Mafia Devil’s Secret Baby (Vegas Vows + Vendettas #3)

Chapter 1

NINA

My body knows the men are trouble before my brain catches up.

It’s something primal, the way my shoulders tense and my grip tightens on the tray of drinks I’m carrying.

Two men in black jackets—despite the hundred-degree heat outside—move through the Rockland Bar and Grill like sharks cutting through water. Everyone else in the casino’s casual dining spot keeps eating their overpriced burgers and nursing their watered-down cocktails, oblivious.

But my nervous system? It’s screaming run.

I’ve gotten good at reading predators. Had to be, living with Eric for three years.

The men scan the restaurant with the kind of methodical attention that makes my stomach drop. Not looking for a table or checking out the menu.

Looking for someone.

Their eyes sweep past the tourists in their “What Happens in Vegas” t-shirts, past the group of twenty-somethings celebrating a birthday with shots that cost more than I make in tips on a slow day.

Then their gazes land on me.

Shit.

“Hey! Where’s our tequila?”

The shrill voice of the woman at table twelve snaps me back to the present.

She’s glaring at me like I personally killed her buzz, which, fair enough—I’ve been standing here frozen like a deer in headlights instead of doing my job.

I force my feet to move, weaving through tables toward her corner booth while every instinct I have tells me to bolt for the exit.

“Sorry about that,” I say, setting down their drinks with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be. Years of practice hiding fear, I guess. “Ready to order?”

But even as I scribble down their requests for loaded nachos and more alcohol, I’m hyperaware of the two men making their way toward the waitress station. Toward Jess, my boss, who’s suddenly looking pale as paper.

Jess hates me on a good day—something about her boyfriend asking me out before he noticed her, never mind that I turned him down flat. I’m not looking for another man who thinks he knows what I need. But the look she’s giving me now isn’t her usual petty irritation. It’s pity.

My blood turns to ice water.

I finish taking table twelve’s order and head for the kitchen, but my peripheral vision catches the men flanking Jess.

She keeps glancing in my direction, biting her lip like she’s about to deliver bad news.

The bigger guy—built like a linebacker with dead eyes—says something that makes her nod frantically.

In the kitchen, I slap the order ticket on the pass and try to breathe.

The familiar chaos of sizzling pans and shouted orders usually grounds me, but tonight it feels like background noise to the panic building in my chest. I force myself to head back out to check on my other tables, but the moment I step through the swinging doors, I see Jess beckoning me over.

My legs feel like concrete as I walk back to her. The men are still there, radiating menace like heat off asphalt. Up close, they’re even more terrifying—the kind of guys who break kneecaps for a living and sleep soundly afterward.

“What’s up?” I ask, proud that my voice comes out steady.

Jess can’t quite meet my eyes. “These guys need to talk to you. They… work for the casino.”

Bullshit.

I’ve been working here almost a year, and I know what casino security looks like. These aren’t the guys who escort drunk tourists to their rooms or deal with card counters. These are the guys who make problems disappear permanently.

“Hello,” I say to the bigger one, forcing that customer service smile I’ve perfected. All plastic politeness hiding the fact that my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Nina Walker?” His voice is gravel and impatience, like I’ve already wasted too much of his time.

“Yes.” The word barely makes it past my lips.

I glance around, hoping someone—anyone—is paying attention to this increasingly tense conversation. But the other waitresses are busy with their tables, and the customers are lost in their own little worlds of temporary Vegas magic.

“What can I do for you?”

The smaller one—mustache, hard eyes that have seen too much—grabs my arm before I can react. Suddenly I’m being dragged through the kitchen door, which nearly clips another waitress carrying a tray of steaming plates.

“Watch it, Nina!” she snaps, but I can’t answer. I’m too busy trying to pull free from the grip that’s already leaving bruises.

This is too familiar. The helplessness, the rough hands, the way everyone around me suddenly goes quiet and avoids eye contact. My ex-husband might as well be in the room.

“What the hell is going on?” Marco, the kitchen manager, rushes toward us. For a split second, hope flares in my chest—maybe he’ll put a stop to whatever this is.

