King of War (Las Vegas Ruthless #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Two years ago, a dangerous man made me a promise. Tonight, I intend to make him keep it. Because today is my eighteenth birthday, and apparently me officially being an adult is a big deal to some people. To him anyway.

I don’t feel any different today than I did any other.

No more or less responsible this morning when I woke up than I was yesterday.

Still just the same old me. Still a virgin.

The last person in my class to get laid if I’m to believe all the rumors—which I obviously don’t.

But still, it’s kind of pathetic to admit that you’re still in full possession of your V card when all of your friends have lost theirs.

Even Jenna, whose dad is a preacher and who isn’t allowed to even share a car to school with a guy.

So, this is it. My chance to collect on that promise. I knock back the vodka Jell-O shot, then slam two more for good measure. The sickly artificial grape flavor almost makes me gag, just as Levi Massey, superstar athlete and captain of the swim team, is walking past me.

He stops, flashes me a cocky grin. “Careful with those, Ellis,” is all he says before he saunters out of the kitchen toward the pool where the party is in full swing.

I mostly stay away from crowds when I can.

Something about them always makes me feel on edge ever since I got lost at a rock concert when I was five.

I don’t even remember the name of the band.

Just the thumping bass reverberating in my ears and the sheer terror of being a tiny person lost in a sea of giants with ripped jeans and leather vests, beer sloshing out of the red plastic cups grasped in their hands.

I ignore Levi’s warning and have one final shot.

More liquid courage. I might be a virgin, but I can hold my liquor.

My daddy taught me how to do that at least. I pull down the hem of my far-too-short dress, give myself a mini pep talk, and then head away from the party to the rear of the house.

It’s quiet back here, only a stray plastic cup sitting empty and alone on the third step any clue that there’s a party happening elsewhere in the house.

Then I hear footsteps coming toward me and when she comes into view I vaguely recognize her. I think she works at the nail salon—Sherrie. She’s carrying a drink in a glass, not a plastic cup—vodka and cranberry if I had to guess. Classy.

She almost bumps into me as we reach the foot of the stairs at the same time. “Where are you going?” I ask her. “Nobody’s allowed back here.”

She flutters her fake eyelashes at me, runs her tongue over her top lip, painted as red as the thong peeking out of her ultra-low-rise mini. “I’m expected.”

I shake my head. “Not anymore. Party’s out that way.” I jerk my head in the direction of the kitchen.

She tosses her bleach blonde hair over her shoulder and makes an annoying huh sound. “Not the party I’m invited to.”

“Consider yourself uninvited. Unless you’d like me to call for Mama Medici and tell her you’re sneaking up to her son’s room.” I nod to the glass in her hand—one of a set that Sofia inherited from her mother, and that she cherishes. “And you helped yourself to her best crystal.”

She blinks at me, unsure.

I’m certain Sherrie knows who I am. Or, more likely, she knows who I am to the Medicis.

I spent more time at this house than my own for most of my teenage years, and then they took me in completely when my father died eleven months ago.

Well, Sofia Medici did. I’m pretty sure her husband, Giovanni, wasn’t entirely thrilled by the idea, but I have little do with him anyway.

Sofia Medici is my legal guardian, and my homegirl.

Her and Giovanni are out tonight, but Sherrie doesn’t know that.

I cross my arms and wait for my nemesis to fold.

It takes a few seconds, but she does, rolling her eyes and stalking toward the pool, probably to find one of the other Medici brothers.

There’s another four for her to choose from, so I don’t feel an ounce of guilt about what I just did.

With her gone, I head upstairs and along the familiar hallway until I reach his room.

I suck in a deep breath, roll back my shoulders, push open the door, and step into Enzo’s bedroom.

He’s lying on the bed, wearing only a pair of shorts, hands clasped behind his head.

Bob Dylan sings softly in the background—“Masters of War” if I’m not mistaken, which I only know because it’s one of Enzo’s favorite songs.

I’m much more a fan of music made in this millennium.

“What took you so long?” He has a smirk on his face, but it fades when I step into the light and he recognizes me.

He was obviously expecting the girl I passed in the hallway, the one possibly crying into her vodka cranberry about now.

I lock the door behind me to make sure we’re not disturbed.

