But I gotta remember what I am to Vito.
I’m nothing. A whore.
A chick with a dangerous habit of thieving from casinos.
A chick who’s gunna get herself killed.
Not a woman with a fistful of cash, a gun…and a desire.
So I flash Vito a welcoming smile, wave, then bounce—yes, bounce—around the pool toward the cabana where Vito and his douchebag posse are hanging out, killing another long Thursday afternoon before they hit the clubs. Vito belongs to a select group of the Las Vegas in crowd. He’s just low enough on his family’s infamous genealogical tree to be worth hanging out with, but not so high up you’re in danger of rubbing shoulders with some of the family’s more notorious associates, guys with nicknames like Vinny Cutter and Ralph the Frankie the Noose.
Vito meets me, arms open wide, and I’m treated to a sweat and suntan-oil slick hug that leaves a stain on my bikini. Dude reeks like coconut oil, weed and vodka. He slips his sunglasses off, gives me two pecks on the cheek, then reaches down and grabs my ass and pulls me into him, whispering, “Where you been, girl? You don’t answer my texts anymore?”
Vito’s eyes are diluted and unfocused.
I flash him an apologetic smile. “Studying. Working two jobs—”
Vito’s expression lights up maliciously. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure we’re out of earshot, then says, “I heard about one of your jobs. Sorry about the smack-down. That rich-boy bitch is gunna get his…”
A chill runs through my blood.
I swallow, then shrug and say, “Pretty cool play though, huh?”
Vito runs his hand down my ass. “Ballsy. The fucking Savannah at Savannah’s. Saw the security footage. You and the crew were in top form. Unlucky roll is all.”
“Thanks, Vee. I was sure I had that roll.”
Vito gives me a quick nod. He looks about to say something, then seems to think better of it and says, “You look kinda stressed, girl.”
“Parol meeting this morning.”
“Pricks. How’d it go?”
“I’d love to talk about it. Said no one, ever.”
Vito cracks a smile.
I lick my lips. Think about asking him about Jay. But things are moving a bit too quick. So instead I ask for a drink. Vito laughs, his brilliant white teeth shining, and leads me to the private bar behind the poolside cabana.
The sun reflects off the pool’s aqua-blue water and the casino’s speakers are pumping out the latest hip-hop and top forty and there’s laughter and yelling and the sound of glasses tinkling together—and it all feels very familiar in a way that loosens me up, which is good, because the last thing I can afford to be is tense.
Vito might not be a genius, but he has his uncle’s nose for bullshit.
I swing my hips and half dance, half walk to the bar, rolling with the music and the chill vibe. I recognize a few faces. Offer a nod here and a hug there. I’m wearing a bikini that’s not very expensive or trendy but it’s serviceable, and I’ve dolled up the look by wrapping a brightly patterned Indian sarong around my waist.
The only thing that doesn’t quite fit is the backpack.
But there’s no way I’m letting it out of my sight.
So of course the first thing Vito asks after he hands me a mojito is, “Hey Mary, what the fuck’s in that big ugly backpack?”
Then he leans forward, elbows on the bar, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. But he’s not kidding. He expects an answer.
I take a sip of the mojito, smile and say, “A Ruger. A change of clothes. And a hundred grand cash.”
Vito’s eyes lock onto mine. He’s searching me out.
Trying to figure if he’s being played.
Then he breaks into a wide smile. “What more’s a girl need?”
“Right?”
Vito leans his head across the bar, so his forehead’s touching mine. Whispers: “I’ve fucking missed you, you know.”
“Liar.”
“You miss me.”
“Sometimes.”
“Oh yeah? When?”
“When I’m pressing my fingers into my pussy.”
Vito jerks away, downs the last of his mojito and pours another one from a crystal pitcher. Stirs his drink with something approaching aggression. Then says, “I wish I believed that. I really do.”
“But you don’t?”
“No.”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I think…you want something.”
“Everyone wants something.”