But Jess intercepts him, whispers something that makes his face go white and his mouth snap shut. My hope dies as quickly as it sparked.

“What’s wrong?” The frantic edge in my voice is getting harder to hide as I’m pulled into the dry storage closet. My arm throbs where the guy’s fingers dug in, and the familiar taste of fear coats my tongue.

The big guy closes the door behind us with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the cramped space. Canned vegetables and bags of rice surround us, and the fluorescent light overhead buzzes like an angry wasp. I’m trapped between shelves and two men who look like they eat glass for breakfast.

“What’s this about?” I manage, rubbing my arm where he finally released me. My voice doesn’t shake, which is a small miracle considering my hands are trembling.

I’ve never been this scared in my life, and that’s saying something. Eric put me in the hospital twice before I finally worked up the courage to leave him.

“We’re looking for Eric Newell,” Mustache says. “The bastard thinks he can hide from us, and you’re going to help us find him.”

Of course. Of fucking course it’s about Eric.

My fear crystallizes into something sharper—rage.

Even several months after our divorce, that worthless piece of shit is still finding ways to drag me into his messes.

When we were married, it was bar fights, unpaid debts, nights when he’d disappear for days and come home reeking of cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey.

I thought divorce papers would finally cut the cord.

Apparently, I was wrong.

“I don’t know why you’d come to me for that,” I say, folding my arms in a gesture that feels braver than I am. “Eric and I are divorced. Have been for months.”

“We know.” The big guy sneers. “But you’re the closest connection he has in this city. You’re going to help us find him, he repeats.”

The way he says it makes it clear this isn’t a request. My throat goes dry as I weigh my options, which seem to be somewhere between slim and none. I’m cornered in a closet with two men who could snap me like a twig, surrounded by canned corn and industrial-sized bags of flour. Hardly an arsenal.

“Okay,” I say, deciding cooperation is my best bet for survival. “I’ll call him.”

“Do it. I want a location now.”

“My phone’s in my purse. I need to go to my locker.”

They stare at me like I might be trying to pull something, and yes—I am mentally cataloging escape routes. But Big Guy nods to his partner, who stays glued to my side as we leave the closet.

“I’m going to give Dario an update,” Big Guy says, stepping away with his phone pressed to his ear.

That leaves me alone with Mustache, who follows me to the tiny locker room where we clock in and out. He stays in the doorway, watching as I fumble with my combination lock. My hands are shaking badly enough that it takes two tries.

“Don’t think of trying anything funny,” he warns. “You can get out of this easy. Just tell us how to find him.”

Easy. Right. Because anything involving my ex-husband has ever been easy.

I pull up Eric’s contact and hit call, my heart sinking with each ring. At last I hear his familiar slur: “Hello?”

That one word tells me everything I need to know. He’s drunk. Of course he’s drunk—it’s a day ending in ‘y.’

“Eric, where are you?”

Long pause. “Nina?”

I want to scream. “You know it’s me. My name’s right there on your screen.”

“Naw, from my end just says ‘bitch.’” His laughter is too loud, ending in that wet cough that’s been getting worse. “Didn’t think you’d be calling.”

The casual cruelty hits me like a slap. Even now, even when I’m clearly in trouble, he can’t resist twisting the knife.

“Damn it, Eric, this is serious. There are men here looking for you.”

“Don’t tell them where I am.”

“I don’t know where you are! I need you to tell me.”

“Screw that. Those guys are bad news.”

His tone is nonchalant, like we’re discussing the weather instead of my potential murder. This is the man I once loved, who promised to protect me, who swore our wedding vows would mean something. The man I stayed with through blackouts and broken promises, thinking I could save him from himself.

“Why are they looking for you? What did you do?” My voice comes out shrill.

“I owe them money. They work for a loan shark.”

My free hand clenches into a fist. I should have known. Eric’s always been a magnet for the worst kind of trouble—the expensive kind that comes with interest rates that’ll break your legs.

