He was fifty-two, smooth in the way only men who’ve made their peace with their own loss of hair can be smooth. Tan from casino lighting, which is not technically sunlight but still cooks you if you live under it long enough. He dressed like every second-tier Vegas pro: dark jeans, blazer, and the quiet arrogance of someone who’d never had to clock in with a time card.

Tony specialized in the tourists who came to town with retirement savings, bucket lists, and fragile circulatory systems. If you wanted movie-style high-stakes glamour, you hit Bobby’s Room or the whale suites. If you wanted low-risk profit, you watched for medical plastics.
He saw them everywhere now.
At the MGM poker lounge that Tuesday night, he settled into seat six at a $5/$10 no-limit game and began his usual scan.
Seat one: college kid with earbuds and a hoodie—overconfident, under-bankrolled, useless.
Seat two: woman in her thirties, Botoxed, staring at her phone, wedding ring off, chip stack