie. They're the ones that put me in touch with the Raven."

Angelo’s eyes landed on me, so piercing I almost flinched. Voice level, he said, "Who do you work for?"

I shrugged. "Can't say for sure, bruv."

"They found me inside the restricted areas at the Winter Palace, sweetie, it doesn't take a genius to figure it out." Brynna voice could have charmed honey itself. "They're only here to watch."

"Then welcome," Angelo said, a little of his fierceness softening. "Something to drink, gentlemen? Brynna, you'll have tea?"

There was yet another bar in the corner of the room, smaller than the ones we'd passed on the way in, but stocked only with the most expensive stuff. Horace declined – I wasn't even sure whether he still had a stomach – and Brynna asked for water. I asked for a single malt and resolved to drink it slowly.

"Just one thing, guys," Angelo said, and his manner was almost jovial. "Will you do me a favour and stand over there?" He pointed to a corner of the room, well away from the table. "We're going to be playing a pretty serious game, and neither of you has a poker face to speak of."

Before I could protest, Brynna tilted her head at me with all the pity of a disappointed teacher. "He's right, sweetie, can't risk you blowing my bluffs. Just make sure you can't see my cards, ok?"

A glass was presented to my hand – I hadn't even noticed the server approach – and I took that opportunity to look away, trying to hide my shame. I thought I was pretty straight-faced, at least when I needed to be. But then, I don't gamble, as a rule.