Chapter Two
Selene
Igunned the Harley into the Aces Wild parking lot at dusk, Vegas sky bleeding out in bands of blood-orange.
Neon from the casino’s front caught and scattered across my handlebars, flare-white and sharp enough to blind me for a second.
I killed the engine and sat there, listening to the V-twin’s after-rattle echo against cinderblock.
That sound always left my nerves keyed up, Dad’s ghost thrumming in every piston stroke.
I took a breath and tasted burnt oil, the tang of ozone curling at the back of my throat.
Only then did I notice the motorcycles crowding my reserved spots.
Not tourist bikes. Custom jobs, high-end, lacquered in deep-candy colors.
The backs of the seats were draped with leather vests.
I swung off and ran my hand along the tank. The old bastard gleamed even under Nevada grime. The casino loomed above.
The doors hissed shut behind me, and I was back in my kingdom, the familiar, humming heart of it.
The pit boss caught my eye, sweat bleeding through his shirt, a neck tattoo peeking out.
He nodded, just a tilt; I gave the same back.
It was old code, nothing showy. You don’t make a scene in your own house.
We called him Boss. He was one of my hires.
The scent inside was a blend of stale filtered air, cigarettes ground to ash, and the faintest mix of colognes and perfumes. I’d gotten used to the smell and the sounds. The slot machines did their work, a thousand voices in white static, never letting up.
I hadn’t gone ten feet before I felt all the security eyes boxed in on me. Then I remembered Marty’s text. Four women are in my office. Not a bachelorette situation. Something else, something that brought gravity.
I moved across the floor, past retirees gripping their players' cards with dreams of riches, past cocktail girls in matching uniforms, each one with that same smile, their Broadway dreams gone brittle. Vegas could make your dreams come true, but more than likely, Vegas dashed all hope.
I didn’t break stride. I’d learned to never move too fast, and never let yourself slow. You walked like someone who expected people to clear a lane, and most of them did. The back hallway led me to the conference room. Whatever waited, it wasn’t going anywhere.
The conference room door was cracked, just enough for voices to dribble out.
I nudged the door open with my knuckles, not sure what picture I’d been painting in my head, but seeing Stephanie Winters, also known as the Duchess, at the end of the table didn’t surprise me.
She wore a leather cut sharp as a switchblade, “President” stitched in block white over blood-red, the kind of patch that made statements so you didn’t have to.
Her hair was black and pin-straight, cut to frame a jaw that looked engineered to split glass. She didn’t bother getting up.
I’d seen and read all about her in Motorcycle, one of the few still-in-print bike magazines. I recognized the other women from the magazine spread as well.
Next to her was Goblin from Ontario, a tall, curvy redhead. The magazine had shown an amazing club logo tattooed on her back that any woman would die for. Her voice leaked sarcasm.
Across from Goblin was Pearl, the Phoenix chapter’s best shot; Pearl was all cheekbones and fake-lazy smile, cool and calculating, eyes blue and accentuating blonde hair that seemed to shimmer under the lights.
The magazine had pictured her firing a pearl-handled Glock.
In the story, she told how her father had taught her to shoot and not take shit off anyone.
The last was Calypso, who had a face you’d never forget and jet-black hair that paralleled the ink sleeve on each arm.
I’d read she’d won several awards for her ink work.
I’d also read that she was known for putting men down on the ground and making them beg for mercy.
All in all, I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of things when I walked into a room they occupied.
There was a moment—one of those silent challenges that always happens when new animals meet on the same patch of dirt—and then Stephanie spoke as if we were best friends.
“Selene,” she said, voice as cool as a dealer’s last card. “Come sit.”
I wanted to stand, to make them look up to me, but I was too tired to play at being a queen. I took the seat nearest the window, crossed my arms on the table, and waited.
Stephanie’s eyes flicked over me. She smiled; the others didn’t. “I hear you’ve been busy,” she said.
“I have a lot going on,” I answered and looked at each of them. “Four visitors from three states say this is not an accidental visit.”
Pearl smiled, slow and deliberate. “We miss Vegas. You just come with the real estate.”
Calypso slid a glass of whiskey my way. I caught the scent—Bulleit rye, neat—and drank half in one go.
