At one of the topmost levels, Bee was roughly shoved out and towed towards a door. One of the men swiped the pad with his security key and they bodily pushed her inside, snapping it closed with a thud. She then heard it lock with a finality that frightened her. Strangely, the first thought that entered her head was that Gold would set the Bellagio on fire and trap her inside. Of course, the thought was nonsensical. But it didn't stop the claustrophobia that gripped her.

She needn't have worried.

Her new home couldn't have been further from a cave. Spinning around, Bee's hand flew to her mouth, a sickeningly girly gesture she had in vain tried to control. But whenever she was surprised, her jaw would drop and her fingers would cover them. Feet stepping cautiously forward onto the creamy, impeccably shiny marble flooring, she found herself standing in a giant living and dining room.

Persian carpets in chocolate and fawn were spread out on the ground, upon which mahogany furniture rested. Seats were cushioned with silver grey satin covers, the main table had a pristine dinner set, napkins, shiny crockery and tall crystal glasses (one for red or white wine, the other for dessert) surrounding a centre piece of golden lilies in a bed of dried tulips and red roses. There were palm fronds in one corner, behind a semi-circular couch of cream upholstery. On one wall was a cubist painting in autumn colours. Flashes of green art deco vases and fruit bowls caught the eye. A silent flat screen television was embedded into the wall. A granite bench top led to the wet bar, and an open doorway above which a row of fairy lights shone, framed a grand bedroom with peach coloured sheets, mountains of pillows and a mink fur rug of pure white.

She walked as if in a daze, towards the ensuite bathroom. Another mass of marble and glass and wooden linings caught her eye. She was about to step inside when a woman came tottering out and shrieked at the sight of her.

"Oh my God!" the lady cried, her apron askew and hair escaping a low bun in wisps of blonde. She gazed at Bee with wide, doe eyes and seemed to realise who she was. A moan escaped her lips, "Oh no! I'm so sorry, I didn't realise there'd be a guest so soon!"

In alarm, Bee jumped forward and caught the scrub that fell from her soapy fingers as she tried to straighten her clothes. It threatened to dirty the spotless carpet and was already precariously close to dripping. Bee moved passed the maid and placed it beside the toilet where it belonged. The girl flushed puce and hurried inside.

"You don't have to do that," she stammered, "I...I'll just be a minute," she suddenly stood as if someone had jammed a rod up her back, "Unless you want me to leave!" the girl lowered her voice to a more bearable pitch, "Unless you want me to leave, of course, and then...I'll go, I promise. You know what, I think I'll just go."

Bee sat down on the rim of the tub with a raised eyebrow and a disbelieving, though not exactly unkind, expression upon her face. "You won't be able to."

She twirled around, "What? Why?"

"It's locked."

The maid let out a shaky laugh, wiping her hands on her calico, "It opens from the inside."

Bee lifted an arm and waved her out, "By all means. Try."

She gave Bee a fleeting look of panic then hurried out into the foyer, Bee's footsteps following behind. "See? Locked."

"That's not possible!" the maid cried, eyes wide and staring again. "What if there's a fire?"

A laugh escaped her lips as she looked upon the girl, comforted to know she wasn't the only one to leap to such an odd conclusion, "We can always jump off the balcony," she joked with a half-shrug.

The girl looked horrified, her mouth so wide Bee could see her tonsils. "I'm kidding!" She turned away and walked towards said balcony with a shake of her head, and a snappy, "Jesus..."

There was silence for a moment as Bee stared out at the Las Vegas morning skyline. It was nothing magnificent, not like some of the places she'd seen. Not like Australia's skylines, which were much more breathtaking in the daylight, unlike most cities that preferred to shine after dark. She suddenly missed home very much, suddenly felt an ache between her ribs that had nothing to do with the tingling guilt of having beaten a man half to death. No. Bee missed her father, and it physically hurt. Biting her lower lip until she could taste the metal of blood, she refused to allow tears to fall. What if Gold was watching her now?

These big hotels, they had cameras everywhere. With another pang, she realised that everything she had agreed to do with Jeff had fallen to pieces. Never speak in your real voice. They were chameleons, shape shifters, they weren't supposed to belong to one country, or one people. But this morning, she'd most certainly spoken in her real Aussie burr. There, rule number two broken.

Rule number one was of course, run when something goes wrong. All systems to red and then run for your life and the lives of everyone you loved. That all went to hell when she agreed to come back to the Bellagio.

The money, her half of the $30,000, was still hidden in her modest (alarmingly so in comparison to this extravaganza) room at the Flamingo. She had a booking there until next month, another two weeks. They usually didn't stay in one hotel for that long, preferring to hop from one place to another, even if it was around the same city. But it was holiday season, so it wasn't unusual for people to book out a hotel for a month at a time. They'd decided it was better, and since Jeff had Grace for Christmas this year, it was practical to keep in one place instead of move around every four or five days and have the little girl displaced and asking questions.

Thinking of the money shooed away her unshed tears like a tonic.

"I'm sorry," the girl muttered, so quietly and so quickly that Bee almost missed it.

She turned around, realising she must have mistaken the silence for some wrong doing of her own. Other than being slightly hysterical and a little irritating in her scatterbrained actions, the scruffy maid was really quite blameless. "What's your name?"

She lifted her eyes and seemed afraid to speak again. "Ashley."

"Ashley," Bee said, drawing out one of the dining table chairs, motioning her to sit. She said abruptly, "What do you know about Gold?"

Her eyes widened again and she immediately jumped up, fumbling. Bee pulled her down again and stood above her, one hip cocked out to the side and waiting, "Look, I'm not trying to scare you – but you're in some very bad company here," she waved at the space between them, "Why do you think we're locked in? As some kind of punishment because you didn't clean the toilets fast enough?"

She caught sight of budding tears and softened her tone somewhat, dropping back into her own seat when she was sure Ashley wouldn't bolt again. She rubbed her temples with her two thumbs, when an idea came to her.

"Does Gold pay you well?"

"S'alright."

"So, no."

Ashley squirmed, "No...no, Mr von Furstenberg is good to his staff. It's just...last year, I was involved, with another worker."

Bee looked up at her through her fringe of fingers, "So?"

"So," Ashley's voice seemed to get smaller and smaller, "That's against policy. He cut my wages in half to teach me a lesson."

"That was a year ago?" Ashley nodded, Bee thought, "And he's still holding it against you. That man is such a – "

"No," she shook her head, "It's just that. I was away for most of last year. So the cut wasn't in action. I guess I'm making up for that time now."

"Why were you away?" her forehead crinkled.

Ashley stared at her for a long moment then mouthed, "I was pregnant."

"What?" Bee said blankly. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty next month."

Bee groaned, "You've got to be kidding me. He cut the wages of a pregnant teenager? What did he want you to do, abort the baby?"

"I suppose he wanted me to go back in time and not have sex," Ashley said with unexpected candour. Bee looked at her in happy surprise and she flushed. "I mean..."

"It's ok. You don't have to be polite with me. I'm not your usual big-shot client. My ears aren't silk," Ashley giggled quietly. Bee looked at her, really looked at her, "Hey, how badly do you need the money?"

The girl stopped laughing and bit her bottom lip, "I get by."

"So that means, you need it a lot."

She giggled again, "Right. Sean helps, as much as he can. He's the father," she explained, "He works in Yellowtail Japanese. It's one of the restaurants downstairs. But it's not really enough because he's going to college too and he's paying for that mostly..."

Bee put her hands together and clasped them under her chin, she leaned forward towards her companion and said slowly, "If I were to say that...I had a lot of money and that I could pay you to work for me. Would you do it?"

Ashley looked uncomfortable, "What if Mr von Furstenberg finds out? If he's locked you in then that means..."

"He doesn't like me very much, right," she said stiffly. "The feeling's mutual, believe me."

