A smile broke across his angled, somewhat sallow face, because the feeling was so foreign and absurd and impossible. Like a flower-covered unicorn on a goddamn carousel. For nearly nine years, he’d had nothing to look forward to. Even in the last few months, as the end of his time at MCI-Shirley had neared, there had been no sense of optimism, and no sense in optimism. A guy like him, with no family to speak of, no skills beyond what had gotten him inside in the first place, no money or prospects—what the hell did he have to be optimistic about? What did he have to look forward to on the outside that wasn’t going to get him right back inside?

The elevator doors shut behind him and his heavy work boots sunk into the carpet, each step pushing him forward. He patted the inside pocket of his jean jacket for the hundredth time. Of course, it was still there, stiff and square beneath the denim, wrapped in a plastic sandwich bag for extra security. Nuts, how something so small and mundane could be so valuable. More valuable, in fact, than everything Nick had ever stolen, more valuable than anything he could have stolen in a dozen lifetimes. So valuable, in fact, that it might very well make the nine years he’d spent locked up worthwhile.

Because if he hadn’t been locked up, he’d never have met that damn skinny kid with the mop of red hair and the freckles.

He began searching the doors on either side of the hallway as he went, looking for the right number. It still seemed crazy to him, setting the meet in a place like this. Sure, he liked casinos as much as the next guy, but even at 3:00 a.m. it seemed too high traffic, and there were cameras everywhere. Having a record didn’t get you banned from a casino; half the degenerate gamblers in the country had records, and without the degenerates these places could never afford all those chandeliers. But it seemed sloppy to start this sort of transaction in such a public place. Of course, there was nothing illegal about meeting a guy in a hotel room, showing him something in a little plastic bag, in exchange for a nice fat down payment. But if nine years at MCI-Shirley had taught Nick anything, it was that the less attention you drew to yourself, the better. He’d have been much happier to set the meeting in some bar in Southie.