The Heirs of Vegas

"Team One: Lindi Johnson, Davis Van Wyk, Stefano Van Wyk. You will decide who inherits 4.1 billion dollars. If you fail, Ms. Johnson, you lose your scholarship and you don't graduate on time." Professor Alvarez slammed the black file on the desk at 8:01 a.m. and my life ended. I'm Lindi Johnson. I'm 20. I'm 4'11 with an Afro puff that makes me look 15, a gold scales-of-justice necklace from my mom, and a 4.0 GPA I bled for at UNLV Law Year 2. And I had just been chained for a whole semester to the two heirs of Vegas. Davis Van Wyk stood up in the back row. 6'2. Blond. Tanned. Son of Johan Van Wyk — owner of The Heirs Palace, The Van Wyk Grand, half the Strip. Blazer at 8 a.m. Never takes notes. For two months he's called me Middle School. Stefano Van Wyk stood up next to him. Same last name. Same father. Different life. His mother is the black housekeeper from Henderson everyone whispers about. Secret first wife. Erased. He's 6'3, black hoodie in Vegas heat, dark eyes, says ten words a week. He hasn't said more than "move" to me in two months. Every head in Criminal Procedure turned to look at me. The small girl between two giants. Alvarez didn't wait. "Johan Van Wyk is 73. He is stepping down. Twelve casinos, three hotels, two thousand employees, 4.1 billion dollars. He has two wills," she said. "One from 1998, before his money, naming Elena Morales — Stefano's mother — as sole heir. One from 2023, naming his second wife and Davis as heirs and explicitly disinheriting Elena and Stefano." Silence. Davis said, "What?" Stefano's fists closed. "Your mother was not a mistress, Mr. Van Wyk," Alvarez said to Stefano. "She was his wife in 1996 in Henderson. He made her sign an NDA after the money came, divorced her in secret, and made her clean his houses to survive. She raised you on a housekeeper's salary while your father built palaces. His $800-an-hour lawyers are split. Half say 1998 will is valid. Half say 2023 will is. He wants you two to fight it out here. In this clinic. The team that drafts the best succession plan will be filed as an official advisory memo to the Nevada Gaming Commission. Real filing. Real names." A real filing in Year 2. That's career-making. That's how you get any firm on the Strip. "And Ms. Johnson," she looked at me. "You are neutral. You have no money in this game. You're the only one who argues back to both of them. Your job is to find the loophole that keeps this family from destroying itself. If your team wins, your scholarship becomes a full ride plus a clerkship. If you quit or lose, you lose your clinic credits. You don't graduate." There it is. My mom. My mom cleans motel rooms off Boulder Highway so I could be first in our family to go to law school. She bought me this necklace when I got in and cried for an hour. If I lose credits, I lose everything. I sat down. My backpack is bigger than me. For two months, my normal was this: "Middle School, move your backpack. You're blocking the aisle," Davis would say every morning, standing over my row like I was lost. "I'm not in middle school. It's Lindi," I'd say. "Right. Lindi. You sure you're in the right building? Gifted kids tour is next door." "I am sure. Are you sure you're in the right building? Remedial class for heirs who bought their way in is upstairs." The row would choke. He would grin. And Stefano would just say, quietly, "She was here first." "Ms. Johnson, Mr. Van Wyks," Alvarez snapped me back. "My office. After class. Bring the file. Dismissed." The hall emptied slow. Everyone stared as we walked — 4'11 in the middle, 6'2 and 6'3 on the sides. The Heirs and the Middle Schooler. Davis caught my backpack strap at the door. "Wait," he said, then let go instantly. "Sorry. The scholarship thing — I didn't know." "Of course you didn't," I said. My voice shook. "You don't have to know what things cost." His face fell. "I called you Middle School because —" he started. "Because I'm 4'11? Because I have an Afro puff and look cute? Because it's funny?" "Because if I called you pretty, you'd think I was like every other guy trying to get close to the Van Wyk name," he said fast, like he'd rehearsed it. "And if I called you Lindi, you'd ignore me. So I called you something stupid so you'd argue with me. You argue. You have a 6'2 mouth. You argued with a pit boss over fries for twenty minutes and won. I remember that story." I stared. He remembered my fries story? From two months ago in study group? Behind us, Stefano made a noise. "That is the dumbest logic I've ever heard." "You never talk!" Davis snapped. "I talk when it's worth it," Stefano said. He looked at me. "You buy your own fries. You take the 10:30 bus even when it rains. You don't ask anyone." They'd seen me running for the bus? My face burned. I always run for the 10:30 because it stops at 10:30 and I have exactly bus money. Not taxi money. My phone buzzed. Mom: _You good baby? Need bus money?_ I typed: _I'm good._ Alvarez's office smelled like coffee and old paper. She slid the file to us. "Open it," she said. Davis opened it. Inside: two marriage certificates. 1996 — Johan Van Wyk and Elena Morales, Henderson. 2005 — Johan Van Wyk and Claire Van Wyk, Las Vegas. And a photo. A young black woman in a housekeeping uniform holding a baby. Smiling. Elena. Stefano as a baby. And young Johan, before the casinos, before the veneers, smiling like he loved her. Stefano's hand shook. Just a little. Davis stared. "My dad told me your mom quit... He told me she stole from us..." "She didn't steal," Stefano said, voice low. "She was told to leave. With me. With nothing." Silence. Alvarez said, "Your father wants to meet Team One tonight. Midnight. At Heirs Palace. Private floor. 58th. He doesn't meet lawyers. He meets winners. Don't be late." Midnight. My bus doesn't run at midnight. My bank has $14. "Professor, I don't have a ride at midnight," I said. "You'll figure it out," she said. She looked at my sneakers, my puff, my necklace. "You figured out how to get into law school looking 15. Figure this out. That's what capable lawyers do." Dismissed. Outside, hallway empty. I pulled my backpack on. It almost tipped me over. Davis said, "I'll bring fries. Student center. Extra salt. Like you like." "I like fries I buy myself," I said. "Then I'll buy fries and you can argue that you bought them," he said. "So you still win." Stefano was still holding the photo. He put it back carefully. "Lindi," he said quietly. "If 1998 will is real... my mother was not a mistress. She was a wife. She was erased. For 22 years they called me the housekeeper's son." I understood. This isn't about 4.1 billion. For him, it's about his mother's name. For Davis, it's about finding out his father lied his whole life. And for me, I have to find a legal loophole that gives both brothers something without 2,000 workers losing jobs, and without losing my scholarship. "Midnight," I said. "Heirs Palace. I'll be there." "How?" Davis asked. "Your bus —" "I'll take the bus and then I'll walk," I said. "No," Stefano said. Simple. Final. "I'll drive you. I have a car. 11:50 p.m. Bus stop on Flamingo. I will be there." "I don't need —" "You do," he said. "I say it and I do it." Davis looked between us. "I'll be there too. With fries." "Without your fries," I said, but I was already walking toward the bus stop that would not be running at midnight, knowing that tonight, at midnight, in a casino that owns this city, I would meet the man who erased a woman, with her son next to me. This was going to be a disaster. And it had started at 8:01 a.m. with my name on a file I never asked for, worth 4.1 billion dollars. *END OF CHAPTER 1*