Wages of Sin: Las Vegas Syndicate Book Two

by Michelle St. James

  “It was simpler in the beginning,” he said softly. “It was only me.”

  He was rewriting history. He hadn’t been alone in the beginning. He’d had Donald Cartwright as his mentor, holding his hand every step of the way, offering him counsel and even capital when he’d needed it.

  And he’d had Max and Abby at his side, rooting for him, watching his back.

  But Jason liked playing the victim. Even now, with billions of dollars at his disposal, he saw himself as the underdog.

  They were different in more ways than one, she realized. She’d always thought they were alike in their shared history, in their shared victimization as children, in the varying degrees of their success stories.

  But Abby had never seen herself as a victim. She’d had more troubles than most. She’d had more blessings than most, too. She’d had Jason and Max when they were kids. Had Donald Cartwright who’d watched from afar to make sure she was okay, careful not to wound her pride by showing her pity, but there nonetheless.

  She’d had Max, who always expected big things from her even when she hadn’t expected them from herself.

  “You’ve accomplished so many incredible things,” she finally said, playing to the story Jason wanted to hear, the one he’d been telling himself for years and years.

  “It’s different now,” he said, still facing the wall of windows. “Growth requires partnership.”

  “Partners aren’t all bad,” she said, hoping to draw him out.

  “Depends on the partner.” He turned to face her, the sun so bright behind him his face was momentarily lost in its glare. “What about you? Who’s your partner?”

  She held her breath, sifting through his words for their hidden meaning, searching for a neutral answer.

  “I don’t really have a partner.” She smiled. “One of many reasons I work for you. Having an employer mitigates the need for a partner, I guess.”

  “Count yourself lucky. Partners are a headache, as evidenced by our visitors Friday.”

  “You don’t have to tell me more,” she said. “In fact, I wish you wouldn’t. I just want you to be careful.”

  “That’s surprising,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “You usually like to know things.” The statement felt loaded with meaning she couldn’t identify. “Don’t you?”

  She tried to laugh off the question. “Depends on the thing.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted in the slightest approximation of a smile. “You were always discerning.”

  “How so?” She could sense him trying to make a point, could feel him circling something he didn’t want to come out and say.

  “You’re a thinker,” he said.

  She smiled. “Says the guy who’s built an empire.”

  A shadow passed over his features. “You’re just as smart as I am. Did you think I didn’t know that?”

  The words hung heavy in the air. “I never thought about it.”

  He nodded and headed for the door. When he got there, he stopped and spoke without turning to face her.

  “I think we both need to be careful now, Abby.”

  He stepped into the hall and turned toward the lobby, his words echoing through Abby’s mind.

  I think we both need to be careful now.

  Twenty-Three

  Max was laying in bed, his eyes on the star-strewn sky beyond the open terrace doors, Abby’s breath rising and falling beside him, when his phone rang. He reached for it quickly, not wanting it to wake her, and glanced at the display. The call was coming from a familiar number, although no name was displayed. He’d purged the contact from his phone years ago.

  He slid out of bed and started for the terrace, waiting until he was clear of the room to answer.

  “What do you want?”

  “You don’t sound surprised to hear from me,” Jason said after a brief pause.

  “I’m not. But I’m not happy about it either. You have one minute.”

  He leaned against the railing and took in the lawn below, the moon shining down on the desert landscape beyond it.

  “Harsh terms from someone who owes me five million dollars,” Jason said. “Although I suppose we could call it payment for your brief time in jail.”

  “I don’t owe you shit.”

  Jason’s laughter was soft, almost breathy. Max could see him, maybe sitting on his own terrace on the other side of town, maybe looking at the same moonlit sky.

  The idea unnerved him, and he walked to one end of the terrace, away from the door where Abby might hear him on the phone.

  “That’s something I’ve never understood about you,” Jason said. “Raised with so much money, so much privilege, and still uncouth.”

  “I save my good manners for company that deserves them.”

  “Like Abby?” Jason asked.

  “Keep her name out of your mouth,” Max said through his teeth. “Tell me what you want and be on your way.”

  “I think it’s time we meet.”

  The proposition took Max by surprise, but he wasn’t going to give Jason the satisfaction of knowing it. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Jason said. “This isn’t sustainable for either of us.”

  “Seems to me you’re the one in trouble,” Max said.

  “Seems to me you’re the one with something valuable to lose.”

  The allusion to Abby sent a rush of red-hot rage through Max’s body. “You are treading on very dangerous territory, Jason.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Jason said. “But for the record, this will be a business meeting, one that will be attended by your friends at the Syndicate, and Fredo DeLuca, of course.”

  “What does DeLuca have to do with anything?” Max asked.

  “It’s his money you stole,” Jason said. “He’s been compensated, but it’s important for my… reputation, that you clarify the theft.”

  “Sounds like a recipe for a bloodbath,” Max said. “And not mine.”

  “I can take care of myself. You should worry about yourself. And Abby.”

