King of Sin: Las Vegas Syndicate Book One

by Michelle St. James

  Jason had been involved with these people for a long time.

  How much of his money had been made this way? How far back did it go?

  “Max,” Jason said, when he reached the bar.

  Max nodded. “This is quite a setup.”

  I wish I could kill you. I wish I could kill you right now.

  Jason looked around the room, his sense of accomplishment written on his face. “I admit, it’s unconventional, but there comes a time where we either stand on the sidelines of the world’s unpleasant truths, pretending not to see them, or we take advantage of the benefits they offer.”

  Max had questions. Things he wanted to say about Jason’s bullshit philosophy, which was strangely similar to the one Nico Vitale has espoused when they’d first met, although somehow pretty fucking different, too.

  He kept his expression impassive. According to the story he’d told Jason, he was here to have fun and unload stolen cars. Allowing himself the pleasure of passing judgement would be a detriment to the goal of shutting this shit down — and shutting this shit down suddenly seemed a lot more important.

  “Right city for it,” Max said.

  “Exactly. You submitted the documents for your wagers?” Jason asked without looking at him.

  “I did,” Max said. “Per the instructions.”

  “Good, good.”

  He’d submitted the VIN numbers via an online form supplied in the encrypted email. According to the instructions, the value of his merchandise would be calculated and turned into chips for the game. It made some sense with regards to the cars, although he still wasn’t clear how the calculations would be made for a single item — or god forbid, a person — of great value.

  He’d toyed with the idea of asking Jason, then decided to play it cool, assuming the details would be explained.

  Jason looked at his phone, then straightened. “The game’s about to begin. Come on. I’ll take you to get your chips.”

  Nineteen

  Abby sank naked into the hot water and sighed as Meredith did the same.

  “See? Aren’t you glad we didn’t go out tonight?” Abby asked.

  “Hmm-hmm,” Meredith said, closing her eyes. “Who needs alcohol and men when you can have a facial, massage, and hot tub.”

  Abby moved to position her back against one of the hot tub’s jets. “Exactly.”

  Meredith had asked her to hit the town — Thursday night was close enough to Friday for Meredith — but Abby instead suggested a couple hours at the Tangier’s spa followed by a quiet dinner.

  The wasn’t in the mood to go out, and spa privileges were one of the perks she loved most about her job at the hotel. She took advantage whenever she could, especially Thursday through Saturday nights, when Vegas’s party scene was in full swing and the spa was empty.

  “I wouldn’t get anything done if I worked here,” Meredith murmured. “I’d take hot tub breaks instead of coffee breaks, and I’d take them all day long.”

  “It’s tempting,” Abby said.

  It was especially true now. Her mind had been buzzing all week, full of Max and the perfect combination of friendship and desire that scared the hell out of her.

  She’d only seen Jason in passing after the conversation in his office Monday morning. He’d been cordial and polite, but she’d sensed resentment simmering under the surface of their interactions, a tightness to his jaw, a shortness in his voice.

  She told herself it didn’t matter — it wasn’t her responsibility to give Jason what he wanted when she didn’t feel the same way — but it still hurt. She’d always worried about ruining her friendship with Max by mixing it with romance. It was ironic now to realize it was her friendship with Jason that might be forever changed, something she hadn’t seen coming at all.

  “What’s on tap for tomorrow night?” Meredith asked.

  “Not sure,” Abby said.

  “You don’t have plans with Max?”

  Abby opened her eyes to find Meredith looking at her.

  “I do,” Abby said. “I’m just not sure what the plan is. One of the nice things about our standing date is that I don’t have to wonder if I’m going to see him every Friday night.”

  “I have a feeling you wouldn’t have to worry about that anyway. He seems into it.”

  She’d kept Meredith apprised of the progression with Max — the dinners he cooked for her and the stolen lunch hours, the movies and Scrabble games at home. It was all terrifyingly domestic, not because she didn’t want it, but because she did.

  “Maybe,” Abby said. “Probably.”

  “What about you?” Meredith asked. “Are you feeling better about everything? Less freaked out?”

  Abby laughed. “Define 'less freaked out.’”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Abby touched her mouth to the water and blew bubbles. It was a childish tactic meant to buy time. She knew what the problem was, had given it more than enough thought. She’d just never said it, had never said a lot of things.

  “Honestly? I think I’m mostly scared that I won’t be able to keep him happy in bed,” she said before she could change her mind.

  “What makes you think that?”

  Abby was relieved by the curiosity in Meredith’s voice, by the fact that Meredith hadn’t made light of her fear with something dirty or trite.

  “It’s not like I haven’t slept with people, as you know,” Abby said. “It’s just that I didn’t care about them, so I was able to keep some of myself closed off. I was also able to limit my… exposure.”

  “Your exposure?” Meredith put her emphasis on the second word. “What does that mean? You didn’t get naked?”

  “Not all the way. Not with the lights on. And I also didn’t let them…” She waved a hand in front of her submerged body. “You know.”

  Meredith was looking more closely at her. “See your pussy?”

  “Oh, my god, Mer!” Abby covered her face with wet hands.

