He texted back a few moments later, Meet you at the Venetian. I’m getting head from a dude.

“Arsehole,” I mumbled, just as Mustache started a new joke.

But the sound of his voice beside me fell silent as a hand wrapped around my shoulder. “Mr. Stella.”

The table and the boisterous crowd went silent. I caught a look of concern on Sara’s face just as I looked up, turning to see a man wearing a dark tailored suit and a very serious expression.

“Yeah, mate?”

He wore an earpiece and an expression that communicated I was meant to take him very bloody seriously. “I’m going to have to ask you and Mr. Ryan to come with me, please.”

“What’s this about?” Bennett asked, laying his cards face down on the table. The crowd broke out into speculating whispers.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it out here on the floor. I’ll ask you once again, gentlemen, to follow me. Now.”

Without further question, we stood, exchanging baffled looks and following the man away from the table. I turned, giving Sara an encouraging smile, mouthing, “It’s fine.”

What, after all, could we possibly have done?

The man in the black suit led us through a service doorway, down a long, empty corridor, and then through an unlabeled door. Inside the stark, white room was a metal table not unlike the one I’d started my evening with, and three metal folding chairs.

“Have a seat.” The man indicated that we each sit in one of the chairs, and then turned to leave.

“What’s going on?” Bennett asked. “We’ve followed you here readily out of courtesy. The least you can do is tell us why you asked us to leave the table.”

“Wait for Hammer.” The man nodded toward the remaining empty chair, and then left.

I settled back into my seat while Bennett stood, pacing for a few quiet minutes before sighing, and sitting down next to me again. He pulled his phone from his pocket and texted something, presumably to Chloe.

“This is a load of shit,” he grumbled.

I made a noise of agreement, but then stopped from saying more when we heard footsteps coming down the hall toward us.

Two guys walked through the door, both sporting dark suits, short-cropped hair, and hands the size of watermelons. Neither man was taller than me, but I had the distinct impression they had more hand-to-hand combat training than did I. Which is to say, some.

They stared at us for what seemed like full, heavy minutes of silence. Assessing. I felt sweat bead at my forehead, wondering if these men were the owners of the limo I’d . . . borrowed for my short romp with Sara. They were definitely either limo drivers or hit men.