  “If you touch one hair on Abby’s head, you’ll be dead inside of a day.” Max was surprised by the calm in his voice, a counterpoint to the fury boiling the blood in his veins, the curtain of red that had dropped over his vision.

  “My life has less and less value to me as time goes on.” Jason’s voice was quiet, almost philosophical. “It’s my legacy that matters.”

  “You should have thought about that before you got into bed with someone like DeLuca.”

  “Maybe,” Jason conceded. “But what’s done is done. Now it’s time to mitigate the damage.”

  “What makes you think I can get you a meeting with the Syndicate?” Max said.

  “Let’s not do ourselves the disservice of lying to each other anymore. I understand why you joined forces with them. Revenge is a powerful motivator, as is the altruistic streak which has always been your weakness.”

  Max thought about the things he’d had to do in Afghanistan. About the way he’d behaved when he came home.

  “I’m hardly altruistic,” Max said.

  It felt confessional, almost apologetic, and he suddenly wished he could take the words back. He didn’t need to confess to Jason, didn’t want to give Jason that kind of power over him.

  But the pull of their childhood friendship was stronger than he’d expected. There was something about hearing Jason’s voice on the other end of the phone, about the intimacy of the night around him and the lack of Jason’s physical representation, that made him remember Jason not as the corporate shark who’d stolen his father’s business or the man who’d engaged in despicable activities for money and power, but as the boy Max had played video games with for hours, the best friend to whom he’d confided everything.

  “You do yourself a disservice,” Jason said. “You’ve always been altruistic. That kind of goodness doesn’t disappear from a man any more than darkness — however well hidden �
�� does. We are who we are. All that’s left now is to limit the damage to those around us, Abby most of all.”

  “It’s hard to believe you care about Abby,” Max said.

  “I do. Quite deeply, in fact. I wouldn’t like her to be caught in the crossfire of our dispute, and I think we both know that likelihood increases if things remain as they are.”

  “Why would the Syndicate want to let you off the hook with DeLuca?” Max asked. “Seems to me their goals are better met letting you twist in the wind until DeLuca decides it’s time for a new partner.”

  “I’m willing to concede my partnership with the DeLuca family, but I’ll only do so with my reputation intact. Nico Vitale and his associates — and you, of course — will tell Fredo what happened to the money. In return, I’ll relinquish my investment in my partnership with DeLuca.”

  “And then?”

  “No one knows what the future holds, but I assume Abby will move onto other opportunities — with a glowing reference from me — and you’ll go back to doing… whatever it is you intend to do. The Syndicate will negotiate terms with the DeLuca family.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll wash my hands of the whole affair, return to my other business ventures.”

  The idea didn’t sit well with Max. He hadn’t planned for Jason to walk away from what he’d done. It was hard to swallow an outcome where he continued to be the boy wonder of the business world and Vegas’s most eligible bachelor after he’d profited from the DarkNet games, from the suffering of others.

  On the other hand, without a resolution, Abby was in danger.

  I wouldn’t like her to be caught in the crossfire of our dispute.

  The threat was no less real for the fact that it had been implied, and Max didn’t for a minute believe Fredo DeLuca was the only threat to Abby’s safety. He sure as hell wasn’t willing to bet Abby’s safety on Jason’s supposed love for her. Love had never stopped Jason from getting what he wanted — not when he’d destroyed Max’s father or when he’d lied to Abby about the DarkNet games.

  And while Max was willing to spend his life protecting her, that was no kind of life for Abby — looking over her shoulder, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  No, she would never really be free until Jason was neutralized. This wasn’t the way Max had imagined doing it, but maybe it would work out for the best. Jason would be the bridge to a discussion between the Syndicate and DeLuca, which was what Nico had wanted all along.

  At the same time, there was no guarantee DeLuca would let Jason walk. In a perfect world, the meeting Jason proposed would be the first step in both a partnership between the Syndicate and an end to Jason at Fredo DeLuca’s hands.

  “I’ll talk to Vitale,” Max said into the phone.

  He disconnected the call before he was tempted to say something else. Before he was forced to see Jason not as the monster who had facilitated terrible crimes, who had caused Abby such pain with his lies, but as the boy Max had once known.

  Twenty-Four

  Abby pressed the button to open her trunk and stepped out of the car to collect the groceries she’d bought for her father. She’d spent the rest of the week after Fredo DeLuca’s visit walking on eggshells at work, looking past Bruce Frazier and the other giant in the office (who’s name she’d learned was Dean) and focusing on her work.

  According to Max, cash was no longer being dropped by DeLuca’s men at the casino, which meant the theft of DeLuca’s money had served to disrupt the money laundering arrangement, at least for now.

  The knowledge brought her no comfort. It meant that nothing was certain, that the terms of Jason’s partnership with the DeLuca family were in flux, that anything could happen at any moment.

  She’d looked forward to the end of a week with a giddy relief, grateful for the opportunity to be out of the office, to spend two whole days with Max. Her weekly visit to her father’s apartment even looked good compared to the last five days she’d spent at the Tangier.

