Surrender to Sin

by Michelle St. James

  Max continued to be surprised by the layers of the city he’d thought he’d known. Apparently everybody and their mother took bribes in Vegas.

  “Cash we can do,” Max said. “How detailed is it?”

  Carlos’s eyes were hidden by his sunglasses as he watched the road. “Everything they had — building, security, fire, transportation.”

  If the plans included everything Carlos mentioned, it was even more than they’d hoped for, encompassing every piece of the Tangier’s construction, every camera, every exit and sprinkler and fire alarm, every road leading into and out of the complex.

  “Will it be enough?” Carlos asked.

  Max hesitated, still in the habit of choosing his words carefully with everyone but Abby. In spite of his instincts to keep things close to the vest, Max had let Carlos in on the plans to eliminate Jason. As one of DeLuca’s former soldiers, it wouldn’t be the first time Carlos had been involved in a hit, and this one probably had more moral high ground than the others.

  But that didn’t mean it was easy to fork over the details.

  “If this isn’t enough, nothing is,” Max said.

  They didn’t speak the rest of the way to the Bellagio. It was one of the things Max liked about Carlos — he didn’t talk aimlessly or ask needless questions.

  They left the car with the valet and headed up to the Presidential suite. Max braced himself for Farrell’s smirking presence, but when the door opened, it was Nico who stood on the other side of it.

  “Max, Carlos.” He opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  Nico locked the door behind them — a precaution given the ever-present guard in the hall — and they continued into the suite’s living room. Max stopped in his tracks when he saw an unfamiliar man standing near the sofa.

  “Sean Bolton,” Nico said, “this is Max Cartwright and Carlos Rodriguez. Max runs the Vegas operation, Carlos is his underboss. Sean is with the FBI.”

  Max looked from Nico to the man named Sean and back again. “Care to explain?”

  “Sean’s one of our sources at the Bureau,” Nico said.

  The man held out his hand. “To be clear, I don’t work for the Syndicate. My first loyalty is always to the Bureau.”

  Max reluctantly shook his hand. “Hard to see it that way.”

  The man’s face hardened. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

  He had law enforcement written all over him, his dark hair cut short, a pair of aviators sticking out of his shirt pocket. His eyes were cautious and world-weary, the eyes of someone who’d seen it all, who would check for himself if you told him the sky was blue.

  Nico looked at Max and Carlos. “Drink?”

  “Not for me,” Max said.

  Carlos shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  Nico’s gaze dropped to the roll of paper in Max’s hand. “I take it those are the plans?”

  Max nodded.

  “Let’s sit,” Nico said.

  Sean sat at one end of the sofa. Carlos took the other end while Max and Nico claimed the two chairs on the other side of the coffee table.

  “I’m afraid we’ve had some bad news,” Nico said.

  “What kind of bad news?” Max asked.

  “Jason Draper turned state’s witness last night,” Sean said.

  “How does that work, given that Jason is the one who’s a person of interest in the Tangier shooting?” Max asked, trying not to let the new information rattle him.

  “He claims he has information about what really happened that day,” Sean said. “He’s insinuating you and Nico were the ones to pull the trigger on DeLuca and his guard.”

  “Ballistics won’t back that up,” Max said.

  “No,” Sean said. “But it opens the door on you and on your business.”

  Max heard Jason’s voice in his ear the night he’d called.

  See you on the battlefield.

  He was playing a game of chess, distracting everyone from the pieces he was moving across the board to protect himself.

  “It gives us a visibility problem,” Nico said. “If Jason gives them enough information to justify wire tap warrants and other kinds of surveillance, it’s going to be a lot more difficult for us to get to him without an audience.”

  Sean nodded. “It’ll take time, but that’s where this will lead.”

  Max looked at Nico. “Can’t our friends at the Bureau help?” He looked at Sean. “What about you? Can’t you do something?”

  He leveled a cold stare at Max. “It’s not my job to protect you.”

  “Sean is taking a risk being here,” Nico said. “This information is valuable, and we appreciate it.”

  Max nodded reluctantly, recognizing the subtle rebuke for what it was.

  Sean stared at him a moment longer before turning his attention to Nico. “We can buy you some time, drag our feet with some of the bureaucracy, but the minute Jason comes in for his first official interview as a witness for the investigation, the clock will be ticking.”

  “When will that be?” Max asked.

  “He’s scheduled to come in with his lawyers on Monday.”

  Monday. Three days.

  “How long after that until surveillance is a possibility?” Max asked.

  Sean seemed to think about it. “Conservative estimate? A week. Maybe two if we slow things down.”

  “Fuck.”

  Sean leaned forward. “Listen, everyone at the Bureau knows Draper was involved in the shooting at the Tangier. He didn’t win any allies by running, and it doesn’t help his case that he’s got Bruce Frazier’s security outfit trailing him everywhere. Frazier has a dirty history of his own — a history outside our jurisdiction, but still dirty. Draper’s a snake and a liar. We all know that. But it’s our job to follow evidence of any federal crime. I don’t think he’s going to lean too heavily on the shooting at the Tangier — he’s going to want to steer us clear of that if at all possible — but if he delivers actionable information on the Syndicate, we’ll have no choice but to see where it leads.”