“Let’s cut to it,” Stephanie said. “You’ve got a problem.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Just one?”
She looked past me at the mirrored window. “Word is you’ve got a Turkish problem. Or maybe a Zeke Smalls problem. Maybe both.”
Goblin stopped her knee bounce. “This isn’t just a turf issue. This is international now.” She licked her lips, too pink for her skin. “There’s a name, a hitter. Dark Shadow.”
The phrase made me laugh, which pissed off Pearl. “What, like a comic book?”
Goblin bristled. “I know what it sounds like. But she’s hit two other chapters in six months. Nobody sees her coming.”
Stephanie slid a phone across the table. On the cracked screen was a freeze frame from security footage. It was low-res, but the woman was distinctive. Shoulders like an MMA fighter, black hair cropped at the jaw, eyes that almost glowed in the grayscale.
“She was in your casino this morning,” Stephanie said. “Didn’t play, just watched.”
I leaned in. The woman was examining a chip tray at one of the blackjack tables, her fingers tracing the edge as if she were reading Braille. She talked to a cocktail waitress for exactly seven seconds, then moved out of frame.
“How do you know it’s her?” I said.
Pearl tapped the screen. “She speaks with an accent. Eastern, but not Russian. We had someone in the room run a facial recognition. She’s been spotted in Istanbul, Prague, and now Vegas. Always right before something goes sideways.”
I didn’t like the way the room felt now. Too small, too full of bad news. I thought about Mary being out by herself. She needed help. The casino needed more security.
Calypso’s voice was a whisper. “You got cameras on your chip room?”
I nodded. “Everything but the bathrooms. Why?”
She didn’t answer, just sipped her own whiskey. I got the message.
Stephanie leaned back, eyes on mine. “Selene, this isn’t a warning. It’s a courtesy. Someone’s coming for you. Maybe they want your casino, maybe they want you as a message to the others. Either way, you’re a target.”
I thought about the $1,500 in my pocket, the iron in my desk, and the way Mary Williams had talked about Zeke Smalls. “I can handle one woman,” I said.
“That’s not the point,” Goblin said, and for a second, the tremor in her voice betrayed a real fear. “It’s never just one.”
The room went silent. There was a lot of noise outside. A slot machine whirled with a winner, a barker blared on the PA, a spill of laughter that sounded like glass breaking. But in here, the only noise was the little electric tick of the old wall clock. Shit in my life was going south fast.
I looked around the table and saw what I needed to see. “Alright. You didn’t come here just to warn me. What do you want?”
Stephanie smiled, all teeth. “We want you to join us. Vegas needs a club president who knows the city. Zeke wants you out, and if he can’t buy you, he’ll break you. We want you with us when he tries.”
“A biker club,” I said, my head spinning.
The whiskey was starting to burn in my blood, and I liked the feeling. I’d missed this—the certainty, the thrill of knowing something big was coming.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, knowing that I’d already decided.
Pearl shrugged, as if she expected nothing else. “Don’t think too long.”
I watched them leave the room, four shadows with different gaits and speeds, all dangerous in their own way. Stephanie paused at the door, turned, and tossed me a poker chip. I caught it without looking, felt the weight. It was heavier than usual.
“A souvenir,” she said. “In case you forget who’s watching.”
She walked out. I waited a minute, then turned the chip over. The edge was notched, and etched inside was a phone number.
Outside, Vegas kept on howling, but now the sound was different. Louder, closer, and for the first time in years, I felt the old itch, the one that only came when a game was about to get interesting.
I pocketed the chip and poured myself another drink. If Dark Shadow was coming for me, she’d find out exactly how wild a place Aces Wild could be.
The minute the door shut behind them, I felt the afterburn. I stared at the chip in my hand, the notched edge cold against my palm. I didn’t like being played, even by women who knew the game better than me.
I was still rolling that chip between my fingers when the door opened again and Stephanie returned, this time alone.
She didn’t bother to sit. “You’re not taking this seriously,” she said.
“Is that right?” I said, tossing the chip back on the table. “Because I haven’t called the cops, shut down the floor, or run screaming into witness protection?”
She smirked. “Because you think it’s about ego. You think if you out-stubborn Zeke and his crew, you win.”