Bianca headed in the direction of the Craps table, determination in her stride. Barry was close behind her, and three of the other wingmen tailed her discreetly.

The craps table was alive, a glowing island of green felt under bright overhead lights, surrounded by a semi-circle of players — some casual, others clearly veterans. Chips clacked in eager fingers. The air pulsed with energy, conversation, and the occasional roar of laughter.

A sharp-faced stickman, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black vest, leaned forward, his long wooden stick poised like a conductor’s baton. “Coming out!” he called, voice cutting through the hum of the casino floor.

At the centre...