"Where did you get the money?"

"From people who have a lot more than they need," she said cryptically, "Or deserve."

"It's stolen?"

Bee made a face, "You got pregnant at nineteen, don't talk to me about morals."

Ashley twisted her calico apron between her fingers and then said softly, as if she was afraid of someone overhearing, "What do you want me to do?"

"Closed circuit camera feeds don't have sound," Bee said knowingly. Ashley looked up at the ceiling in fear but cleared her throat, ready to speak louder. "I need you to be my eyes and my ears."

"Which means...?"

"Which means that you wander around doing your job and tell me if you hear anything suspicious."

"How do I know what's suspicious or not?"

"Use your instincts."

"I don't really have very good instincts," she said with a grimace. Bee almost rolled her eyes. Of course not, this girl wouldn't know suspicious if it paraded in front of her butt naked.

"Okay, then after each day, when you do the service in this room, you tell me everything you heard and saw."

"I see and hear a lot," she said in confusion.

"Exactly."

She looked at Bee up through lowered lashes, silent for a long while. Then, whispering again, half in awe and half in fright, "What did you do to him?"

At the look on Bee's face, she quickly apologised and stood up, playing around with her cart of cleaning gear.

"Ashley," she said not looking at the girl, "I will pay you $50 a day and if you deliver something particularly useful, that'll be a bonus of an extra $50."

Ashley stopped fussing, her mouth gaping again, and asked hopefully, breathlessly, "How long will you be staying?"

"I don't know. But if he wanted me for just one day he'd have sat me in a conference room. By the looks of it," she gestured at the suite, "I'll be here for awhile." Fixing Ashley with a new and electric glare, she said firmly, "If anyone asks you what we talk about, you tell them I'm asking you about the history of the Bellagio, and that you feel I'm trying to pressure you into getting security codes."

"But I don't have access to those."

Bee stopped her condescending laugh again, "That's the point, kid. It's my futile attempt. I don't suspect Gold will let me out of here for awhile, so we won't bother correlating stories. Oh, and if anyone notices that you're getting extra money, say it's a government welfare grant and you've finally lowered your pride enough to ask for some help."

Ashley turned red. Bee looked in amusement at her discomfort, knowing she had struck a cord. Bee wasn't anything if not perceptive. She knew this was a desperate soul, needing money but too high and almighty to ask for help, choosing instead to work for what was probably an illegally minimal wage do laborious work for snotty elitists who could afford to stay in the hotel's most lavish rooms. Ashley was punishing herself.

"Yes," she said quietly, "That's a good idea."

Bee hummed in agreement and slowly began to explore the rest of her apartment, picking up a few coffee table books and flipping through them with interest. She took a glass off the table and poured herself a rich vintage red from the selection in her bar. Swirling it around and picking one of the volumes to distract herself with, she collapsed onto the couch rather inelegantly.

Ashley soon moved away, returning to her work in the bathroom. After what may have been an hour, the front door finally clicked open. Bee sensed it before she heard it and immediately jumped up from where her legs had been curled under her. She wished she had a gun. Instead, moving to the granite counter, she picked up a mint green glass vase and would use it as a bludgeon if she needed.

The door swung open with nary a creak and she was faced with the distasteful sight of Gold himself. He had changed suits, a brown suede number adorned his thin shoulders. He was flanked by two men, who immediately reached for their side arms at the sight of her makeshift weapon. She lowered it carefully, the fingers of her empty hand splayed wide to show her surrender.

"Who did you think it was, dearie?" he said with that Scottish drawl, stepping inside and looking around. "Assassins?"

She ignored him and stepped into the bedroom, "Ashley, you can go now."

The cart was wheeled out with some relief, but at the sight of the three men, two large and foreboding – Gold being small but equally ominous – she stopped dead. As a leaf in the wind, she became to tremble. Bee laid a rough hand in the small of her back and pushed her forward.

"Get out, girl," Gold added an extra shove with the end of his cane and a sadistic smile spread across his face as she shrieked and scurried away. Bee was sorry to see her go. Out of this room, who knew what she'd tell people. She prayed that the maid would keep her tongue. "Now. Our very own madam, herself. How have you enjoyed my amenities?"

"Your doors are sturdy. They're impossible to break, no matter how strong my shoulder. It's like a dungeon."

"Now that's a little unfair. This is one of my best suites. Much better than that hovel down the road, by the way," he held up her bundle of cash and threw it. Bee caught it in reflex more than thought, her mind too shaken with the idea that he knew where she'd been staying. "Interesting hiding place, behind the mini bar."

Then, without preamble, he lowered himself onto the couch, looking at the book she had been reading, a photographic history of his hotel, and stated, "You will work the casino floor every night. You will find those who mean to cheat me, and cheat them of their money in turn. You will give me this money you earn and I will pay you 30%."

"Right," she purred menacingly.

"And you will fetch me the cheaters and beat them to death with my cane."

Bee dropped her glass of wine. She looked down with a jolt.

"Oh fuck." The vessel hadn't shattered, having landed on the rug, but its contents had spread a dark stain across the fibres. A husky groan escaped her and she picked up the stem and looked at the bowl of the glass, a jaggard crack ran down one side from where the rim had chipped. After the initial horror at the unsightly mess faded, a bright spark of mischief sprung to her eyes and blushing cheek, "Please tell me I'm now on probation and must be sent home in disgrace, sir."

Gold eyed her curiously, an unreadable expression upon his face. "No."

"Worth a try," she laughed, placing the broken thing on the coffee table before him and turning to the two security guards with her hands on her hips, "There are tea towels behind the bar, and sinks in the bathrooms through there." At their looks of simultaneous confusion, she lifted her arms and shoved both in the chest with a flat palm, "Come on. I'm not going to take out my non-existent gun and shoot your boss. Go make yourself useful and clean up this mess."

"You order around my men like dogs," Gold said softly.

"That displeases you, sir?" she said with an innocent smile, picking up the yellow manila folder he had placed beside the glass.

"Not at all, on the contrary, my dear, it entertains me greatly."

She threw him a questioning glance and then proceeded to look through the dossier. She picked up a flawless passport, "What kind of businessman are you?"

"A resourceful one."

"You're giving me a new identity," she flipped a driver's license effortlessly over her knuckles and glanced up at him through her eyelashes, before eagerly turning to the next piece of documentation. "Isabelle Gallium. Oh." She quickly replaced the folder and sat facing him with a carefully neutral gaze. "So you know my real name."

"How do you figure?"

"Gallium?" she pointed at the ID, "That was rather obvious. And you kept Belle."

"I think it suits you," he said, also keeping his tone carefully neutral. "Madam Belle, would you mind being Miss Gallium for a night or two?"

Her eyebrows quickly disappeared into her hairline, "You went to all the trouble of creating this calibre of dossier and you only want me to use it twice?"

Gold narrowed his eyes and peered into hers, "Ah, madam, it is not safe to be repeating these aliases anymore. That was your greatest weakness, using the same rotation of names for so many years. It made your trail traceable."

She threw her shoulders back and attempted to gather her pride again, "Unlike you. I don't have the resources to make up whole portfolios of new identities every couple of days. I had to make do with what I had."

"And indeed, you've done remarkably well," he said. Then almost as if realising he was complimenting her, he added, "For someone of your standard."

She bristled.

He seemed satisfied at her response, "You will step out onto the floor tonight, from seven until one. You will catch any scams or cons and report them through one of the lovely men who will see to it that you do not try to escape."

"What about the eyes in the sky?" she asked, both bitter and curious. Those cameras, and the teams of professionals who manned them, were famously known to catch almost every cheat in the history of the games.

