Chapter 1
Torch
Left. Right. Hook.
The heavy bag whines under my beating. The leather thuds picking up tempo as the chains rattle from the ceiling.
My knuckles crack with every punch, and the sweat streams down my back like a creek in the forest of my thoughts, searching for an outlet, searching for higher ground.
I swing harder as the image of Tobias Malducci glares me down.
The bag snaps back, then forward as if it’s trying to fight me back, as if he thinks he stands a chance. But I’m not backing down.
I’ll never fucking back down.
No one’s going to move in on our turf. Vegas belongs to us, to the Steel Sinners. We own the streets, the lights, the fucking air—and no mobster is going to take it from us.
Another hit, and my chest burns, the sweat spraying out. I throw a left hook and narrowly dodge the bag’s return when Deuce’s voice cuts through my maddening thoughts, yanking me from my fight.
“Yo, Torch! Got a sec?”
The bag swings free as I wipe the sweat from my brow. The leather can have a momentary reprieve as I deal with my brother.
“What’s up, man?” I reach for the towel and clear the sweat from eyes. The salt is burning—so are my lungs.
“Need a favor, man.” He hands me a water bottle.
Everyone always needs a fucking favor. I’m about shit out of patience when it comes to people wanting something from me.
With my notoriety in this city, people keep coming to me for tickets to shit.
They want me—The Exterminator—to use my clout and get them front-row seats at the sold-out shows.
Sometimes I’m not sure if people give me the tickets out of fear, or if they actually admire me.
“What’s that?” I ask, drinking back the entire bottle of water and gearing up for another round to work off my tension.
“Got Hemsworth coming into town this weekend. He wants to experience Elysium and get a taste of Vegas before he signs on the dotted line.”
That’s good fucking news. If we get him to invest that hundred-mill, we’ll be on our way to owning the entire strip. We’ll be able to build our empire around those mobsters and squeeze them out. No brute force necessary.
“So, what do you need from me?” Reservations at the most prestigious restaurants, tickets to any concert, invitations to the most exclusive parties in the city. I can get Hemsworth anything he wants.
“Hemsworth’s daughter has decided to join him this weekend. I need you to keep her entertained while I seal this deal with him. I don’t want her interfering with our business or distracting him. So, whatever you got to do to keep her out of our hair will be greatly appreciated.”
Me? I’ve got to keep an eye on her? What the hell am I supposed to do with the kid? I don’t know the first fucking thing about entertaining a kid. Let alone a little girl.
“Doesn’t she have a nanny or some shit?” I can just get them tickets to a chocolate tasting and to the circus. They can run all over town having a grand ol’ time. Why the hell do I have to be there?
“She’s twenty-one.”
Oh. Not a kid.
Although, that may be worse. I can only imagine what the girl will be like.
A billionaire’s little princess who’s lived her entire life with a diamond spoon in her mouth.
Maids, chefs, nannies all at her beck and call.
She’s probably a priss. Pretty, pampered, high maintenance.
Whiney and demanding. Been around enough heiresses in this place to know that their attitudes are for the birds.
I walk back over to the bag and get it settled for my attack.
“So, what the hell do you want me to do with her? Take her shopping?” Watch her sip her overpriced matchas while she gets her nails done?
He probably wants me to take her to the Britney show.
Just the thought makes my ears want to bleed.
I slam my fist into the bag and the leather screeches under my hit.
“Shit, I don’t know.” He shrugs, talking over my battering.
“You’re the entertainment guy. I’d say yes to the shopping.
Get her booked for some exclusive drop event at one of those fancy purse stores, then take her to some of those private boutiques.
Maybe get her tickets to the Pussy Cat Dolls or…
” Shit, don’t say it. “Britney.” Fuck, he said it.
“You could also book her a bunch of spa treatments. Just need to make sure she stays out of the way. Don’t need her distracting her pops while I close this thing. ”
Fucking fantastic. While he’s off getting to play poker and eat at the adults’ table, I’ll be shopping for purses and shoes, being forced to listen to screechy chick bands.
Don’t know why I got chosen for the job of princess wrangler, but the stakes are too fucking high for me to say no.
We need Hemsworth’s money. Which means—I’ll be lip-syncing “…Baby One More Time” with a fucking smile on my face this weekend.
“Yeah, fine.” I beat the bag harder. “I’ll babysit the girl.” I’m at least weathered enough with her type to keep my composure when she makes her bitchy little comments—which is probably why he chose me for the job. My patience is never ending while some of my brothers have no tolerance for brats.
“Appreciate it, man. I would’ve asked a prospect, but I don’t trust them enough.
They’re liable to say some shit that’ll get us into trouble.
” They’re more likely to spend the entire time trying to fuck the girl, which would really fuck us over.
Since I don’t have a taste for princesses, that won’t be a problem.
“Is that all, or is there more?” I grab the bag and turn, breathing heavy as I wait for his response.
I need to get this madness worked out of my system, then I need to go down to the spa and book everything Angelica’s got for the weekend.
This girl will be painted, buffed, and fluffed by the time she leaves on her private jet.
“Nah, we’re all set. I’m putting her in a suite on a different floor from her dad, so she doesn’t spoil his fun. I got him an escort for the weekend. Going to make every fantasy of his come to life.”
Lucky son of a bitch. While Hemsworth is getting his dick sucked by a pro, I’ll be babysitting his kid.
I swing at the bag, and it narrowly misses Deuce on the return.
“Alright, I’ll leave you to your workout. I’ll shoot you Evian’s flight info as soon as I get it.”
Another punch to the bag. Even her name is obnoxious. It’s like that fancy water rich people drink.
I let out a sharp exhale as my mind runs through a hundred ways I’d rather be spending my weekend—none of them are catering to a billionaire’s daughter. I hear the door bang closed behind him and I turn and walk over to my phone, wanting to see what this girl looks like.
Before I have a chance to pull up her picture, I see a missed text.
Roller: Yo man! I’m getting shit booked for the fight next week. Was told you’re next up in the ring. You up for it or you want me to get someone else?
After having to spend my weekend babysitting a rich brat, I’ll definitely be up for it.
Me: The Exterminator is always up for it. Who am I going up against?
Roller: So far, I’ve got the Barracuda and Crusher booked. You think you can take them both?
Do I think I can take them? I’m undefeated. Question is whether they’ll still be breathing by the time I’m done with them.
Me: All your money better be riding on me. You should find out how much their managers will pay to return them alive. LMAO.
He knows I’m not kidding. The extra payout comes with the biggest players because their managers don’t want to lose their cash cows.
Roller: Our members will probably pay more for you to return them in a casket.
He’s probably right. Our members would pay double for me to take out the biggest contenders in the circuit.
I put my phone down and walk back over to the bag, pulling it back into place.
I crack my knuckles then slam my fists into it, punching it harder with every hit.
Beating into it until my knuckles are raw and red.
The bag swings wildly, the chains whining like it’s begging me to stop.
I’m going to take those two motherfuckers down.
And I’m hoping those mobsters will have a front-row seat.
They’ll get to see who officially runs this city.