It's just an excuse to call.
He looks down at the brooch in his hand before carefully wrapping it in a silk handkerchief and placing it in a small gold box.
He knows she'll come back to the casino and he could give it to her then, but there's something in him that makes him want to reach out just a little further than he would have in the past.
He can't quite pinpoint what it is that draws him to her.
Maybe it's the way she just understands him. The way he never has to explain how things are. The way she never really has to ask questions, she just knows what he needs and when. The way they can sit back and share a large scotch without saying a word to each other, just watching the people go by. And it's nice. And it's comfortable. And it's the only time he's ever really been himself in front of someone else.
He doesn't have the urge to lie to her like he does with everybody else.
He knows he probably couldn't even if he wanted to.
He likes that.
He likes that he can be himself. It's exhausting having to keep up appearances.
And as much as he doesn't like to admit it, he can feel himself slowing down.
Over time, he's learned how to act, how to speak, how to think. How to break everything down and figure out how it would work to his full advantage. He knows what a lingering gaze can do. A simple brush of the fingertips as he passes a drink to potential mark. He knows that sometimes, the most powerful clues lie in the things left unsaid.
He sometimes wonders what it would be like had he settled for something more bureaucratic. At least when the good guys wanted you dead, they didn't try to bullshit you about it.
But this is a dangerous game. Not one that good guys play.
He's a great shot, one of the best. But he can't run quite as fast as he used to. Sometimes his fingers aren't as nimble as he'd like them to be. Sometimes his reflexes fail him, and that's not something he can afford.
He can remember when he could forge a bond without smearing a single line.
Some days he needs a do-over.
He can remember the first time he exchanged a briefcase, not realizing that the same weapon he'd just handed over would be the reason he'd be awake at two in the morning making shoddy left-handed stiches and guzzling whatever the hell he could get his hands on.
He never turns his back now.
Time has made him wiser.
Time has made him older.
He's no longer the star pupil. Now, he's the teacher. The one they studied when they wanted to get it right. The master whose name is said with respect.
Or else.
Sometimes he almost feels sorry for the suits. The ones who think they're winning the game and don't realize they were never really players.
He often wishes he'd met Olivia sooner. When he was in his prime. She's unlike anyone else. One of a kind. And so is he. They would have been the greatest team there ever was. Unstoppable.
He glances down at the newspaper on the coffee table. They intercepted a shipment. A small one. Inconsequential really. The real steel was on a mail barge heading in the opposite direction. Those were the ones he was keeping an eye on. Those were the real money.
He sighs and runs a hand over his face before taking a sip of bourbon and tossing the paper aside.
He puts the gold box on the table by the door where he's sure to see it when he leaves. He has a few other calls to make, but they can wait until morning. It's been a long day.
He shrugs off his shirt and looks down at his arm.
He's gotten better with his left hand.
He looks in the mirror and sighs, not sure whether to hang his head or laugh at himself. It wasn't exactly a mistake that he wound up in the crossfire. He could have easily had his men handle it, manipulating them from a distance, but boredom got the best of him. Though to his credit, he still had rounds left over when the dust cleared.
He doesn't attempt anything he knows he can't get away with.
He just misses the thrill sometimes.
But this is dangerous game. Not one that good guys play.
It's a complex game.
It's a young man's game.
And he's not sure how long he can go on playing.