The staircase was thin and steep, a pipeline for servers to bring the occupants anything they wanted. There were VIP rooms and VIP rooms, and this was the latter, a private playground for the young, famous, and obscenely wealthy.

He blew a breath outside the door, paused to check the men behind him. They had already pulled on their masks, and in the dim light he could make out only the gleam of eyes and pistols. Bobby and Will seemed anxious, adrenaline jitters, but Marshall had that predatory slowness. Cobra cool, ready to strike.

Jack smiled. Shrugged his shoulders, slipped on his own mask, the fabric trapping breath hot against his lips. Let the rush run through him. Embraced it, that edge when everything was sharp and of consequence.

He put a hand on the knob and turned.

WHAT WAS he doing here?

Bobby felt like the veins in his forehead must be about to pop, his heart was banging so hard. He tried to swallow, his throat like sand. He wanted to rub his palms against his suit pants but didn’t want to take off the gloves.

This wasn’t his first job, nothing like. He’d helped Jack before: late-night warehouse load-outs where the night watchman turned the other way for a C-note. Or jumping the manager of a bar on his way to deposit the night’s take. Beating down those two Latinos who had tried to cheat his big brother. Not like he was squeamish. But this, to walk into a room with masks and guns?

It’ll be fun. Jack’s voice played in his head. The Brothers Witkowski, rolling hard. Just follow my lead, it’ll be over before you know it.

He took a deep breath.

You’re a bad man.

Jack threw the door open, and he and Marshall stormed in.