  “Was that supposed to make us feel better?” Max said.

  “Not my job to make you feel better either,” Sean said. “But I’m telling you if something were to happen to Jason — something that could be pinned on his suspected unsavory relationships — no one at the Bureau would be shedding any tears, and my hunch is they’d be more than happy to slap a Case Closed sticker on the Tangier shooting.”

  “So we have a week, maybe two, to take him out,” Max said.

  Sean leaned back. “That about covers it.”

  Max walked to the big window overlooking the city. It was mid-afternoon, the sun glinting off the steel and glass of the surrounding hotels and casinos.

  “How secure is DeLuca’s old operation?” he asked without turning around.

  “It’s secure.” Carlos had been quiet during the meeting but now answered without hesitation. “The ones who wanted to stay have an incentive to remain loyal. The ones who didn’t have moved onto something else — and they’re not exactly the kind of guys to go work in a cubicle.”

  It wasn’t a guarantee, but it meant the likelihood was small that soldiers from DeLuca’s dead business would come forward to help Jason.

  It was something.

  “What do you want to do?”

  The question came from Sean. The answer came from Nico.

  “This is Max’s territory. It’s his decision.”

  Max scanned the city, spread out like a perverse playground. They only had two choices: give up on getting Jason and hope the Feds rose to the occasion, or go all in and stick with the plan of taking him out themselves.

  He turned around. “We have a week to find a way into the Presidential suite at the Tangier. I suggest we take a look at these building plans.”

  Thirteen

  Abby turned off the car and leaned forward, looking through the windshield at the three-story building in front of her. It looked unassuming enough, but her heart was still hamme
ring in her chest, every instinct in her body telling her to run.

  She leaned back and took a deep breath. There was nothing that could hurt her here. It was something she was choosing to do — something she wanted to do. It was just the proximity to her past that was terrifying, the possibility of being surrounded by kids like the one she’d been that was dredging up all her old feelings.

  She’d found the organization — City Lights Mentoring — online one afternoon in late summer. With no job and no schedule to keep, every day had started to fade into the next.

  She’d tried to keep busy, reorganizing Max’s cupboards and cleaning even when Nancy, his housekeeper, said the place was so clean there was nothing else for her to do.

  Abby had taken up cooking next, experimenting with different recipes, making elaborate dinners that took up space in the fridge for days, then moving onto baked goods, which Max said would make him fat.

  She even made good use of his in-home gym, expanding her yoga practice and adding cardio just to extend her time there.

  Eventually she’d had to admit that it wasn’t working. The activity quieted her mind while she was doing it, allowing her to set aside everything that had happened with Jason, the fire at her house, the danger Max was in night and day even though he acted like nothing had changed.

  But it was never enough. The moment always came when she was alone with herself. Then her thoughts came crashing back, and she would find herself pacing the house, tempted to run, to keep running until she ran out of breath, until there was no room for anything but her physical exhaustion.

  It was almost laughable. She felt like the last person in the world equipped to mentor adolescents. She’d had a rotten, dysfunctional upbringing, hardly knew what good parenting looked like, had been offered no guidance beyond the advice of Max’s father before he’d died.

  But the more she’d thought about it, the more it made sense. She’d figured things out mostly on her own.

  Maybe she could help someone else so they didn’t have to.

  She’d contacted City Lights and ended up meeting with their volunteer coordinator, a warm-eyed woman named Lydia Diaz. It had been less like a job interview and more like a conversation with a new friend, and Abby had found herself opening up about some of the challenges of her childhood.

  She’d received a call three days later inviting her to the next orientation session, but now that she was here, she couldn’t help being nervous. What if she didn’t know the right thing to say? What if she did more damage than good? What if helping some other lost kid opened up too many of her own wounds?

  On the other hand, wasn’t that what she wanted? To deal with everything that had happened to her instead of pushing through it? Instead of working so hard and fast that there was no time to think about it?

  She was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of her phone. She reached inside her bag, surprised to see that it was her dad calling from his landline.

  “Dad,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  It was just before eight a.m. and her father usually liked to be on the ranch early to help move the cattle.

  “Heading out now,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you that I heated up that frozen broccoli in the frying pan — with the butter, like you said.”

  “Yeah?” She was half expecting him to tell her he’d started a fire.

  “Wasn’t half bad,” he said. “Little chewy, but not bad with a lot of butter and salt.”

  She laughed a little. “I’m glad. Did you have any trouble with it?”

  “Not a lick,” he said. “And I have leftovers for tonight.”

  “I’m glad it worked out. Is there anything else you need?” she asked.

  “Don’t need nothing,” he said. “Just thought I’d say thank you for the recipe.”