“Ha ha, Summer. Cut the shit.” Vito reaches under the bar, lifts a round mirror embossed in silver with a small mountain of cocaine piled in the middle. Uses his pinky to cut up a monster line, then hits the blow hard. Edges out another line and offers it to me.
Fucking hell.
A few weeks ago I would’ve leapt at the chance to hit Vito’s stash. So I thank him, lean down and do just that. The blow rockets into my nose, into my blood and straight to my brain.
All of a sudden I got this shit wired.
Vito’s fucking nothing. None of them are.
Vito does another line, then—without asking if I want anything—yells at a server to bring us some strawberries. The blow’s making me want to stand up and move. Like maybe take a swim. Or dance.
Vito reaches over the bar and grabs both my hands. Pulls them toward him so I’m stretched out across the bar, my ass in the air. It’s an awkward, unpleasant position. If I turn away it’s obvious I’m avoiding him. If I look at him directly it feels confrontational. So I settle on a mix of the two: quick, seemingly nervous glances that scream vulnerability and the desire to please.
“Where were we?” I ask, making sure he can see my tits hanging out of my bikini.
“You were saying how much you missed me.”
“No, you were saying that.”
“I was?”
I laugh. “Fuck yeah you were. You were lying?”
Now Vito laughs. “Maybe I was.”
“You don’t miss me?”
“What are you doing later?”
“Like, after the pool?”
“No, later later. Tonight. A bunch of us…we’re going clubbing. You should come. It’ll be fun.”
“I have to work in the morning.”
Vito squeezes my hands. “The grocery store?”
Fuck. He knows I got canned. “No. I said I have to look for work in the morning.”
“You mean, like drop off resumes and shit?”
“Yeah.”
“Bummed.”
“Right?”
“You broke?”
“Give me another line.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Vito releases my hands and is about to reach under the bar when the scantily-clad serving girl arrives carrying a huge tray of fruit. Not only strawberries but melons and pineapple and some star-shaped shit. It looks delicious. Vito slips a twenty into her cleavage while I nibble at a pineapple slice an try to remember when I last ate. I skipped breakfast because me and Landon had to leave the desert retreat early for my parole hearing. Then lunch because I was too nervous about meeting Vito. So that makes it last night after Landon and I fucked for the second time—
When the server’s gone Vito says, “You didn’t answer me. You broke?”
I sigh. “Of course I’m broke, Vee.”
“Broke in Las Vegas. Bummed.”
“Story of my life.”
“You got another score lined up?”
This is it. Or the start of it—
“Fuck no. Why? You offering a tip?”
Vito gives me a sharp look. “I like you, Summer.”
He only says my real name when he’s trying to sound especially genuine, which is another way of saying when he’s totally bullshitting. It’s a tell I sussed out long ago. “I like you too, Vee.”
“I’d like to help you out.”
“Maybe I will go dancing.”
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“People are on edge, you know?”
“Strawberries were an awesome idea.”
Vito takes a gulp of mojito straight out of the pitcher. A piece of mint gets caught on his lip and I reach up and pluck it off. He laughs, lights one of those cigarette-sized cigars, settles against the bar, exhales a rolling cloud of blue smoke and surveys the cabana and the pool. Some dude comes over, plops a Panama hat on Vito’s head, calls him bossman in Italian. Vito laughs and smacks the guy in the gut. A few heads turn to see what the commotion is all about. I slip my shades over my eyes and pop another strawberry in my mouth. I’m catching serious cat-bitch hate from a group of three dolled-up Jersey Shore looking bitches lounging on some recliners by the pool.
“My uncle’s always talking about how much shit’s changed,” Vito says, still looking out over the pool. “Says he used to know who he could trust.”
Vito laughs, a bitter sound that makes me tense my jaw and toe my backpack and remind myself that Layla’s right there, within reach, and bet your ass I’ll shoot my way out of the Bellagio’s VIP rooftop pool if shit with Vito goes haywire—
“But I think the old man’s wrong,” Vito says, looking me right in the eye. “I think it’s the same as ever. The people you trust are the first to fuck you over.”