I’m sure his best friend, Tommy Fiorelli, is around here somewhere too, and I definitely don’t want him walking in on us.

“Rayne?” His voice is cautious, which is very unlike Enzo Medici, who is anything but. At least when it comes to everything but me it seems. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Collecting my birthday gift.”

He sits up, the light from the table lamp illuminating his torso, highlighting his sprawling tattoos, along with every hard ridge of his muscular chest and abs. “Shouldn’t you be at your birthday party downstairs?”

I shake my head, wrinkle my nose, resist shuffling my feet. “I don’t think anyone will miss me.”

“Not even Angelo?”

“Last I saw, he was headed to the basement with the Casey twins, so I doubt he’ll notice I’m gone. And as for everyone else… I’m pretty sure they’re only here because of him.”

This is my party but I’m under no illusions about why so many people are here.

I first met Angelo Medici in fifth grade and we’ve been inseparable ever since.

I’ve spent most of my high school life being included in things because I’m his best friend, or people wanting to get close to me just so they can get close to him.

The Medicis are Vegas royalty, Giovanni the loyal consigliere to Don Falcone.

But Enzo—the oldest Medici brother—is capo bastone.

At twenty-one, he’s the youngest in his family’s history to take on the role.

That means he’s basically a king. Most people even call him King.

Except his family and his closest friends—and me.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, you probably should go back down there.”

“If you’re waiting for that bottle blonde with the red lace thong, she won’t be coming. Sorry.” I shrug, faking an apologetic smile.

But he doesn’t seem to hear me. At least, he doesn’t react to what I just said. Instead, he stares at me, his obsidian eyes raking over every inch of my body. The silence stretches between us, uncomfortable and tense.

“Fuck, Rayne,” he eventually growls. “You really shouldn’t be in here dressed like that.”

My tight black mini leaves little to the imagination, and it’s not my usual style at all. It makes me feel itchy and far too exposed, but it is my eighteenth birthday, and, like I said, I’ve come to collect on a promise. “Dressed like what?”

He tips his head to the ceiling and groans. “Like you’re trying to tempt God himself into hell.”

“Do you like it then?” I ask, doing a little twirl. “None of the guys downstairs seemed to notice it at all.”

He stands abruptly, and my entire body sizzles with nervous energy. “That’s because you’re in my house, Rayne. No guy would dare even look at you without asking my permission first.”

That makes no sense at all. “By that logic, all of the other girls here are in your house too, and nobody’s asking your permission to do anything.

Pretty sure I walked into an orgy in the pool house earlier.

” I’m also pretty sure at least one of his other brothers was involved in it too, although I didn’t hang around long enough to find out.

Enzo takes a few more steps toward me, the apex predator toying with his prey.

At six foot three, he towers over me in the most deliciously dangerous way, and it’s enough to make my knees tremble.

Enzo Medici is a god, and I’ve been in lust, and probably in love with him since I was fifteen years old, when he punched a guy in the jaw for saying my ass looked fat.

“None of those other girls are you though, Rayne.”

“So?” My voice wobbles a little. He’s always been super protective over me, just as he is with his younger brothers.

I’m one of the family, as his mom so often tells me—especially now that I actually live here in his house.

I don’t know what I’d have done without Angelo’s friendship and Mama Medici’s love these past seven years.

It brings a lump to my throat, and I swallow past it because now is not the time to think about Enzo being anything like a big brother to me.

He trails a single fingertip over my cheekbone.

Somehow I feel his touch directly between my thighs, which seems a physical impossibility.

I came in here full of confidence and righteous expectation, and now…

Now I might melt into a puddle. “So I don’t give a damn if anyone looks at, touches, or fucks any of the other girls who are here tonight. ”

My heart jumps, fluttering behind my breastbone. He’s never spoken to me so crudely before. I’ve heard him curse, for sure, but never like that. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to quell the throbbing between them. It does nothing. “W-what do you mean?”

His head cocks to the side, and his eyes narrow to thin slits. “Have you never wondered why guys don’t ask you out again after the first date, or why they don’t try to do anything more than kiss you?”

Of course I’ve wondered, and came to only one logical conclusion. “Because they don’t think I’m hot?”