“You really wanna face Maria Rosa after a beer?” I ask, trying not to laugh. Carnie’s a lightweight of epic proportions, and Maria Rosa is a deadly viper. She draws on people’s weaknesses. I’m pretty sure she sucks out their souls; I just can’t prove it. To spend time with her even faintly mentally compromised is asking for trouble. Carnie’s never met her before, but he’s heard the stories. He lifts one eyebrow, one side of his mouth lifting into half a smile—good point.

The MGM is buzzing. People checking in. People checking out. Groups gathered around the casino tables still in their clothes from last night, gin and tonics still being placed into their open hands. The place smells like Vegas glamour and sweat, tinged with just the faintest hint of desperation.

“So, she’s on the thirty-fifth?” Carnie asks, already stabbing at the button on the elevator call panel. I grunt, pushing my hair back out of my eyes.

“She’s a creature of habit. I can’t imagine she’s changed.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Are you visiting a guest this morning?” I turn around and end up facing a wall of muscle, dressed in a suit. The Hispanic guy—a good three inches taller than I am, shaved head, tattoos peeking out above his shirt collar—looks mean. Really fucking mean. He doesn’t work for the hotel, that’s for sure. The MGM are used to people coming and going from the hotel rooms, no questions asked. Their security detail would never bother people trying to access the guest floors—not even super shady-looking bastards like me and my boy. No, this guy…this is one of Maria Rosa’s men. Has to be.

“We’re not here to cause trouble. We just want to talk to her,” I say.

The guy scowls at me, two deep lines forming between his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nuestra madre nos dijo que siempre estábamos bienvenidos. ¿Quiere que le digamos que nos diste la vuelta?” Mother said we were always welcome. You want us to tell her you turned us away?

Of course, Maria Rosa isn’t my mother, nor is she Carnie’s mother, but she insists that those she keeps close call her that. By using that name, I’ve demonstrated who I am to this blank-eyed bodyguard. I’m someone his employer trusts, and I won’t have any qualms in telling her he denied us access if he causes any shit.

He stares me down, back rigid and straight, testing me out some more. When I don’t back down, he gives me a single nod. “What’s your name?”

I tell him. A flicker of recognition flashes across his face. He turns his back to us and begins speaking into the discreet radio he has stowed in the breast pocket of his tailored black suit.

“So much for a surprise visit,” Carnie grumbles.

“Yeah, well. I guess it’s better she knows we’re coming than getting shot in the belly by one of these punks.”

“Oh, so that’s an option, is it? Fantastic.”

“You two can go up. But I’ll need to accompany you.” Maria Rosa’s man has stopped murmuring into his radio. He stares at both of us as he reaches forward and hits the button for thirty-five. We wait in silence. A group of tourists come stand behind us, talking loudly and giggling—four overweight adults and three overweight kids. When the doors to the elevator open, Carnie, the guard, and I get on. The holidaymakers are about to follow suit but then they see our faces. The casual bulge of the gun on Maria Rosa’s henchman’s hip. The tattoos that cover the majority of our visible skin.

They make the smart choice and don’t get on.

The doors close and we begin our ascent. “Give me your guns,” the guard says. “You won’t be admitted into her presence without surrendering all weapons.”

We already know this is how Maria Rosa operates. Smart, really. She commands the most lucrative gambling and drugs ring in the country. There are people who would kill her for that reason alone, to take her business, regardless of the fact that she’s faintly psychotic and slices off people’s skin for fun.

“We left our guns at home,” I tell him. He gives me a look—he clearly doesn’t believe that. “You can have our knives, though. That make you happy?” I grin at him, which doesn’t seem to ingratiate me to him any further. Holding out his hand, his cold eyes travel over us, as though searching for the telltale bulge of a gun that we’re claiming we don’t have. I start pulling out my knives—one from the waistband of my jeans, one strapped to my side, one strapped to my ankle. Carnie has more; the guy overcompensates when Margo’s not on his hip. All told, the guard has nine knives in his hand by the time we’re done giving them up.

He draws his lips into a tight line—not impressed.

The doors to the elevator open then, and a housekeeping maid—a skinny woman with a neat ponytail and sensible shoes—is waiting on the other side. She nearly jumps out of her skin when she catches sight of the sharp blades clutched in the guard’s hands. “Sorry, I’ll…I’ll just…” She doesn’t enter the elevator. She spins on the balls of her feet and hurries off down the corridor, glancing over her shoulder at us as she flees. The guard gestures to us that we should follow him.

“She gonna cause problems?” Carnie asks as we follow the hallway around, passing room doors on either side of us.

“She might tell her superior,” the guard grunts. “But he’s one of ours. They’re all ours. It won’t go any further.”