"I've spent many years in the business, Miss French, 99% of people we catch with the cameras, it's true. But it's the 1% we never catch that are the most dangerous. They are the ones who run off with most of my cash. They are the ones that have eluded me for more than a decade," he said wistfully, "And the faster technology tries to catch up, the smarter they play. I need someone patrolling the grounds who's more than just muscle, my dear."

She stared at him for a long time. "Why do you still call me French when you know my real name?"

He rubbed a hand over the handle of his cane, standing up with some effort, "I suppose I've just known you as Miss French for too long. That was the name you used the first time – "

Gold caught himself halfway through his words and turned away. Bee frowned at the curve of his lips, almost as if he was sucking a lemon. "The first time you stole from me."

Rising with him, still warily watching his expression, she was suddenly caught by an obvious question, "How did you know I had conned you?"

He chuckled. "You made an elementary mistake, dearie. A mistake, I'm certain, even if I told you what it was, you would never be able to remedy. It is in your nature to make such a mistake as this."

Bee felt utterly insulted. Her hands balled into fists and she was only stopped from bodily assaulting him by his two men who took that time to stand from their hands and knees, depositing soiled tea towels on her counter and stalk away with their master.

"I will see you tonight, madam," he called from the foyer, she still standing in tormented fury, half wanting to kill him now and be done with it, half needing him alive to tell her exactly where she and Jeff had messed up. What did he mean, it was in her nature to make this mistake? Infuriating man!

With agonising gasps, she finally allowed herself to recline back into the couch. The ugly stain now dulled and pinkish in colour. She smirked, he'd have to buy a new rug. That gave her a childish pleasure. It was only when Bee moved forward to pick up her book again that she noticed her broken glass was missing.

OOO

Gold heard his own cane echo down the marble corridor of The Wynn's events floor. Much preferring this hotel's modern designs to Bellagio's heavy Italian decor, he always stayed here instead of his iconic resort. Owner of both Wynn & Encore and Bellagio, he was by far the wealthiest man on the Strip and with the amount of casino revenue that he didn't cash in to the pesky IRS, probably the wealthiest man in the United States.

Illegally wealthy, but wealthy nonetheless.

Despite the money he could place to his name, Gold was undone. His steps were uneven, hurried, panicked, as he rounded the corner to the start of the Fairway villas. Here there was a single metal door that appeared to be a staff entrance. Most of his snobbish guests probably didn't glance twice at what they assumed was a maid's staircase.

Typing in a five-digit number, the bulky portal opened at the push of his cane. It sealed shut once he'd slipped inside and revealed a looming doorway. Intricately carved limestone with twisting vines and fleur de lis framed a piece of oak, iron and black glass. It was a gothic double door, with lizards hissing and peacocks displaying their feathers in war instead of mateship. Trump flowers opened their petals to gape at the intruder, like Venus flytraps instead of bluebells. The design was so overwhelming, an eyesore of metal and woodwork that at first, it made the tiny keyhole difficult to distinguish.

Gold's stiff fingers fumbled inside his coat pockets. They brushed against the cool of the wine glass and began to tremble. With a rattle, he withdrew a bundle of car keys, safe keys, maintenance keys and all other sorts. None would fit the delicate antique keyhole.

Instead, he gripped the key ring, a custom Tiffany and Co. product of engraved gold and auburn crocodile leather in the shape of a cylindrical match lighter. As he unscrewed the top with unsteady twists, instead of taking out a striking rod, thin as a match stick to put to the flint of the lighter, he slowly, gently, retrieved a skeleton key no longer than his forefinger.

The scrolling metalwork was so delicate it seemed as if it would simply snap between the rough skin of his tips. At one end was the square piece that would fit perfectly into his door, the other was a large rosette, an image of indecipherable design at first glance. But after several moments, the twisting and coiling seemed to clear. One could see a crown at the top, sitting above what seemed to be a bell jar. And inside, in impossibly tiny swirls, was a single rose. If he blinked, the image would disappear back into the rest of the loops and curls.

Breathing harder than ever, knowing that even wire cutters wouldn't break its iron beam, Gold stuck the tiny thing into the hole and allowed it to swing the door open – its size belying the strength of its form.

The mansion that was unveiled meant nothing to Gold's glazed eyes. He stumbled into a maroon chair in front of an electrical fireplace and ran a thumb over the chipped rim of his wine glass. Closing his eyes with a groan, he threw his head back.

This was all a huge mistake.

Who was he to think that he would be able to handle her presence? The way she had run her lower lip over the glass, tongue darting out to lap at the juice, then as it dropped from her fingers, the way she had sworn, and that husky moan as she observed her ruin. Gold inhaled deeply, his chest heaving as a flood of memories, both painfully new and old, rushed forth. Did she remember as clearly as he did? This Jefferson fellow, what was he to her?

Angry at the thought of the stuffy figure who accompanied all of her heists, Gold gripped the glass tighter, uncaring as the broken shard bled him. Then at the thought of her teasing eyes as she asked for 'probation' or the way she'd shoved his brawniest hoons without even a dash of fear, his anger dissipated into another sigh.

If there had been another girl to do the job, he'd have hired her. But no, it just so happened that the only person who had even a chance at succeeding was Belle. His mind whispered the name, stubborn in his refusal to believe she had any other name than that. Of course, he knew 'Belle' was just another alias, but somehow, when his HR guy Hopper had passed him the file, her legal designation seemed incongruous.

She was Belle. Simple, final.

OOO

It was late afternoon when there came a knock on her door. Unfurling herself with an indulgent stretch, Bee pulled on one of the fluffy robes and reluctantly exited the toasty covers of her bed. The knock was repeated once more.

"Patience," she called, taking the time to nibble a pistachio flavoured macaroon from the selection she'd discovered behind the bar. Her mouth now full of sugar and pastry, she strolled barefooted across the chilly marble and stood up on her tip toes to peek through the hole.

It was with surprise that she saw Mary Margaret. She made to open the door, only to find it locked. She rattled the door knob violently back and forth and sent a curse down to Gold. Oh right, she'd forgotten, she was still a prisoner.

The sound of a card being swiped then the soft beep of the lock clicking open made her eyes wide.

"Why didn't you just walk in?" she asked as the woman took two steps inside.

"I was being polite," she said quietly, averting her eyes from Bee's form. Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled the sides of the robes closed around her and cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"So," she said, leading her inside, feeling foolish pretending to actually own the place. They both knew who had the keys. "You're in on it too."

"Are you shocked?" Mary Margaret asked, her light green eyes wide and questioning. It didn't seem mocking or patronising or malicious in intent. The lack of fire in this woman was unnerving. It disarmed her and made her own sarcastic quips, cocky hip sways and flashing eyes seem garishly obnoxious and overtly obvious.

"Not exactly," Bee finally acknowledged, "Not after seeing David."

Finally the guilt of having attacked him settled upon her. The very real expression of pain in the woman's eyes left her feeling like she'd just been reprimanded by a teacher. Yet, without a word of reproach, though she was fully entitled to say something and remind Bee that Mary Margaret was the one with the key card, she handed over a coat hanger. Her toppling pile of shoe boxes was placed on the floor.

Taking it in uncertain silence, Bee unzipped the bag a fraction and spied a dress beneath the plastic. "What's this?" she said, suddenly on defence.

"Mr von Furstenberg wishes that this will be your attire tonight," she said, facing Bee's horrified expression with calm. "He knows you bought no change of clothing with you."

"So this is," she waved at the bag in distaste, "charity?"

Mary Margaret gave her an almost pitying smile, "Why don't you see it as a uniform?"

Bee threw her a withering look in reply. The woman didn't even flinch. After several more moments of holding her gaze and feeling increasingly ashamed of her own emotions, she finally looked back at the hanger and bag. Slowly zipping it down, she found herself frowning in confusion at the dress that was revealed. For one, it was very long. Much longer than would be convenient to navigate a packed casino floor in. And another, it was black. And green.

