Julian didn't say a word until we were in the back of a black SUV, speeding away from the Bellagio toward the neon-soaked chaos of the Strip. The air inside the car was thick with tension, the kind that precedes a lightning strike.
"You're a fool," Julian said, his voice a low growl. He didn't look at me; he was watching the reflection of the city lights in the window. "I told you to stay away. I told you Liam would eat you alive."
"I won, Julian," I snapped, clutching my bag—now filled with nearly a million dollars in high-denomination vouchers. "I made more in two hours than I did in three weeks with Jo. I'm going to save him."
"You didn't win," Julian turned to face me, his eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying fire. "Liam let you win. He's a cat playing with a mouse. He wanted to see your 'tell.' He wanted to see how you handle pressure so he can break you in a bigger game later. And now? Now the Syndicate knows exactly where you are and who you're with."
"Why do you care?" I challenged, leaning into his space. "You're an FBI agent, or a mole, or whatever you are. I'm just a 'Siren' you're monitoring, remember?"
Julian reached out, his hand gripping my jaw with a firm but surprisingly gentle pressure. He forced me to look at him. "I care because you're the only person who can get me close to Lucian without a gun being pulled. And I care because... because I've seen what happens to girls like you when the Syndicate is done with them."
His thumb brushed my lower lip, a gesture so intimate it made my breath hitch. For a moment, the danger of the casino and the debt faded. There was only the heat of his skin and the depth of his gaze.
"They won't get me," I whispered.
"They already have," Julian replied, pulling his hand away and leaning back. "Lucian called. He's moving the deadline. You don't have thirty days anymore, Ivy. You have seven."
My heart plummeted. "Seven? That's impossible! I still need four million!"
"Which is why you're going to do exactly what I say," Julian said, his voice returning to its professional, icy tone. "There is a game on a private yacht in three days. International waters. No laws. No cameras. The buy-in is your entire million. The prize is the Syndicate's ledger—and enough cash to buy your father's life ten times over."
"And what's the catch?" I asked, knowing there was always a catch.
"The catch is that you're going as my wife," Julian said, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And you're going to have to play the game of your life. Not for money, Ivy. For your soul. Because if we lose on that boat, neither of us is coming back to the shore."
I looked out at the passing lights of Vegas—a city built on the bones of losers. I thought of my father, of Jo's missing fingers, and of the way Julian's hand felt on my face.
"I've already sold my soul," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "Just tell me when the boat leaves."
Julian stared at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded once. "Pack your bags, Ivy. We're going to sea."