  “What? I’m just trying to get to the problem here. Why are you being so shy about it?”

  “It wasn’t about them seeing it,” she said, “Although come to think of it, I never loved that either. It was about the… oral part of the activity.”

  “So you didn’t let them go down on you,” Meredith said.

  Abby sighed. “Exactly.”

  “Oh, girl… you are missing out.” Meredith sighed. “It’s the best, even when they get it wrong. Like, there’s almost no way they can fuck that shit up.”

  Abby laughed.

  “So… are you saying you haven’t let Max go down on you either? Because I have a hunch he’ll be better at it than most.”

  “You are killing me right now,” Abby said.

  “What? Admit it: he’s awesome in bed, from what you’ve seen — or felt — of him anyway.”

  Abby grinned. “I admit it.”

  “Knew it,” Meredith said.

  “How could you possibly know it?”

  Meredith waved off the question. “It’s obvious. First, he’s hot. Like, hotter than hot. But not douchebag hot.”

  “He was kind of a douchebag.” It hurt Abby to say it, but she and Max didn’t lie to each other, and they didn’t lie about each other either. He accepted everything about her. She had to do the same. “I think you might be hard-pressed to find a cocktail waitress under sixty he hasn’t gone to bed with.”

  “Sleeping around doesn’t make a guy a douchebag. Max has always seemed… gentlemanly, you know? Like I bet when he fucked those cocktail waitresses they knew it was a one-night stand. I bet he made them breakfast and called them a car the next morning, too.”

  “Ew,” Abby said. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Fine, then let’s get back to your oral problem.”

  Abby shook her head. “Is that what we’re calling it now? My ‘oral problem?’”

  “Yes, because it is a problem. And it’s about oral.”

  “Why does it have to be a problem?” Abb
y asked. “Maybe it’s just not for me.”

  “Call me presumptuous,” Meredith said, “but any woman who says it isn’t for her either hasn’t tried it, or has some kind of hang-up that’s keeping her from enjoying it.” She hurried to continue. “That’s not a criticism. I’m just saying, why deny yourself something so amazing, something that feels so good and will bring you even closer to Max?”

  Abby thought about it. She’d performed oral sex on men before, but it had never spooked her the same way receiving it had. It had something to do with the control, with the fact that when she was going down on a guy, she was in charge.

  It was so different from being spread open for a man’s eyes, for his mouth.

  “I don’t know,” Abby said. “It’s just scary.”

  Meredith hesitated. “Is it because of your dad?”

  Abby swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

  “I get that,” Meredith said softly. “I’m sorry, Abby.”

  “It’s okay. The thing is, I’ve never cared before. Sex was something I did every now and then, a nice enough release, but I was never really invested in any relationship. Getting over this one hang-up didn’t seem to matter.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I want to get over it. I want to be as close to Max as possible. I want to share everything with him.” She paused. “I’m just not sure I can.”

  “Do you trust him?” Meredith asked.

  Abby didn’t hesitate. “With my life.”

  “Then maybe it’s just about getting out of your head,” Meredith said. “Like when we do yoga.”

  “Are you comparing oral sex to yoga?”

  Meredith held up her fingers to indicate a pinch. “Maybe just a little bit.”

  “Fair enough,” Abby said. “So I have to pretend I’m in yoga class to enjoy oral sex?”

  Meredith laughed. “That I don’t recommend. You might just fall asleep.”

  Abby grinned. “Not with Max.”

  “Okay, hot,” Meredith said. “But moving on, maybe you just need to stop thinking. Stop the running commentary that might be running through your mind.”

  “What running commentary?”

  “Oh my god… he’s moving toward my vagina… he’s licking my stomach… I think he might be going to bury his head between my thighs.”

  “Who says I’m thinking all that?” Abby protested with a laugh.

  “Maybe not consciously,” Meredith said. “But it’s something to think about — just not when you’re actually having sex. Just… you know, breathe. Let go, give yourself permission to ride the wave.”

  “Ride the wave?”

  Meredith nodded. “Yeah. Just… ride it. Enjoy it. You already said you trusted him.”

  “I do,” Abby said softly.

  “Then what do you have to lose?”

  Twenty

  Max followed Jason toward the stairs. The room had cleared out while they’d been talking. The women were still there, sitting on the sofa and talking, somehow looking more natural without the men in the room.

  Jason led the way up the open staircase to the second floor. They emerged onto a a spacious landing surrounded by windows that made the house seem like it was suspended in midair.

  They continued down a long upstairs hall that broke off into two shorter halls. Max glanced down them, trying to get a feel for the secrets the house might contain, and caught a glimpse through a half-open door of a canopy bed covered with red linens.

  So it was as Max had suspected; when the men decided they were out of the game — or when they were simply out of chips — they could choose to partake from the beautiful women in residence.

  An illegal gambling den and a brothel.

  They entered a room buzzing with activity. Filippovic sat at a long table while a couple of men stood in line to see him.

  “George will get you set up,” Jason said, patting him on the back. “I’ll see you at the game.”