“Good thing you don’t trust me.”
Vito takes a quick breath. For a second I’m convinced he’s gunna grab me by the hair and slam my face into the bar and smash my skull open with the heavy crystal pitcher, and I’m a heartbeat away from flinging myself to the ground and scrambling for Layla when Vito Abatelli says, “Sun’s fucking drilling into my eyes. I’m going to the suite. You coming?”
I don’t say a word.
Just gather my bag and follow.
***
After we fuck Vito wraps a towel around his waist, slides open the door leading to the balcony, steps outside and lights a cigar. We’re not in the penthouse suite, but we’re close. I stretch out on the bed, wondering if the penthouse is reserved for Don Luca Abatelli. I hate balconies. I heard a rumor that more people die in Vegas falling off balconies than anywhere in the world. You now why? Cuz it’s a quick, clean, easy death to explain.
She was wasted and stumbled over the railing.
Yeah, right.
Nevertheless, I get dressed, grab a bottle of water from the mini-bar and head outside. It’s mid-afternoon. The suite faces east over the Bellagio’s fountain pool, toward the Strip. The Eiffel Tower’s across the road, and the hulking green mass of MGM. The sun’s glinting off MGM’s glass walls, hitting the ground below and turning it an alien gold-green. The Strip’s pretty busy, but not packed. I settle on a lounge chair beside Vito, take a sip of water and wait for him to say something.
It’s only been…what? Less than forty-eight hours since I blew the roulette roll trying the Savannah? But already I feel the itch building in me. The need for another play. Even a small one. Maybe I’ll go knock off a few rounds of blackjack when I’m finished here, count some cards, maybe make a couple bucks—
“What happened to your neck?” Vito says, flicking his ash over the balcony.
“Savannah’s security tools caught me in the alley. One of them got enthusiastic.”
“Shit,” Vito says, shaking his head. Then he looks me in the eye. He seems to have sobered up a bit since the pool, but I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or bad. “You really wanna come clubbing tonight?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“You’ve never been into the clubs much.”
“Not true. Just too busy.”
“You don’t have to come, y’know, just because you need a play from me.”
“C’mon, Vee. Don’t get all fucking sappy on me.”
Vito smiles. Throws his half-smoked cigar over the balcony. Traffic noise drifts up from the street below, and a warm wind ruffles through Vito’s ungelled hair. He looks different than he did poolside.
Softer somehow. Younger.
“He’s never gunna bring me in,” Vito says, real quietly.
“Who?”
“My uncle. Thinks I’m a waste. Does’t trust me. Thinks I’m gunna do something stupid. Get busted. Rat him out. I’ve been doing deliveries and idiot wet-work for almost ten years now. I push for more plays. More juice. But the old prick just laughs me off.”
“That’s shit, Vee. He’ll come around.”
“You ever feel like your whole life comes down to one play? One roll? And maybe at the time…you don’t even realize it?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, remembering the roulette ball pinging along the spinning wheel—
Vito’s face hardens. He grips the railing, leans way over and looks straight down. “Well this time I realize it. I got one solid play left in me. Something to blow the old man’s mind. Make him give me the respect I deserve. An all or nothing play. If it doesn’t come through, I’m finished. And in my line of work, you don’t get retired with a fucking gold watch.”
Vito turns and meets my eyes. For an instant he looks terrified. Then his eyes dull over and his face turns blank and expressionless, and faster than I can move he has me by the chin, squeezing hard enough to bring tears to my eyes and half-lifting me off the chair.
“I got a play for you, Mary,” Vito says, his hooked nose inches from mine. “A big play. One they’ll talk about, yeah? But if you fuck me, I don’t care how long you’ve been on my dick, I’ll make killing you the last thing I do.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LANDON
I PICK SUMMER up in a parking lot outside a fast-food joint on Paradise Road. She hops in the car wearing cut-off shorts that reveal her tanned thighs and one of the tank-tops she loves. This one’s white with silver trim and has a logo from the recent Las Vegas Harley convention on it.