  She smiled. “Not much of a recipe, but I’m glad you liked it.”

  Her gaze strayed again to the building where City Lights was headquartered. She doubted there were any kids in there now — it was a school day — but eventually there would be. What would she tell those kids when they asked about dealing with their past? To pretend it didn’t happen? To hide from it? Or to face it head on?

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We should probably talk sometime soon,” she said softly. “About… about everything that happened, all those years ago.”

  There was a moment of silence. “All right.”

  “I’m not looking to dredge up the past. I just…” She drew in a breath. “I think I need it to really move on.”

  There was a long pause before he spoke again. “It’s the least you deserve, Abby. You let me know when you’re ready. I’ll be there.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll talk to you soon?”

  “You will,” he said. “And Abby?”

  “Hmm-mmm?”

  “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Was just too much a fool to ever say it, to show it the way I should have. That’s all on me. Had nothing to do with you.” His voice had turned gruff. “Bye, honey.”

  His words echoed in her ears, a tempest of emotion and memory firing through her mind. She didn’t realize she was still holding the phone until hot tears dropped from her cheeks onto her collarbone.

  She put her phone back into her bag and wiped her face before stepping from the car, feeling, for the first time in a long time like things were going to be okay.

  Fourteen

  Max sat back in the booth and let his fingers graze Abby’s bare shoulder. There was something meditative about the stroke of his fingers against her silken skin. He was hard under the table, ready to take her to bed.

  They’d stopped by the Eastside Lounge at the Wynn Hotel and Casino after dinner. It had been Abby’s idea, and he’d had the sense that she hadn’t been ready to go home just yet. In spite of the bad news delivered by Sean Bolton earlier that day, it had been a nice evening.

  Max should have known if there was one thing that could set everything right, it was Abby. It didn’t matter what they were doing — sitting on the sofa at home, making dinner or eating out, taking a walk on the desert trails surrounding the house.

  She always set everything right.

  “I like it here,” she said, sipping on her drink.

  “I do, too.”

  The Eastside Lounge was a bit of old-school Vegas glamour amid the trashy modern glitz. With plush Art Deco-style booths and Sinatra playing in the background, it was easy to imagine it was 1950, Vegas still an island in the middle of the desert, untouchable by modern law enforcement, unreachable by the vast majority of Americans who either couldn’t get there or didn’t want to, owing to its reputation.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened today?” Abby asked, looking up at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled. “Come on. I did my part. It’s your turn.”

  He’d sensed something on her mind at dinner. When he’d asked about about it, she told him about her decision to mentor at City Lights, about her need for some kind of purpose while she was figuring out what was next long-term, about her conversation with her father and the imminent discussion of all that had happened between them.

  Max had been happy to hear her excited about something. The little house in the city had been her passion before Bruce Frazier burned it down, and while Max had been happy to give her time and space to recover, he knew better than most that purpose was important.

  Max was less enthused about her burgeoning relationship with her father. Abby might be able to forgive him for the things he’d done to her, for her fucked up childhood, but Max never would. He would be nice for her sake. He would go through the motions of giving the fucker a second chance because he knew there was no way for her to be whole without some kind of resolution.

  But Max would never, ever forget all the ways he’d hurt Abby.
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br />   “So?” She interrupted his thoughts. “I’m fresh out of stories. It’s all on you now.”

  “Jason’s turned state’s witness,” he said.

  “What does that mean, exactly? I mean, I know what it means, but how does it impact your plans?” she asked.

  He’d been vague about their plans to eliminate Jason, worried that she might still harbor concern for him, but she’d known something was up, had known he was talking to Nico about how to deal with Jason.

  “It’s a wrinkle,” he admitted. “It means increased scrutiny — of Jason and of us.”

  She was working to keep her expression impassive, but he saw the concern lurking underneath it. “Could you and Nico be in trouble?”

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “We’re a long way from that. The Syndicate is experienced and careful. Anything Jason knows is probably a holdover from his dealings with DeLuca.”

  “But you took over DeLuca’s businesses,” she said. “You and Nico.”

  “We’ve made a lot of changes. It would be challenging to connect Fredo DeLuca’s businesses with the revenue streams now being run by the Syndicate.”

  Not just by the Syndicate, he thought. By me.

  “So explain ‘increased scrutiny’ to me,” she said.

  “If Jason brings the Feds enough to convince a judge there might be something there, a wiretap isn’t out of the question, and other surveillance too.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be talking on the phone about that hit I took out on my yoga teacher,” she said.

  He tugged at a piece of her hair and smiled. “Are you really joking about this?”

  “Who said I’m joking?”

  He sighed and lowered his head to kiss her. “I’m glad you’ve maintained your sense of humor, but we have to take this seriously.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’m not not taking it seriously. I just…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “All the big stuff is falling into place. We have each other, the Syndicate seems to be giving you something important, I’m finally feeling like I might get some closure with my dad.” She sighed. “I just don’t want to sweat stuff that hasn’t happened yet.”