“Damn it, Eric,” I say, my eyes flicking to Mustache watching from the doorway. “They seem really angry. I think they might hurt me.” I keep my voice low, but not so low that it looks like I'm hiding something.

“You’ll be fine.”

Those three words are a door slamming in my face. You’ll be fine. Like I’m asking him to spot me twenty bucks, not save my life.

Please. If you care about me at all, you’ll tell me where you are.”

“So they can hurt me?” He scoffs. “I’m not stupid.”

No, but he’s heartless. I knew that, somewhere deep down. But hearing it confirmed while I’m standing in a room with dangerous men hunting him down? That particular brand of betrayal cuts deeper than I expected.

“Maybe you can work something out with them,” I whisper, not wanting Mustache to hear. “A payment plan or something.”

Eric’s laugh is sharp and bitter. “You’ve always been naive, Nina. These aren’t the kind of people you negotiate with.”

“Just tell me where—”

The line goes dead.

Son of a bitch.

I stare at the phone for a second, part of me hoping he’ll call back, apologize, tell me where to find him so this nightmare can end. But the screen stays dark. Eric has made his choice, and it isn’t me. It never was.

When I turn around, Mustache is no longer in the doorway. I can hear him in the kitchen, and some waitress is giggling like she thinks his menacing vibe is sexy. Apparently, not everyone has my finely tuned danger radar.

His back is to me, and suddenly I’m moving without conscious thought. Every survival instinct I’ve honed over years of living with an abusive drunk is screaming at me to run. I’ve survived worse than this. I’ve crawled out of darker holes.

I’m not going down without a fight.

I sprint through the kitchen, colliding with Marco hard enough to send him stumbling into the counter. The swinging door to the dining room nearly takes my head off as I burst through it, but I don’t slow down.

“Hey! Get back here!”

Not happening. I weave between tables like my life depends on it—which it probably does. A tourist drops his fork as I streak past, sauce splattering across his “I Vegas” shirt.

I burst into the casino and immediately spot Big Guy near the entrance, walking back toward the restaurant at a leisurely pace. He sees me at the same moment I see him, and his expression shifts from bored to predatory in a heartbeat.

Panic floods my system as I pivot deeper into the casino.

The assault on my senses is immediate and overwhelming—slot machines screaming their electronic victories, cigarette smoke burning my lungs, the artificial chill of over-cranked raising goosebumps on my arms. Everything is too bright, too loud, too much.

I’ve avoided the casino floor for the entire time I’ve worked here, sticking to the straight path from the entrance to the restaurant. Now I’m lost in a maze of flashing lights and desperate gamblers, my heart hammering against my ribs as I try to disappear into the crowd.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder like a vise, spinning me around so hard I nearly lose my balance. Big Guy’s face is a mask of rage, and up close I can see the scar running from his left ear to his jaw. This is a man who’s intimately familiar with violence.

“Let me go,” I snap, but my voice cracks on the words.

We’re surrounded by people, but no one’s paying attention to us. Just another Vegas drama playing out between the poker tables and slot machines. In a city built on illusions, reality has a way of sliding by unnoticed.

Before I can scream or fight or do anything, I’m being dragged toward an exit I didn’t even know existed. The crowd parts around us like water, everyone too focused on their own temporary escapes to notice mine ending.

The alley behind the casino is darker than I expected, lit only by a single flickering streetlight that makes everything look like a noir film. The desert air hits me like a furnace, but I’m shivering anyway as both men close in on me.

Their faces promise pain. The kind Eric used to deliver when he’d had too much to drink and needed someone smaller to take it out on.

I press my back against the brick wall and try to remember how to breathe. The rough texture catches on my uniform shirt, and I think absurdly about whether they’ll dock my pay for damage to company property.

Assuming I live long enough for it to matter.

“Well?” Big Guy crosses his arms over his chest. “Where is he?”

My mouth is dry as bone, but I force the words out: “I don’t know.”

The silence that follows is the kind that comes right before the storm hits. And looking at their faces, I can tell this storm is going to be Biblical.