“You like to ride?” I ask as she slams the door closed. I’m driving one of the casino’s complimentary Audi’s. Staying low pro.
Summer doesn’t say anything. Just shakes her head. Doesn’t even make eye contact. Shit. Something’s eating at her.
She met with Vito Abatelli earlier today.
I smell the motherfucker on her skin.
I decide, right then, to murder him after I get what I need.
The thought makes my nerves tingle.
It’s been a long while since I’ve prowled for a revenge killing.
A long while.
This wildness in me. This newfound strength. I feel it building, especially when Summer’s at my side. There’s a pressure in my chest now. The feeling that if I don’t kill someone—and soon—I’m going to go insane. Going to hurt someone who doesn’t deserve it. I can’t fight this urge. It’s a compulsion. I need to feed it. Keep it at a level I can control so it doesn’t swarm over me. So I’ll feed my murder-lust a douchebag like Vito Abatelli. I’ll feed it Trent ‘Scythe’ Thorsa.
And after they’re dead?
I’ll feed it someone else.
Being this close to Summer makes my lion pace and growl. I keep having to blink, reminding myself to keep it cool, but I’m glancing at her legs and her tits hanging braless beneath the thin fabric of her shirt and all I can think about is how she feels—
“I feel like a hooker,” Summer mutters as she settles her backpack on the floor and fiddles with the AC vents.
“You’re not.”
“That’s nice, Landon. It means nothing, of course, coming from a clueless twit like you.”
Summer crosses her arms and glares out the window.
Okay. Approach with caution.
I pull from the curb. Summer messes with the stereo until she finds a station playing hip-hop hits from the nineties, then settles in her scowl and stares out the window.
She has a right to be pissed. I’m not as clueless as she thinks. I knew what she’d have to do to get intel from Vito Abatelli, and Summer knows that. Hurt and anger’s coming off her in waves. I try and think of something to say. A way to patch it up. Make her feel better.
But there�
��s nothing.
I gave her a hundred grand and sent her on task.
Does that make her a whore?
Maybe it does.
Is it my problem?
No.
I drive down Paradise, take a left on Sahara and hit the on-ramp of the I-15. There’s a toxic sludge of emotion churning in my gut. I’ve always tried to play it cool. Keep my distance, even from my lion pride. Never saw the advantage of getting too involved with anyone.
Never felt the need.
Now I do want to get involved, and it’s with a human girl with more baggage than McCarran airport. But there’s a part of me that’s wondering if I want to be with Summer for who she is…or for how powerful she makes me feel. Even right now my animal’s roaring, demanding me to take her—
Summer reaches across the console and puts her hand on my cock.
I jerk back. “What the hell, Summer? That definitely isn’t the vibe I was getting—”
“You should ask me how it went.”
I lift her hand off my lap, put it on the console, then wrap her hand in mine. She tries to pull away but I hold her tight. No way I’m letting go. I feel her shutting down. Wanting to run. She’s got a hundred grand in that backpack. It’s not the money stopping her.
Something else is keeping her in Vegas.
Her mother, sure.
But if I had to bet I’d say she has some scores to settle.
I’m not fool enough to believe it’s me keeping her here.
“How’d it go?” I ask, both not wanting and needing an answer.
“Vito has a play coming up. A big one. He called it his last shot at getting made. His uncle think’s he a fuck-up, which he is.”
Summer’s tone is flat and inflectionless. She could be discussing tax law. I’m beginning to get this girl. At least a little bit. The less emotion she shows the more involved she is. I try and think how that relates to me. To…us.
“What’s the play?”
Summer sighs. Pops a piece of Nicorette in her mouth. “Didn’t say. Just told me he has a job for me, details forthcoming. I played dumb, told him I needed a specific date so I could work around my parole meetings.”
High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1) Page 15
