Page 23 of The Endless Want

I stop only once along the way, my head filled with a focus on the road, music, and the plans when I get to the casino.

The Russian-owned casino stands like a monument to vice—three stories of neon arrogance perched on the edge of the industrial district in Queens. Its lights flicker steadily against the bruised night sky, promising distraction, danger, and anonymity. Perfect for what I need tonight.

I park two blocks away, slip into a jacket that hides weapons and intentions equally well, and make my way through the alley entrance instead of the main doors. Russians respect caution. They respect shadows. They respect those who understand the value of being unseen.

Inside, chaos greets me like a familiar enemy. The air is thick with smoke and desperation; chips clink against felt tables; laughter spikes sharp and manic. A drunk at the poker table slams his fist against the edge. A woman in a glittering black dress whispers something poisonous into a dealer’s ear. Two men argue in Russian near the bar, voices low but tense.

This place is a hive—every person buzzing with greed, fear, or secrets.

I move through it like I belong. I’ve been here enough times to know which corners hold the watchers, which tables hide the runners, which hands grip the guns. I don’t linger anywhere long enough to become a pattern.

I’m searching for one man in particular. A bookkeeper who moves money for people who move worse things, and who has spent three years pretending he doesn’t know what the money buys.

Grigor.

He’s easy to find. He always is. He loses just enough at blackjack to stay welcome and never enough to be worth guarding. When I spot him he’s hunched over a table with a half-burned cigarette hanging off his lip, breaking at least two casino rules and one fire code.

I slide into the empty seat beside him, resting my elbows on the table. Grigor startles so violently his chips scatter.

“Declan?” he wheezes. “Man, are you insane? You can’t be⁠—”

“Hit,” I tell the dealer, not looking away from Grigor. The card slides toward me. I don’t check it.

“Declan,” Grigor whispers, voice trembling. “Liam⁠—”

“Liam doesn’t know,” I say. “You’re going to act like I’m a stranger until you follow me out of here. Quietly.”

Grigor’s throat bobs. “If they see me⁠—”

“Drink your water,” I interrupt. “You’ll need the clarity.”

He stares at the glass like it might explode. Then he drains it.

Smart.

I stand without ceremony and head toward the back corridor. Grigor follows, his footsteps reluctant but obedient—like a dog that’s learned the leash can hurt more than freedom helps.

The deeper halls are quieter. Cleaner. The air conditioner hums steadily, drowning out the noise from the floor above. I choose a supply room with no cameras—one I scoped out months ago for situations just like this.

The door shuts with a metallic snap. Grigor flinches like the sound hits his nerves instead of his ears.

“What do you want?” he whispers.

“Information,” I say simply. “And you’re going to give it to me.”

“I don’t know things,” he protests. “I’m small-time⁠—”

“You hear things.”

He clamps his trembling hands together. “Not the things you want tonight.”

I step closer. The room seems to shrink around us. “Then let’s start with what you do know.”

Grigor swallows. “The Russians are… uneasy.”

“When aren’t they?”

He shakes his head. “No, Declan. This is different. Someone powerful is moving, and no one wants to be caught on the wrong side.”