Elvis Presley doesn't like losing, but he's good at it.
Losing isn't so bad when he has to, it’s just a role to play like any other. Winning, though—a victory lap or getting the girl—that's what Presley loves. He’s too competitive, that's his problem.
Usually. Today is different.
The sun slices through early-morning clouds, casting long shadows across the potted bougainvillea on his balcony. A lizard darts across the sun-warmed travertine. Elvis leans back in his chair, the white lacquered wicker creaking beneath his weight as he takes a sip of freshly-squeezed orange juice. It’s tart and tangy, made from Sicilian blood oranges flown in specially for hotel guests. He could get used to this, he thinks, even though anything would be better than his last job in Albuquerque.
The view from his room is breathtaking—a panorama of the glistening Mediterranean Sea, palm trees standing sentinel along the shore, and the winding streets of the principality. Above it all, both figuratively and literally, sits the Casino de Monte-Carlo, an opulent sugar cube of a gambling house that has seen countless fortunes won and lost.
Elvis squints against the lettuce green sky, the warm breeze ruffling his jet-black hair. Crossing one long leg over another, his tailored trousers stretching over his lithe frame, Elvis savors the moment. At a perfect 6 feet tall, with piercing blue eyes and a marble-chiseled profile, he cuts a striking figure even in repose.
It's a perfect August day, the kind that makes one forget there's always work to do, even in a paradise like this.
A knock at the door interrupts his reverie. “Room service,” a muffled voice calls out.
Elvis rises and pads for the door, greeting the uniformed attendant with a warm smile. “Morning,” he says, stepping aside to let the man enter.
The attendant wheels in a cart laden with covered dishes. “Where would you like me to set up, sir?” he asks.
“The terrace, please,” Elvis replies, watching as the man efficiently arranges the dishes on the table. “Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for a name.
“Jean-Luc, sir,” the attendant supplies with a slight bow.
“Thank you, Jean-Luc.” Elvis nods approvingly and hands the young man a few crisp bills, a generous tip reflecting his own working-class roots. He knows two things for sure: Jean-Luc works exceptionally hard for his money, and he probably knows more than he should about every hotel guest. He might prove useful.
Jean-Luc's eyes widen slightly as he pockets the tip, his posture straightening imperceptibly. "If there's anything else you need, sir, please don't hesitate to ask." His tone carries a hint of conspiratorial understanding, a recognition of the unspoken agreement between them.
Elvis gives him a smile, equal parts charming and enigmatic. "I'll keep that in mind."
With a final nod, Jean-Luc takes his leave, the door closing softly behind him. Elvis settles back into his chair, his mind already racing with the possibilities of this new connection.
On the table before him, a sumptuous breakfast: buttery croissants, jam, slices of blackened bacon, and a variety of cheeses. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the salty sea air. Elvis unfolds the crinkled newspaper, his sharp gaze scanning the headlines for anything of interest. He's expecting a message, a signal that will set today's events in motion. He knows Reginald would never let him down.
As he turns the page, a small butterfly of a note flutters to the ground. Reaching down, his fingers trace the embossed CIA seal, the paper smooth and cool to the touch.
Ah, there it is.
Elvis' pulse quickens as scans the writing: 22 Avenue de la Costa. He turns the scrap of paper over in his fingers, searching for any additional clues, but the reverseis blank. The message is clear enough: whatever awaits him, it's not going to be a walk in the park. He’s been in the game long enough to know that when Reginald plays things close to the vest, it means the stakes are higher than ever.
His handler had been unusually tight-lipped during their briefing. But that’s just the way Elvis likes it. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. And such secrecy could only mean one thing–this job is tough. Dangerous. The kind of high-stakes operation that gets Elvis’ blood pumping. Let the games begin.
Glancing at his watch, he notes the time: 9:58 AM. The casino won't open for hours, giving him plenty of time to plan his approach. He'll need to be cautious, though. The Duke and duch*ess of Castellano, his well-connected friends, have arranged for him to join an exclusive poker game later that evening, one in which he will have to lose. Drawing attention to himself before then wouldn't be wise.
Finishing his breakfast, he stands and stretches his limbs, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. Monaco is a playground for the glitterati, their perfect little jewel box on the Côte d'Azur. But beneath the surface, he knows, lurk secrets and dangers that most people never see. Dangers they could never even dream of.
With practiced efficiency, he hurries across the suite, his mind already shifting into mission mode. He pulls a sleek black case from beneath the bed, his fingers dancing over the combination lock. Inside, an array of gadgets and weapons gleam in the morning light—tools of his trade, each one carefully chosen for maximum impact and minimum detectability.
He selects a few key items: a miniaturized camera, a set of lockpicks, a small vial of a clear liquid that definitely isn't water. Each one designed to disappear into the hidden pockets of his suit jacket, concealed with a skill born of years of practice. Elvis learned long ago that preparation is key in this line of work—you never know what you might need until you need it.
It's time to become Anderson “Andy” Davis, a first-time Grand Prix entrant and new pet project of the Monegasque elite. He opens his closet and selects a lightweight blazer and a crisp white shirt—a smart, sensible choice that won't draw a second glance. Dressing quickly, his fingers deftly fasten the buttons, the silk smooth against his skin.
As he checks his reflection in the mirror, Elvis allows himself a small, secret smile. His handsome features, so often a liability in his line of work, are expertly disguised by the subtle changes in his posture and expression. With a final adjustment of his cufflinks, he grabs his room key and heads out the door, the steel heavy in his pocket.
Ready or not, here comes Andy.