And scaly.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

Mary Margaret came in for a closer look, having apparently not peeked inside. The woman was a saint. "I think it's crocodile skin."

"Crocodile?"

"Alligator," she grinned, patting down her own dress. "Same as this."

Bee glanced at her clothing for the first time. She wore a simple, sleeveless heavy dress. It fell straight down, accenting none of the curves that Bee supposed existed underneath, and landed mid-thigh. At that length, it should have seemed revealing, but either because the dress was pure white crocodile leather (almost angelic despite the scales), or because Mary Margaret wore stockings, it seemed unfashionably modest. At closer inspection, it was obvious that she wore neither make-up nor jewellery. Bee found herself frowning again, and forced her gaze away. Who was this woman?

"I'm supposed to stay and report that it fits," she commented, lifting up the bag in a sweep of her arms and offering it like a baby.

Bee took the thing in ginger fingers and awkwardly manoeuvred it towards the bedroom door while trying not to turn her back on her guest. It was hard to consider her an intruder while she stood there with an encouraging smile, hands folded perfectly demurely before her.

Closing the door, she dropped the dress and lifted it out. Bee somehow managed to step into it and made all the pieces fit. The reptilian skin was surprisingly soft and seemed so thin that she was afraid it would rip. A hard bodice held it in place around her middle but then fell from her hips downwards, moulding over her legs and ankles, pooling a little on the floor. It was strapless, but large, angular strips of material protruded over the neckline like an echo of a beauty pageant sash. With a thin smile, she noticed two pairs of green-tinted transparent gloves and pulled them on, finding that they rode almost up to her armpits.

Fumbling around in the empty dress bag, she found a matching green clutch of the same rough, but soft, material. Its bejewelled clasp glittered in the fading light. Walking to flick on the lamps, she opened the bag and made a sound of surprise. Inside was a piece of paper, folded neatly in half.

She smoothed it open and ran a thumb over the elegant 'B' of the Bellagio monogram, embossed in rose gold. Below it was written, in a twisting script, words in black ink.

The price of this dress is more than you ever stole off me. –G.

The paper crumpled in her fist. She practically tore the zipper off its rails, ripping the thing from her skin and hurried to find its hanging tag. Eyes bulging, she swallowed repeatedly, staring at the eagle insignia and handwritten note beside the price.

$850,000

It is my hope that this creation is to your liking, Mr von Furstenberg.

Your lady will mesmerise.

Yours, Giorgio Armani.

There was a knock on her door. Bee's head snapped up and she called for Mary Margaret to enter. The lady stayed by the doorway, worry lining her brow. She was balancing the three shoe boxes in her arms and placed them as deep into the room as she dared venture. Bee wondered at her hurried exit and apologies until she remembered that she was as good as naked, with nothing but the shocking dress clutched to her in outrage more than modesty.

After her frenzied disrobing, she was sure that despite appearances, the crocodile skin was sturdy and supple enough to undergo extreme manhandling. So Bee balled her handful of fabric and threw it aside with a furious yell.

Gold! That man was unbelievable! His smug insult was smeared all over the dress, and the shoes she now hunched over, throwing aside the petal-thin sheets of paper that cushioned the edgy heeled travesties she held in her hands. He was rubbing it in her face; just how much she really was at his mercy. Just how badly she had screwed up.

He knew exactly how much money she'd taken from him. That one question gnawed at her: why hadn't he stopped her after he found out? Why didn't he do, or say, something? She, who prided herself on knowing the true nature's of others, found herself at a loss with such a simple question – such a basic question.

What did he want?

Gold was literally throwing his money at her. He'd predicted she and Jeff would hit the Bellagio again and had even ordered a custom-made haute couture dress, just waiting for her. He'd planned to ensnare her. He'd had his people stationed on the floor. David. Leroy. And how many others?

And she had been oblivious. Oblivious!

What a horrendous lack of foresight. What a devastating err of judgement.

If he knew how much money she'd stolen, then he had records. If he had records, then that was evidence. If there was evidence, she could find herself behind bars with a bail of $2 million or more for her crimes.

Gold could destroy her.

Why hadn't he? Why didn't he? Why continue to torment her, holding it over her head? And if he had those records, he could destroy Jeff too. What about Grace?

Bee screamed into the pillows, found herself still needing release and with perfect technique, landed a right cross punch. Straight into the wall.

The scream of anger and pain and exhaustion may have been her own, she wasn't sure. It sounded distant, as she fell to the floor beside the bed's headboard, finding two small hands come from behind and grab her shoulders. The blood was rushing in her ears and she had to blink several times before she heard what Mary Margaret was saying.

"You're bleeding," she pointed to Bee's right knuckles. They were bleeding, yes. Ghastly blue and purple bruises were already spreading, the skin was scraped and peeling. She was lifted to her feet and squirmed uncomfortably out of the other woman's grasp to peer at the indent in the wall. With satisfaction, she saw that it was permanently damaged.

A soiled rug. A battered wall.

She was on a roll. And it hadn't even been 24 hours.

"Are you alright?"

Mary Margaret's infuriatingly calm tones set her off again. Bee pushed past the petit woman, who, though taller, was thinner. She cared nought that she was still topless, but leaped over the giant bed to the cordless hotel phone. She waited, grinding her teeth, as it rung.

"Hello, this is Bellagio concierge, how can I help you?"

"Gold," she heard herself saying with steely edge.

"I'm...I'm sorry," the woman, Ruby, if Bee recalled correctly, stammered. "Mr von Furstenberg isn't available at the moment. If you like I can ask him – "

"Get. Him. Now."

"I'm sorry," she cried, "Mr von Furstenberg is in a meeting at the moment – "

"Then go into the meeting and drag him out!" she said, pausing between each word with deliberate menace. "Understood?"

"That's not possible, ma'am! If you'd call back – "

Bee threw the phone across the room and rounded on Mary Margaret. "Give me the card."

The woman widened her eyes and took several hurried steps back.

"Mary Margaret," she said with forced calm, "Give me the key card. I'm not going to hurt you."

She looked unconvinced. Bee guessed that with her flaring nostrils and heaving breasts, she hardly seemed in control of herself. The woman made to run out of the room and Bee sprung up, quickly blocking her exit. Her hand was outstretched and demanding. "Mary Margaret..."

The woman decided to try and duck under her arm. She was small, yes, but hardly nimble and Bee had her in a head grip in an instant. She breathed against her neck, patting the woman down in search for the precious key, "I told you I didn't want to hurt you. If you only...gave...me...God dammit where's the card?"

Mary Margaret's hand twitched and Bee immediately grabbed it with her own free one, digging her nails into the woman's nail beds and scraping. She shrieked in pain and dropped the card. Bee dived and retrieved it, in the same moment, had grabbed her discarded robe and was bolting across her foyer to the front door. With some hesitation, she locked it from the outside, just as Mary Margaret came to her senses and tried to join her out in the corridor.

Running to the elevator, she rode it down to the lobby, rushing from it in her hurry and earning several horrified yelps from the tourists she bowled over. Her hands smacked on the concierge desk before the rest of her body caught up. Ruby screamed and backed away.

"Tell me where he is."

Her hand shook and she seemed to be reaching for something behind the counter.

"Oh no you don't," she leaned over and caught the woman's wrist, stopping her from calling security. "I'm not going to report you or anything. Just tell me where he is."

She seemed to have gone into shock, her whites showing as the rims of her heavily lined eyes were stretched, staring at Bee like she was a ghost. She shook the wrist she had a hold of, "Ruby!"

The girl was jolted back into reality and looked sidelong at the other concierge worker. Bee gave the man a dashing smile, "Look sir, I'm a penthouse resident. You don't want to upset me, believe me, you do not." At her final word, she looked back at Ruby, her colleague uncertain and hesitating to call security on someone who was apparently paying more than his life savings to stay at their hotel.

