Mateo hated this part of the job. The listening, the lurking, the smiling at snakes who would slit his throat if they smelled weakness. But Darren trusted him with the work of finding the guy who sent the thief, and if Mateo knew anything, it was this: loyalty was heavier than blood.
The Strip never slept, and neither did its vultures. Mateo walked through the neon haze, jacket collar turned up against the desert chill. His eyes flicked from one casino entrance to the next, past girls in glitter dresses handing out flyers, past the drunk tourists already down to their last crumpled bills. Vegas was a feeding ground, and the people who thought they were predators were often just prey waiting to be stripped clean.
Tonight, Mateo wasn't here to gamble. He was hunting whispers.
He leaned on his first contact, an old dealer at the Sahara, a man whose fingers shook from years of skimming chips when no one looked. Mateo slid him a pack of cigarettes, and in return, got a story about a gambler who had cashed out with chips that didn't match the weight of the casino's official stock. Not much—but enough to prick Mateo's instincts.
From there, the trail wound darker. A bartender at a dive near Fremont Street claimed he'd seen the same gambler flashing money too easily. A hustler Mateo had known since his early days in Vegas said there were "new chips" floating around, the kind you couldn't tell were fake unless you'd held the real thing a thousand times.
Counterfeit.
That word spread like poison in Mateo's head as he walked back toward Delgado's secondary casino, The Fortuna.
He knew what it meant. Not some sloppy street trick. Not some two-bit thief looking for quick cash. Counterfeit chips required planning, access, knowledge. Someone had studied Darren's house, his empire, his rules—and then had the balls to test him on his own floor.
By the time Mateo reached the mansion, his jaw ached from clenching.
---
Darren was already waiting in his office, seated behind a desk that could've doubled as a throne. The lamplight threw sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the dark stubble along his jaw. He didn't look up as Mateo entered, just kept scanning the paperwork spread before him—ledgers, surveillance logs, reports from the pit bosses.
"Talk," Darren said simply.
Mateo straightened. "The chips weren't stolen, Darren. Not exactly."
That earned him a glance. Darren's eyes were black glass, unreadable. "Explain."
"They're counterfeit," Mateo said. "Perfect copies. Weighted right, cut right, down to the edge markings. Someone put them into circulation last week. Quiet at first—low stakes, easy tables. Then yesterday, during the grab, they pushed more. Enough to skim off real cash without setting off alarms."
For the first time, Darren set his pen down. The silence that followed was heavy, like the air before a storm.
"Counterfeit." He spoke the word slowly, tasting it like venom on his tongue.
"Yes, Darren." Mateo forced his voice steady. "This isn't random. Whoever's behind it isn't chasing money—they're testing your floor. Testing your reach."
Darren leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. His gaze drifted past Mateo to the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the Vegas skyline burned in neon arrogance.
"The Fortuna runs clean," Darren said finally. "Everyone knows that. No dirty games, no marked decks, no fake chips. People trust my tables more than they trust their wives. That trust is worth more than any jackpot." His voice dropped, steel-hard. "And someone just tried to poison it."
Mateo nodded. "The staff are already whispering. Dealers are nervous. Word gets out, even a hint, and gamblers will start looking at us sideways. It won't matter if the chips were real or fake—they'll smell weakness."
Darren's jaw ticked. He rose from his chair and crossed the office, movements controlled but heavy with restrained violence. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. For a long moment, he didn't drink, just swirled it, staring at the liquid like it might give him answers.
"Who?"
Mateo swallowed. "Not sure yet. But I leaned on an old hustler. He mentioned a middleman moving quiet in Chinatown. Guy was bragging he had a way to 'print money in Delgado's house.'"
Darren's gaze snapped back to him, sharp enough to cut. "Name."
"Still digging. But if this middleman exists, he's our link."
Silence again. Only the faint hum of Vegas outside, alive and restless.
Finally, Darren spoke, his voice calm but edged like a blade. "Money I can replace. Reputation? Once that cracks, the empire follows. Fear keeps this city mine, Mateo. Fear, and certainty. If gamblers believe The Fortuna's floor is compromised, even for a second, it's not just about chips. It's about power."
Mateo nodded again, though the weight of Darren's words pressed on his chest. He knew what was coming. Darren would respond the way only Darren Delgado could—publicly, decisively, brutally.
"Darren," Mateo said carefully, "you want me to keep following the trail?"
Darren stepped closer, set the untouched whiskey down, and fixed Mateo with that predator's gaze. "Yes. Find the middleman. Find whoever had the audacity to test me. And Mateo—" He leaned in, voice dropping low. "—when you find them, don't kill them yet. Bring them to me. I want them breathing when I ask why they thought they could play games with my house."
Mateo's chest tightened, but he forced himself to nod. "Understood."
Darren dismissed him with a flick of his hand, but his expression lingered in Mateo's mind long after he left the office. Cold. Controlled. But underneath—just for a flicker—something else.
Not fear. Darren Delgado didn't fear.
But anger, yes. And worse—recognition.
Because this wasn't just theft. This was someone who knew Darren's world, knew where to push, how to make the floor tremble beneath him.
As Mateo slipped out into the corridor, he heard Darren's voice, low and dangerous, echoing behind him.
"Whoever this is… they're not after money. They're after me."
---
On the casino floor that night, Darren walked through The Fortuna like a shadow draped in silk. Dealers straightened when they saw him. Gamblers hushed, whispers dying on their tongues. He stopped at one of the roulette tables, leaned casually against the rail, and let his gaze drift over the stacks of chips.
He picked one up, rolling it between his fingers. To anyone else, it looked flawless. To him, it felt like betrayal.
The air in the casino shifted, subtle but real. The workers had seen the counterfeit, heard the rumors. They were waiting for their king to show whether his crown still fit.
Darren placed the chip down, smiled faintly, and patted the dealer's shoulder. "Keep the wheel spinning," he said softly.
But when he left, his eyes were dark with promise.
The Fortuna was his fortress. His throne. And someone had just left a crack in the wall.
This wasn't theft. It was an opening move.