“I think we’d be straining their tolerance if we won a third spin. I’ll have your share of the winnings sent by your room.” Vengerov idly signaled a worker to count their chips. He glanced between Tom and Neil. “How delightful that we all leave here tonight triumphant. Good evening, Mr. Raines.”

Neither of them were certain who he was addressing, but when he strolled away, silence descended between Tom and Neil like the ominous quiet in the eye of a hurricane.

THE TENSION MOUNTED between them the whole walk to their room, until it was like electricity in the air. Tom’s stomach was churning. He kept thinking of Neil’s reaction to Vengerov.

Neil had acted like that. Neil, who’d bellowed at cops and brawled with them, and even gotten chucked in jail. Who time and again had thrown himself unheeding into situations that messed up both their lives because he never backed down from a fight. . . .

Neil had been cowed by Joseph Vengerov.

Tom couldn’t get his head around to it. Neil hated men like Vengerov. He hated people like the executives Tom had alienated at the meet and greets. Yet tonight, his dad had been face-to-face with the guy who practically embodied the entire police state, the military-industrial-media complex, everything Neil saw as the cancer of the world, and after all that blustering, Neil hadn’t spoken up. He hadn’t done anything.

Tom didn’t understand it. There was this dark, ugly feeling growing inside him. It wasn’t rational and it didn’t make sense, but he felt like his father had punched him or something. He’d always thought Neil got into trouble because he couldn’t help it. But tonight, he’d obeyed Vengerov. He’d controlled himself with Vengerov.

Tom’s head was pulsing violently by the time they were shut back in their hotel room. He stood by the door, every muscle bunched up with tension. He felt like he was at a great remove from his dad, who was pouring a drink with a shaky hand, then swigging it down.

“Do you know the odds of winning roulette twice in a row? Do you know them, Tom?”

Tom did. “I sure was lucky.” His voice was hollow. He didn’t even sound the slightest bit convincing, he knew, but he couldn’t muster the energy for anything more.

“Lucky?” Neil slammed down the glass so hard, most of the liquid sloshed over the side. “That’s not luck, Tom. Even a kleptocrat as rich as Joseph Vengerov doesn’t risk a half million dollars on odds like that! And you were so sure of yourself. He was so sure of you. Explain that to me.”

“No, you explain this to me: he bossed you around and you took it. Does he have something on you?”

Neil’s nostrils flared. He grabbed his drink again, what was left of it.