He moved over and muttered, "Do as she says, Ruby, people are looking."

"Yeah, listen to – "

"Peter."

"Right. Peter," she beamed at him again, "Remind me to tip you next time I come down. I've got $25,000 just lying around upstairs." She looked expectantly at Ruby, "So?"

Biting her bottom lip and making a gargled sound somewhere between a sob and a beg, she said, "He's in the Renaissance room."

"And where's that?"

She gave halting instructions before Bee finally released her. The girl tottered backwards and into Peter, sobbing into his shoulder. She rolled her eyes, "Now if you had just told me over the phone. We could have saved each other this...unpleasantness."

Rushing into the Renaissance foyer, she didn't see the sculpted trees or beautiful architecture. Looking around at the multiple meeting rooms with their not-so-original names, she finally spotted Leroy outside 'Da Vinci 1.'

"Let me in."

He simply stared her down, arms crossed firmly and firearm very obviously visible. Bee sighed, brushed a hand through her hair and very purposefully gave him an eyeful of her bare chest. He only glanced down for a second, but a second of distraction was all it took. Bee yanked the gun from his holster and pointed it squarely at his head.

"Let me in."

She kept the gun trained on him until she had backed into the room, finally happy to have a weapon at her disposal. Demanding him to pull the door shut, he did so, sucking in his cheeks to stop a barrage of curses being hurled her way. She cocked an eyebrow at him, then jumped forward and locked the door as it clicked shut.

Swinging around, she found herself facing a half-full room of staring men and women. Four long tables had been placed in a square, the middle bare except of a large, terracotta vase that sat minimalistically empty. Bee walked forward, the gun held lightly in her hand. She looked from face to face. There was David, with his two bruisers, bandaged head and bleeding lips and chin. His expression was so distorted by the swelling that she didn't bother trying to decrypt it. Beside him was a man much older, with a balding head and small eyes that were drilling into her. She moved on, there was another man, bespectacled with red hair and a perspiring upper lip. He had a pen suspended in midair and was openly gaping.

Before she could complete her observations, her eyes were involuntarily drawn to the head of hair nearest to her. Long, unruly and brown, sitting on a slender neck and shoulders, covered by the brown suede she'd seen him in earlier that day. The cane was resting casually against the table beside his right leg. Of course, Bee recalled, the right side was the weakness.

"Madam Belle."

"I am not wearing your fucking dress."

"However did you happen to get in here?"

"I escaped."

He turned his head around, blinking profusely with a practiced expression of innocence. "Actually, I think half-escaped."

"What?" she stalked forward towards his chair.

"Half-escaped, dearie," he turned quickly back around and spoke away from her, "You're out of your room. Why not run? Why not chase that freedom you so desire, hmmm?"

She stopped in her tracks, the question took her off guard. With a horrible feeling of asphyxiation, she realised that he spoke truths. Why hadn't she just run? She'd gone from one cage and walked straight into another – Gold and his Evil Council of Evil. She wanted to bang her head against the cream coloured walls. Wow, the Bellagio really enjoyed cream. So many shades of cream and peach and brown and fawn, everywhere. She wanted to shoot something, just to see a little red.

"I told you M and M couldn't be trusted," came a silky smooth voice.

Regina.

In a red blazer, with redder lips, she turned an impassive face on Bee, looking as if her armed intrusion was nothing but a slight discomfort on a hot day. An itch. Bee now felt the overwhelming urge to bang Regina's head against the wall. Her fingers tightened around Leroy's gun. She sure as hell didn't look like a simple cocktail waitress.

It hit her with a force. Gold's taunting words from earlier. The mistake. The mistake that led to all of this. Regina. Of course, it was so obvious now. How else had Gold caught her and Jeff when dozens of casinos all over the world had failed? Regina. Regina, Jeff's usual cocktail waitress. They'd let her in on a little part of their heist. The last, and only other time, they raided the Bellagio, almost six years ago now. She'd played her part, earned her share of the cash, and promised to keep silent.

They hadn't let her in on everything. But, Bee gritted her teeth, it seemed that even that little titbit they'd thrown her had seemed enough to crucify them. Regina had seemed so desperate, saying over and over that she was in debt because she couldn't afford the funeral costs of her fiancé. Saying that she'd been looking into working at one of the brothels in the towns a few stops over to finance it. She'd just needed a little money to keep her afloat. Just a little, because Gold was a crappy boss and didn't pay like he should have.

They had trusted her.

Bee almost shot the liar then and there.

"Ah..." Gold sang, "And the rosy glasses come off. Do you see your mistake now, my dear? Trust has no place in the con-man's repertoire."

He still wasn't looking at her. She wanted him to look at her. Walking over until she was well in his eye line, she folded her arms and sat side saddled upon the tablecloth. It was only then that she realised her robe hadn't been very good at keeping her covered. Too angry to feel ashamed, Bee simply adjusted her scant garments and wondered if that was why he'd turned away so very quickly at the sight of her.

The thought almost made her laugh. Gold afraid of a little flesh. It was so preposterous when she was beyond certain that he was the type that frequented the kind of places Regina had pretended to work at. Memory of some of his mannerisms were returning to her, like the expression of careful indifference on his face that she knew was hiding squirming innards. She almost let the collar of her robe fall open again.

"You knew after Regina told you, and here I was thinking you'd actually watched the cameras and figured it out. I overestimated you."

He finally met her eye, "And I, you. I admit, I thought you had brains enough to take your window of opportunity and bolt. Apparently not," he leaned towards her and gave her that toothy grin, "You came back to me."

Despising the possession in his voice, it was all she could do to restrain herself from spitting on his face. Leaning in to match him, she said softly, "You know what I find interesting, Gold? Why you bothered to spend any time on me at all when you have always made it perfectly clear that I am worth no more to you that the dirt on the bottom of your shoe. Why bother giving me a suite? Why bother at all? To you, I am, and have always been, just a means to an end. For such a," she glanced down at his pants, "big...and important man, well, I'm sure you had many more big and important things to do. After all, I'm the girl who didn't even manage to steal enough money to buy a dress."

She glared, putting as much force behind it as possible, hoping to burn him to his core. It may have been her imagination, but Bee could swear she saw him waver as she'd spoken, soft and condescending and fluttering her eyelashes at the appropriate moments.

"I see I've struck a cord with dear Giorgio's work," he said quietly.

Her gaze dropped. It all came back; that it was her fault for pulling Jeff and Grace into this cage with her, her fault that they now all had Gold's evidence dangling over them. It hit her double, knowing that not fifteen minutes ago, she could have run out those front doors, hailed a cab and flown off to Timbuktu.

Hiding her wavering voice, she swallowed heavily, "I won't wear it."

Gold opened his hands palms up, "Why not? It's beautiful, surely?" Bee looked at the whites of his knuckles slowly disappear. Had he been clasping his hands that tightly? "I haven't seen it but Giorgio always delivers."

"It's crocodile."

"You wear leather Miss French?" he made an inquiring sound, "Do you suppose the cows are less worthy than the crocodiles that their hides are less offensive to strip and tan? That's rather undemocratic of you."

"Let's not talk about democracy," she managed to laugh without mirth.

He watched her lips curve and fade, "Yes you're right. If there was any justice in this world, I'd have turned you in to the authorities already."

There it was. He'd said it. The chandelier was literally an inch above her head, she could feel it about to crash. Unfolding her arms and getting the gun into a better position to grip, she rubbed the fingers of her left hand carefully along the barrel and felt the coolness of its metal calm her burning flesh. She was glad it was a faint flush of adrenaline, not the heat from blushes. She could not bear to blush in front of Gold. That would be a whole new level of torture.

