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thought I left, did you?"
    Vito's voice sounded earnest. Corrado couldn't lie. "Yes."
    "I ain't going nowhere if I can help it," Vito said. "Don't worry, kid."
    Could it be true? Would his father stay?
    "Get up," Vito said. "You're coming with me today."

    Once, the year before, Corrado's teacher at the private academy they attended asked the class a simple question:
    What do your parents do for a living?
    His classmate's answers were predictable—teachers, lawyers, doctors, even a few casino workers. It was close to Vegas, after all.
    "My mother stays home," Corrado said when it was his turn.
    "Your father?" the teacher asked. "Where does he work?"
    "Chicago," he replied.
    "And what does he do there?"
    Corrado stared blankly at the teacher.
    He had no answer for that.
    When he got home from school that day, he'd asked his mother. Her amused laughter filled the house, so intense that it brought tears to her eyes. "You want to know how your father makes his money?"
    "Yes."
    "He does it very carefully."
    "He's careful for a living," he'd later told his teacher. "That's what my mom says, anyway."
    She'd looked at him with pity, like she thought he didn't understand. And he didn't. Not really.
    Katrina had the same assignment. She told the teacher their father was a spy, going undercover on missions that took him away for months at a time. The lady laughed it off, but Corrado wondered if maybe Katrina actually believed it.
    After all, Vito was a secretive man. He never talked business whenever the kids were around. He could've done anything, been anyone, and they'd have never known.
    He could've been James Bond.
    So Corrado was shocked that morning when he stepped out onto the front porch and asked his father where they were going.
    "Work," Vito said.
    Work .
    Corrado climbed into the passenger seat of the Lincoln. His father started the car and shoved an eight-track tape into the player. Frank Sinatra's voice vibrated the speakers, loud and grainy, as Corrado rolled his window down.
    Warm wind blew in Corrado's face, ruffling his dark hair as his father drove toward the highway, singing along to the music. Corrado relaxed back in his seat, a smile ghosting across his lips.
    Despite living in the area his entire short life, Corrado had never been to the heart of Las Vegas before. Eyes peeled to the scenery, he watched in awe as they crept past casinos along the strip—past Sahara, Riviera, and Stardust, past Frontier, Sands, and Caesar's Palace—before stopping when they reached The Fabulous Flamingo. The lights on the tall fluorescent pink sign twinkled as Vito pulled into the parking lot, swinging to a stop right at the front door.
    Vito cut the engine and climbed out of the car. Vito kept his door open, tossing the keys to a man standing along the sidewalk. "Don't scratch the paint."
    "Yes, sir."
    Corrado followed his father, eyes wide with fascination as a man nodded at Vito before opening the door for him. "Mr. Moretti."
    Vito said nothing as he strode inside. The man at the door eyed Corrado curiously, brow furrowing, but he uttered not a word as Corrado followed his father inside the casino.
    Stepping through those doors for the first time was like entering another dimension. The world Corrado grew up in, dull and bordering on downright dreary, ceased to exist as lights and sounds flooded his senses. Vibrant tables and multi-colored slot machines filled the massive room, offset by the pale pink walls and subtle yellow lighting. The clatter of spinning roulette wheels and cranking slot machine arms mixed with the chatter of dozens of people, standing around in groups, clutching buckets of casino chips. Shuttering lights flashed as bells and whistles went off, machines spewing coins so rapidly it startled Corrado.
    They headed through the chaos, straight to a large office down a hallway in the back of the casino. Vito opened the door without knocking, startling an older man sitting behind a desk.
    He jumped to attention,