  She lifted the three grocery bags out of the trunk and hit the button to close it as she made her way toward the building’s vestibule. One of the lights was out in the hall, giving it a dim, creepy feel, and she made a mental note to contact the landlord about having it replaced. It wasn’t the nicest place in Vegas, but her father was entitled to the safety of a well-lit hallway at least.

  She knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer, and she juggled the bags while she searched for the right key. She was about to insert it into the lock when the door swung open.

  Her father stood on the other side of the threshold. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” she said.

  He opened the door wider to let her in and she scooted past him, careful not to brush up against his body. She caught the scent of Ivory soap — the only soap her father had ever used — and Old Spice as she passed.

  She continued to the kitchen and set the bags on the counter, then went to drag the trash can over to the fridge.

  “Already cleaned it,” he said behind her.

  She turned to look at him before opening the door to the fridge. He was right: it was clean, the shelves wiped down and holding only unspoiled food.

  She hid her surprise, knowing he wouldn’t want her to make a big deal out of it. “It looks good. Thanks.”

  “Should have been doing it all along,” he said gruffly. “It’s not your job.”

  “I haven’t minded,” she said, reaching into the bag and removing the carton of eggs she’d purchased.

  She realized as she said it that it was true: it hadn’t been the stuff she did for him that she’d minded — it had been his lack of acknowledgment, his continued meanness, his refusal to say even a simple thank you.

  None of it would have undone the wrongs he’d committed against her as a child, but it would have softened the blow of having to wait on him in spite of those wrongs.

  He paced the living room, and she glanced briefly at him as she bent to load the eggs and a half gallon of milk into the fridge. Pacing was a habit she recognized, one her father usually only engaged in when he was on the wagon.

  “Been sober eight days now,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.

  She straightened. “Really?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  And there it was: a trace of the old bite in his voice, not that she could blame him if what he said was true. Eight days was long enough to be experiencing the withdrawal in earnest without many of the benefits.

  “I’m proud of you,” she said, picking up two packs of cold cuts and a package of cheese and putting them in the fridge. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He waved at her movements. “You’re doing it. You been doing it,” he grumbled.

  She knew better than to push. She’d attended Al-Anon meetings for most of her twenties, still went from time to time after a rough visit to her father’s apartment. The meetings coupled with her own experience had taught her that sobriety was a room entered alone by the addict. Whenever her father had tried to get sober in the past, she’d been in a different room, the room of hoping and trying not to hope, of wanting and trying not to want, of holding her breath until she thought she might actually die with the pressure of it.

  She’d learned that she couldn’t be in that room anymore. That being in it wasn’t sustainable. Her survival depended on detachment from his outcome, and his sobriety depended on his ability to stay sober without her support.

  “Let me know if there’s anything you need,” she said, closing the fridge as she loaded the rest of the groceries.

  She stuffed the empty plastic bags into the cupboard under the sink and headed for the bathroom. The apartment was unusually tidy: no empty takeout containers, freshly vacuumed carpet, the faint smell of pine-scented air freshener lingering in the air.

  She stepped into the bathroom, prepared to find a mess of used Q-tips and cotton balls, a sink and toilet that needed cleaning, but it was as clean as the rest
of the apartment, the tiny counter around the sink clear except for a tube of toothpaste, her father’s toothbrush sticking out of the metal holder attached to the wall.

  “It looks really nice in here,” she said.

  “Been cleaning to keep busy,” he said, pacing the hall. “You know how it is.”

  She nodded and turned out the light, then stopped when she noticed two boxes on the floor of her father’s bedroom across the hall.

  “What’s all that?”

  “Stuff of yours,” he said. “Found it when I was cleaning. Thought you might want it.”

  “What kind of stuff?” she asked cautiously.

  Her childhood and adolescence was a minefield of memory. She’d taken very little with her when she’d moved into her own apartment the week after high school graduation.

  There hadn’t been much to take anyway. There had been too many last-minute moves, too many midnight getaways the night before an eviction notice was served, too many hurried escapes from angry landlords.

  “School papers, some old clothes, few pictures,” he said. “Still going through the closet. There might be some more stuff in there.”

  She swallowed around the lump in her throat. She wanted to run from the boxes, from everything they would call to mind.

  But she couldn’t run from who she was. Not anymore.

  Running had been her most reliable survival mechanism, but she wasn’t a kid anymore. She would have to face everything that had happened to her if she really wanted to be free, if she wanted a fresh start with Max.

  Going through a few old boxes with her father — her abuser — wouldn’t solve their problems. It wouldn’t make anything right between them. Nothing would. Not really.

  But an acknowledgment of what he’d done, proof that she hadn’t imagined it, that it had been real, that it had happened, might give her some peace.

  And peace was something she wanted. Something she needed.

  It wouldn’t happen right away — certainly not now, with her father in the early days of sobriety — but maybe this could be a start, a stepping stone to the peace she’d been chasing all her life.