"Why aren't you turning me in?" she found herself saying to the gun, looking down at its dull surface and surprised to hear the angst in her own voice. "You didn't even bother to look at the million dollar dress you made me. Obviously, it's not a case of making me work back the money I took."

Bee looked up and waited until she had forced him to hold her gaze. "Of what value do I have to you? Why am I here? Why am I not in a courtroom, or talking to the IRS or the NGCB? And don't give me that bullshit about needing a man on the floor. You already have Leroy, David, Mary Margaret, and Regina, as I now realise."

He had his mouth in a tight, firm line.

She waited for a reply, when none was forthcoming, she threw her head back and said in exasperation, "What you do want?"

"I want a caretaker."

She shook her head in confusion, "A what?"

"A caretaker, dearie," he repeated, sounding suddenly much more at ease, he brought his fingertips together and looked at her over them, "For my rather large contingent of floor staff."

Nodding over to the door, she narrowed her eyes, "Isn't that what your henchman's for? The pit boss of all pit bosses?"

"Leroy is commander of my personal security team," he saw her befuddled eyebrows, "Except in very special circumstances, of course. Last night, for example, when we went in for the swoop and catch."

She stuck out her bottom lip in silent protest at the way he made her sound like small fry. "A caretaker?," she repeated glumly. "To oversee all your floor staff?"

He looked amusedly at the rest of the group, and gestured to their sullen faces with a sweeping hand, "You have hit it right on the nail, my dear madam. I need a professional thief to help guide the rest of the flock on my new mission."

Bee turned an eye on the 'rest of the flock.' Regina wasn't even bothering to hide her look of contempt and even through David's blotchiness, she could make out his unhappiness. She gestured to them, "So um...did you, uh, bother to tell your flock about this plan. Or was it more of an impromptu kind of thing because you didn't want to answer my questions properly?"

Gold laughed that breathy laugh of his, "My, my, that sharp tongue's going to get you into trouble one day."

He turned away, very obviously dismissing her. Not content to be swept under the rug, she spoke to the group, "Which one of you geniuses figured out all my personal details? My birth certificate, that I was staying at the Flamingo, my private number..."

The one in question did not volunteer himself, nor even look at her, but since every other person around the tables looked at him, Bee didn't take long to figure out it was the freckled (and now beet-red blushing) man in the middle.

"Hi," she waved, trying to catch his eye, he looked up and quickly glanced away, "Mr Profiler, I just have to mention that I've spent more years conning than I've spent at high school. I hope, for your sake, that you know exactly what you've advised Gold to do."

The red head looked at her in confusion.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she pushed, "Who told him that I'm his only option for this 'mission'?"

"Oh well," he tugged at his collar at her incessant staring, "Yes...yes, that was me."

"I thought so," she turned her eyes upon his boss, "I didn't think Gold would ever ask for me, even if we were the last two people on the face of this earth. You must have been very convincing."

Gold was seething, "Likewise, I thought you smart enough not to coming knocking on my front door. You did steal money off me, dearie, I hardly threw myself at your feet."

"But Mr Profiler," she called to the redhead without taking her eyes off her adversary, "Does he, or does he not, need my help?"

"Your services are required temporarily," Gold hissed.

"Just like old times."

There was a beat missed. His eyes widened and narrowed all at the same time, pupils disappearing in the violent fury that consumed the room. The very air seemed to shimmer with his anger. Bee almost backed down, afraid that his hands, so near, would grab and break her. She'd experience how strong, and clever, those fingers could be. The thought made her quiver and flush but biting the inside of her cheeks, she held him there, daring him to lay a hand on her. Daring him to try.

Gold waved in the direction of the door, an obvious effort to remain cordial in the tightness of his jaw, "If you please?"

She wanted to leave, wanted to simply fly out of the room and hide. Only once before had she seen him as angry, and that time, so long ago it was only a blurred recollection of words and heat, he had not hesitated to strike her. He'd broken her then. He could just as easily now. So rarely was he completely, entirely angry with no hint of condescension, or ridicule or gloating, or even vengeance and loathing.

Continuing to stubbornly keep her place, she saw that he did not hate her, if that was any consolation. No, Bee thought, if she was shoved against a wall and shot that wouldn't be much consolation at all.

"I'm serious when I say I'm not parading around your casino looking like a lizard."

He blinked. It was as if a blank sheet had dropped, like a passionate scene upon a stage was suddenly blocked from the audience's prying eyes by thick red curtains. The room appeared to lift, a unanimous breath of relief indrawn, or perhaps it was simply her own lungs that expired her frozen breath and restarted.

Gold flicked a couple of papers and wiggled some fingers at her, "Then by all means, show up naked."

Hardly daring to hope that she had escaped unscathed, Bee dismounted from her perch and walked towards the door with as much pride as she could muster. Her steps lacked rhythm and seemed jerky and off balance even to her own ringing ears. But he hasn't hurt you, she said to herself. A flash of screaming and thrashing and the taste of bile and salt in her throat blanketed her. Bee was both repulsed and relieved, so relieved her heart would burst from her chest if it thumped any harder.

He hadn't hurt her.

"Oh and Miss French?" Gold's bitterly cold voice called, "All security are now aware of your circumstances and will not hesitate to detain you should you seek to exit the premises. If you wanted to run, it seems you've missed your chance. Good day, and good bye."

Frozen, with her back to the room, Bee made a sour face and roughly shoved through the door, sprinting all the way back to her suite. Mary Margaret was nowhere to be found, probably called security to let her out. Walking back into the wreck that was her room, she threw the scaled dress into her empty armoire and opened the bathroom door to splash water upon her face.

Coming to a dead stop in the doorway, she glimpsed the mirror and planted her heels into the ground. Above the sink, scrawled in what she supposed was lipstick, were giant red words:

GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN

Edging carefully forward, glad she'd not let go of Leroy's Beretta, she spied the tube used to paint the glass and peered at it. There were no fingerprints, so she gingerly handled the tiny thing with its broken and flattened tip. She surprised herself at how much it shook, balanced there between her finger and thumb. It was an expensive brand, and she looked at the bottom of the small cylinder: Cherry.

A shiver ran down her spine and Bee glanced around the pristine bathroom and out into the messed room. She realised with a sickening jolt that with the hotel phone smashed against the wall and her own Blackberry hidden in her room in the Flamingo, the numbers on its contact list too confidential to risk when she'd met Gold that morning, she had no line of contact with the outside world.

Suddenly afraid of what unwelcome surprises a suite this size could hold, Bee hurried to pull on the clothes she'd arrived in and flew out the door, down the elevator into the throngs of people. The Christmas decor greeted her, its red and gold and green sparkles should have danced before her eyes – but all Bee could see were the big letters smeared across her bathroom mirror. The goose bumps stood proud and tall upon her pallid skin.

Trying and failing to shake the image from under her, she joined the other guests, with their flashing cameras and laughter and general good cheer. The soaring domed ceiling of Via Bellagio greeted her, yet even its height and size could not stop Bee from sensing that their shapes appeared like bird cages, holding in the shoppers instead of setting them free. The glass was striped in such a way that they seemed like menacing bars, giving a peek at the blue sky and free air above but feeling nothing, not even the slightest breeze, trapped as she was inside the vast resort.

Bee, for the first time since she'd voluntarily stepped into this hell, wanted to cry.

She'd gate crashed Gold's meeting to push him. That much she could admit. All she had wanted to do was make a stand and prove that she wouldn't' sit tight while he locked her in his finery, dressed her up like a puppet and ordered her to move where he wanted and speak with his words. Yes, she'd pushed him. Pushed him just like she'd wanted to, but instead of triumph, she found herself falling apart. Intentionally, yet unintentionally, she'd found Gold von Furstenberg's limit.