  Max got in line behind Chumak, who didn’t spare him a glance.

  He got the message: this wasn’t the place for curiosity. He had a feeling it would be deadly, especially for someone new to the game. These people weren’t amateurs. They counted on Jason to vet the players, to insure discretion.

  Max had been surprised when Vitale came to him. Now he realized Nico had been right; no one else could have gotten into the game without a significantly shady background verified through reputation and rap sheets.

  Max was lucky to be there — although he didn’t feel lucky.

  He reached the front of the line and George Filippovic glanced up at him. The briefcase sat open on the table, a pen sticking out of a nondescript ledger that might have been used by any accountant in any old-school business too paranoid to use a digital spreadsheet.

  “Mr. Cartwright.”

  Max nodded and Filippovic removed stacks of $100,000 chips from a safe on the floor and set them inside a small metal case lined with red felt.

  Filippovic was the second person who knew Max’s name on sight. Max wondered if Jason provided the same kind of dossier to his men that Nico gave to Max. It made him uneasy, the idea that these kinds of people knew anything at all about him, especially now that he had Abby in his life. He was there to protect her from these assholes, not draw even more attention to her.

  Filippovic slid the case of chips toward Max along with a piece of paper.

  “Sign to accept,” Filippovic said.

  Max scanned the agreement, a garden-variety statement indicating that Max had received the chips. He checked the total listed on the agreement against the chips in the case and signed the piece of paper. When he looked up, Filippovic was filling something out in the ledger. He closed it before Max could get a look at what he’d written.

  Filippovic took the agreement from Max and set it inside the open briefcase.

  “No names — first or otherwise — are to be used during the game. This is for your protection and for the protection of others. The chips you’ve been given represent the estimated value of your collateral. They’re color coded to you and your assets. Each chip represents fifty thousand dollars of each item being wagered. Bet them like you would cash. At the end of the night, the collateral will be split up according to the chips you’ve won.” Filippovic’s voice was guttural, his accent thick. “If the number of chips you have indicate a split, Mr. Draper will decide where the break occurs. In some cases, you may be required to pay a cash settlement for the difference. In others, you may be required to accept a cash settlement in lieu of goods.”

  The explanation was fairly brief considering the complexity of the game, but it answered several questions Max had been asking himself, the most important being how disparate goods could be divided in a poker game. He hadn’t been able to figure out how — if the cars Max was betting were worth $100,000 each, and someone won $75,000 worth of Max’s chips — one of the cars could then be distributed to the winner.

  Now he understood. The winner might be awarded one of the cars plus a $25,000 cash payment from Max. If the winner held $125,000 of Max’s chips, he might win one car plus a $25,000 payment from Max.

  He would never understand how sick these motherfuckers must be to enjoy this kind of betting to get their hands on illegal shit when they could just play for cash and buy the illegal shit themselves.

  “Are you in agreement with these terms?” Filippovic asked.

  “What about… merchandise with a singularly high value?” Max asked.

  He was thinking about Vitale’s mention of trafficked girls. How did you put a value on a human life? How did you split up a living asset?

  “The same terms apply,” Filippovic said. “An appraised value is determined by the house. Bets are made against that appraised value. If you get close, Mr. Draper most likely gives the advantage to you, requiring an additional cash payment from you. Otherwise, you may walk away with only cash.”

  He nodded, ignoring the turn of his stomach, and Filippovic added a slip of paper to
the case of chips before shutting the lid. “The game is about to start. Someone will direct you in the hall.”

  Max picked up the case and stepped away from the table. The room had emptied out during his interaction with Filippovic.

  In the hall, another man in a suit directed him to the last door on the left. Music drifted out of the room. This time it was classical, Chopin’s March Funebre. Max could only assume it was meant to be calming to the players, but the irony of the piece wasn’t lost on him. The Marche Funeebre — or Funeral March — was heavy and ominous, a fitting atmosphere for his mood.

  The hum of voices became louder as he approached the end of the hall. When he stepped through the open door, it was into a room lined with rich red wallpaper, heavy draperies blocking out an entire wall that Max could only assume was another wall of glass.

  The room was dominated by a gaming table. Alan Brooks and Aram Sarkisian were at the bar set up on one side of the room. Everyone else was seated around the table, reading a piece of paper or talking quietly amongst themselves.

  “All set?” Jason asked, coming toward him from one side of the room.

  “I think so,” Max said.

  “Good.” Jason indicated an empty seat at the table. “Please.”

  The other men hardly glanced at Max as he took a seat. He opened his case, withdrawing the slip of paper resting on top of the chips.

  It was a list of assets up for grabs that night, along with their corresponding chip color. He scanned the inventory, memorizing as he went so that he could recount it later for Vitale.

  10 tons 65% pure cocaine - White

  2,000 pounds 75% heroin - Green

  100 verified authentic social security cards and matching driver’s licenses (valid at least one year) - Blue

  500 underground resources kits - Pink

  200 misc. undocumented sports cars - Red

  1 Russian Rose, 19 years - Gold (20)

  Max’s eyes stuck on the last entry. What was a Russian Rose?