And it frightened her. Like it had before, like it probably always would. Whether or not he touched a hair upon her head, he would scare her with the simple knowledge that he could.

Forcing away tears, aware that security were patrolling the high-end shopping street, Bee unceremoniously pushed aside wistful window shoppers. Her pockets were heavy with her green bills and she shoved past gawkers outside the buttercup Chanel storefront. Stepping inside, the noise from the street was muted. Mannequins looked down upon her from their perches on the stands and appeared disproving of her presence. With childish ill humour, she stuck out her tongue at one of them, to hell with the cameras.

Bee wasn't fussy. She couldn't have cared less about the service she received and hardly felt justified to that sense of entitlement. Yet in places such as these, she'd generally have been greeted by now. It wasn't until she glanced back over her shoulder at the people she'd displaced and their critical expressions that she realised she hardly looked the part in her jeans and worn faux-leather jacket. That combined with unbrushed hair and what she could imagine was a generally pale and nauseous disposition, she was rather surprised they hadn't asked her to kindly vacate the premises already.

Hurrying up to the counter with none of her usual saunter, she caught the shop assistant's eye and easily demanded a dress.

"I'm sorry?"

"A dress, someone told me you guys sell those," she quipped wearily.

The woman walked around the counter with a winning smile that only faded a little at the sight of Bee's state of attire. Half a decade cheating at poker tables had taught her not to heed much attention to that liar that was the human mouth, instead, she examined the lady's eyes and was disappointed to spy an unhappy and overworked employee. Did Gold rub off on all of his staff? That was the only explanation for why they all harboured the desire to throw themselves off a cliff underneath the carefully scripted replies, courteous smiles and helpful, falsely cheery tones that 'welcomed you to the Bellagio hotel and casino! And hoped you have a very good stay!'

After a moment to compose herself, the lady said, "Is there anything particular that you had an eye on, madam?"

If suddenly felt alien to hear someone call her 'madam' other than in that lusciously misleading drawl of Gold's – a little patronising lilt, a dash of menace, a pinch of amusement thrown in for good measure. She frowned, shaking her hair into her eyes as she did so. Then, her hands coming to push her clumped locks away from her face, Bee had the good sense to straighten her back and pull out her wad of bills. Her hip jutting to the side, her fingers moving in a blur, she quickly deposited 100 $100 notes upon the slick counter, to the woman's obvious chagrin.

"What can I get with this?"

Flustered, the lady snapped her mouth closed and blinked rapidly at the cash, she stammered that there was an exclusive collection in the back of the store and waved her over with a gracious hand. As Bee walked towards the allocated section, she looked back and watched as the confounded assistant held up a piece of the precious plastic and peered at it through the light.

OOO

"Well that was interesting," Regina said lightly, pouring herself a glass of water from the iced pitcher. It rattled in the otherwise silent room. She looked around, "Wasn't it?"

Gold fixed her with a quelling gaze and she would have backed down for no one else. Even then, the teasing smile falling from her lips, she went grudgingly. Sidney beside her flipped the pages of his folder in busy preoccupation until she slapped his hand down. He took solace instead in gulping mouthfuls of cognac, eyes darting around the tables.

"She's really something isn't she?"

"Now really Granny, I think Gold wants us to change the subject," said a blonde woman with thick, purple-painted lips.

"That's Mrs Lucas to you," the elderly woman said sternly, her tone and sharp eyes behind wire rimmed spectacles not at all grandmotherly. "And you, von Furstenberg, one of my maids Ashley told me you shooed a high roller from his suite to accommodate our new guest. That's hardly good management, now is it? What is Sidney going to do with public relations if he complains?"

Sidney took the opportunity to say something on the topic of business, "She's right. If Leopold says something we can't deny the accusations. It'd be a PR mess."

Regina grunted melodramatically, "That old slob. We should just call out a hit and be done with it."

"Regina!"

"Granny, don't patronise me," she said thinly at the older woman, "You know as well as I that Leopold's more trouble alive than dead. He's been drinking and gambling away his fortune ever since that wife of his got cancer."

"Which is good business for us," retorted a stout, long-haired man with unshaven cheek and chin, "We're a casino, not AA. And besides, he's one of our only customers who likes the snake wine."

"Never understood why anyone would want to drink wine fermented by dead snake," David attempted to diffuse the tension, sounding like he had a thick head cold. Midas gave a bark of laughter and gestured in agreement, "That's what I mean. Good for business."

"He thinks it has curative properties," Mrs Lucas supplied.

"It's gonna take more than snake decay to fix that one."

"David, shouldn't you be resting?" Mary Margaret entered the room.

"My son is fine," the older balding man said sharply, looking at the woman with dislike. David rolled his swollen eyes, making them appear even more bloodshot. Mary Margaret matched George Nolan with an equally unkind glare and stepped to David's side.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I'm fine, I promise," David whispered. In the background, Regina made a gagging noise and said, "You know who shouldn't have been here? That girl you were to keep busy. How did she escape, Mal and I are curious to know."

The blonde laughed in jest with her dark haired friend, "yes, do tell!"

Mary Margaret straightened but kept a hand at her fiancé's shoulder, "She attacked me, if you must know." David made a strangled sound that the room quickly realised was laughter, "Yeah, she does that. Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm sorry, I didn't realise she'd be so angry with your dress," she turned to Gold. His head was bowed and Mary Margaret quickly looked around in alarm. New to the scene, she'd been unaware he was in a dangerous mood. She amended, "Not that it wasn't stunning, maybe just not to her taste...?"

"She's a prisoner," Regina crossed her legs and sat back, "She shouldn't have even been given such a gift. And an expensive one at that. The little piece of street trash probably hasn't even seen that much – "

"Enough."

The red-lipped woman snapped her mouth closed. All attention was on Gold, his soft voice somehow carrying over Regina's mean spirited jibe and Mal's cackles. There was that tangible anger again. Mary Margaret widened her eyes and quickly took her usual seat to David's left. They clasped hands beneath the cloth and watched as Gold continued to keep his eyes downcast, flicking through papers until he alighted on a sheet printed in green. Everyone knew that sheet.

Hopper's profiles were always on green paper. Just as Sidney's reports were always in blue, Granny's scaffolds of the vast catering and housekeeping departments were in pink, Regina's records of the credit and cash of the casino in red, Mal's systematic checks of the underground power generators, cooling systems, water softeners and all other aspects of maintenance were found in purple and Midas' spreadsheets on the accounts in yellow.

Now, as Gold stared at the green, everyone held their breath.

"Hopper."

Eyes turned to the man in question, whose was already turning watermelon at the neck.

"Hopper!"

"Yes sir?" he fumbled, scattering several piles of paper. Regina crinkled her nose and waft her hand in the air, as if waving away his disorderly presence. Mal scoffed in derision. Sidney took pity on him and lent a hand, gathering the sheets that had flown off the table. When Hopper emerged, completely red-faced, he cleared his throat and took hold of his profile with sweaty fingers that stained the paper a darker green.

"Name;" he glanced up and saw only the top of Gold's head then cleared his throat again. At Mary Margaret's encouraging nod, he continued to read, "Miss Beatrix Mariella Gallia –"

"Belle."

"Sir?"

"Her name is Belle."

"Right. Miss...Belle. Age; twenty-seven as of the 27th of December last year, was born in Mount Eliza, Australia. Family; only her father, a war veteran who suffered a severe stroke when she was eighteen and is currently – "

"Skip this useless information!"

"Right you are sir! Um...she spent two years under the apprenticeship of James Hook. Er...I'm so sorry sir, there's such little information on Hook that – I mean, I'm not sure 'apprenticeship' is exactly the right word...um..."

"What do you mean to say?" Mary Margaret eased him gently, frowning at the many 'N/A's beside this Hook character.

"Well...she seemed to learn how to be...a criminal," Hopper stuttered, "From him. There was an academy, of sorts. A club, Neverland, where people would learn skills of the...trade. I guess, we'd call it a trade?"

"A teen gang?" Mrs Lucas said disapprovingly.

Hopper, regaining his composure now that they were on the topic of his expertise, said slowly, "It's not really that simple. It was an organised community of white collar crime, not exactly graffiti or stealing cars. They were mostly young people, Belle joined right after she left school, but their leader was much older. All I know of Hook is that he's been convicted of 23 charges of fraud, 14 of blackmail, 5 obstruction of justices, 10 racketeering claims, 2 instances of extortion, one of money laundering in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, of all places, and finally one case of police impersonation."

"You said you knew nothing about him," said Regina, "That doesn't seem like nothing."

Hopper flushed again her gaze, "Oh well, that's just the thing Ms Mills, I had to get Graham to hack into the electronic records and siphon through their copies before finding the originals. You see, somehow, he'd altered official documents to remove all trace of his personal details. We managed to decode his full name, date of birth and the account number and password to a long defunct bank account in the Dominican Republic."

Regina fingered a pen, musing, "Why do we call him the Huntsman if he can't find anyone we want. Why do you pay him, Gold?"

At Gold's silence, Sidney leaned over and muttered, "Stop teasing him Regina, this isn't the time."

She laughed loudly, "Isn't the time? Oh please, Sidney, don't you think Gold deserves a little questioning?"

At her words, he lifted his head slowly and carefully put down the sheet. Peaking his fingers and staring at her over the top of them, Gold said with raised eyebrows, "By all means, ask away."

Regina's mouth curved upwards, "Well for one, why didn't you tell us you were personally involved with whatshername? Verna, is it?"

Gold's hands rammed the table and he stood up with a crash. Everyone jumped, even Mal's ever-present laughter had stuck in her throat. His face contorted in a look of pure agony and with flashing eyes and a pointing finger he said, "You would be wise not to push the issue. Please."

There was a quick intake of breath. Gold never said 'please'. When he did, it usually meant someone was very likely to be fired. With her jaw locked, Regina said in a subdued but unshaking voice, "I simply meant that for us to get a proper idea of what we're dealing with, it would have been kinder to tell us that you had a history with the girl."

At the extra twist of Gold's mouth, Sidney quickly offered, "A history of her having stolen from us previously. That's all Regina meant."

She sat back lazily, "Did I?"

"Yes," Sidney said through gritted teeth, "You did."

Eyeing each employee in turn, until he was quite certain no one else would be so stupid as to challenge him, Gold lowered himself back down and shuffled his papers. "Miss French and I have a history, correct. She cheated me off more than $700,000 dollars. This was back in 2005, during our period of renovation. In the midst of the chaos, I did not notice the missing money until a month afterwards. And yes, I have always wanted to repay her in kind. But let us remember that I did not suggest her presence, it was Mr Hopper who demanded that she was called. It was he who, quite convincingly if I remember that particular board meeting, told us all that no other person could complete our task."

Hopper, only just recovering from his flush from Regina, now blushed anew, "Y-yes."

"So," Gold looked around, "Shall we discuss what we are here to discuss or must we continue this meaningless chatter until one of you loses their head by the aid of my bullet?"

"What about Madam Superior?" David asked.

"She's interviewing a few candidates for our dealer openings," Hopper replied in relief, glad to be talking of business once more. "We at HR think that there's a woman named Swan who's most suitable but you know how Hazul always wants to see them personally. I can brief her during dinner."

"Are we all staying late today?" Mary Margaret asked the room. There were varying degrees of enthusiasm but the general concession was agreement. "We should all eat together!"

George pursed his lips and put an arm around David, "I hardly think so."

Mary Margaret sighed, "I'm just trying to create a sense of unity. I think we're lacking that, don't you?"

Mal groaned and murmured, "Get over yourself, angel."

Regina looked at her friend in amusement, "You think you're above our childish bickering M and M?"

"Don't call me that, Regina, you know how much I dislike it."

"That's why I call you that, dear."

"Do you find enjoyment out of being unkind?"

Mal and Regina looked at each other and shared beaming smiles, "Of course."

Midas stretched his arms above his head and slouched further down his chair, his protruding belly overflowing upon the table top. He scratched his beard and yawned, "You know, von Furstenberg, you might be right about getting a caretaker for these fillies. But do we really need to pay her 30% of the money she cheats back off the cheaters? I mean, Mrs Lucas' been bugging Accounts for money to renovate the kitchens for months now. That 30% could be useful."

"Fillies?" Mal interjected, "And this is why women will never break the glass ceiling. Sexist pigs like you."

Midas toasted her in mock cheer , downed the clear liquor in his cup and then burped in her direction. She turned away in disgust, retrieving a tube of her purple lipstick and reapplying it without the aid of a mirror.

"You know, he makes a point. The Prime Steakhouse grills are disgusting, Chef Jean-Georges says his people won't work their much longer if we don't get a proper ventilation system so the cooks don't go home with oil in their hair," Mrs Lucas suggested taking the opening gap in conversation.

"Oh yes, and on the topic of things we need," Mal cried, "Extra cleaners for the fountains out front. They're our biggest attraction, it would be such a shame to have them clogged up one night. You know I've been begging for a proper recycling system for years now."

"And things we don't need," Regina added, "You should sack a few of your cocktail waitresses on the floor. No need to feel guilty, I'm sure they'd fit right in at a strip club somewhere."

"The Wynn would benefit greatly from a few extra valets, sir," George, assistant manager to Gold's other hotel, said with a wry smile, joining in on the discussion.

"We're in Bellagio," said Regina darkly, "Business should be about the Bellagio."

"Von Furstenberg owns both, as you well know," George returned, but with no amount of ill will. He didn't mind Regina nearly as much as his son's whore.

"Oh well, on the matter of Wynn and Encore. You should get rid of that woman who run's those casinos. Aria...Ariel...whatever her name is. No class, whatsoever. She may as well just walk around wearing seashells over her breasts. What kind of image is that?"

"They do have quite a few...ethnics," Mal said in a stage whisper. "There's that Magnolia, little scrap of a girl, what does she do again?"

"Accounts," said Midas.

"Maybe she can replace you?" Mal smiled emptily back at him, "And also, that dark skinned pretty thing from New Orleans. Tiana?"

Mrs Lucas shook her head, "Brianna of catering and housekeeping. Would you prefer her to replace me too?"

"Oh Granny, you know I mean no harm. We love you, with or without your sloppy little Ruby."

"You watch your tongue, Mallory Millicent Fiche."

Regina hummed tunelessly, "Yes, Wynn does have a lot of exotic young ones..."

Mal giggled, "Maybe that's his type!"

Gold was looking down again, apparently still reading Hopper's green sheets. Regina leaned towards Mal and whispered, "I think his type is Belle."

A gunshot.

Leroy rushed into the room. Mary Margaret screamed and clutched David, then quickly let him go like a hotplate, afraid to touch his bruises. Midas went so far as to sit up straight in his chair and Mrs Lucas had one hand clutched to her heart, the other taking off her glasses to rub at the lenses.

Waving Leroy away, Gold picked up his cane and pushed back his chair, his left hand clutching the smoking gun, "You try my patience."

Without another word or look, he gathered his paperwork and departed. Leroy hesitated a moment after his boss' departure and said to the room, still edgy, and stared at the bullet now lodged in the wall very near to where Mal's head was. After several moments of consideration, he said in a voice dripping with revulsion at the privileged lot trembling before him.

"You suits are all staying back tonight to watch Belle French," his voice permeated the air with effortless volume, "Watch how a pro gets the job done."

OOO


Just for fun, I made Gold owner of both Bellagio and Wynn (Steve Wynn designed both, even though in real life, they're owned by different companies).