Chapter 1
1
Everyone has that moment in their lives when they realize they’ve truly messed up. This is my moment.
My plan was simple—go into Lucky Kings Casino, pay my father’s debt, and get the hell out of there.
The plan went straight to hell when a blackjack dealer dragged me off the casino floor and shoved me inside this room.
I hadn’t wanted to come here, but my father begged me. What he’d failed to tell me until we got to the casino was that I was going in alone.
“If I go in, they’ll kill me,” he’d said, his body trembling.
Since we don’t have all the money he owes, I believe him.
Everyone in New York knows the Lombardi mob family runs Lucky Kings. Those people also know they don’t take it lightly when people owe them money and don’t pay.
My attention whips to the door when it clicks. A pang forms in my chest, compliments of my racing heart, while I wait for whoever is behind it to reveal themselves.
Pound.
Pound .
Pound-pound-pound.
I clutch the poker chip in my sweaty hand.
The person behind that door will decide if my lack of funds means a lack of breaths in my lungs.
The door opens, a slight creak with it, inch by inch.
My pulse burns, and I suck in a breath, halfway on the exhale, when it happens.
The most gorgeous man I’ve seen fills the doorway. He's so tall that the top of his head nearly brushes the doorframe. He’s dressed in all black—from his suit to the button-up beneath to his shoes. The black of his clothing matches his thick hair and the scruff that extends along the length of his jawline and cheeks.
His face is a host of devilish demeanor. His chartreuse eyes—a color I’ve never seen before—burn into me with accusation, as if he already knows I’m short on cash. I look away and study the chip, nervous my eyes will confirm he’s correct.
He chuckles under his breath, a bully taunting their victim, and scrubs a hand over his stubbled, carved masterpiece of a jaw, determining my fate.
I’ve heard rumors, horror stories, of Vinny Lombardi, but never seen him in person.
People claim to suffer nightmares about him.
Say he’s done inhumane things.
Prosecutors complain no one will testify against him.
And now, I might be his next victim.
He shuts the door, bringing with him the scent of menthol aftershave and amber cologne as he steps closer.
“Are you Vinny?” The words stumble from my mouth as I lay the poker chip on the table.
“No.” His callous voice sends a chill through my body. It’s deep, cautionary, and cold as ice. “What’s your name?”
“Pippa.” I immediately regret telling him this.
I should’ve lied.
But my gut tells me he’d know if I did.
He snaps his long fingers. “Last name? ”
I hesitate.
“ Last name ,” he stresses, raising his voice.
“Elsher.” I nervously bite the inside of my cheek.
“Ah, you’re Paul’s daughter.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“I’m here to see Vinny.” I slap my purse on the table, pull the cash from it, and smack the bills down. “My father instructed me to give him this.”
Ignoring the cash, he casually slides his hands into his pockets. “Vinny isn’t here, so you get me instead.” He smirks.
“And you are?”
“Damien.” He rests along the edge of the table, too close for comfort, but I’d be stupid to push him away.
He collects the money, flicks through the bills, and holds up the stack when he’s finished. “Is there more money in that purse of yours, Pippa?”
I gulp, shifting in my chair and debating on offering him my purse, a lung, and the McDonald’s Beanie Baby collection my mother passed down to me.
Not that he’d get much from my purse. Some loose change, tampons, and a wallet with zero-balance gift cards.
“My father will have the rest of your money by the end of the week,” I lie, knowing damn well he won’t.
He scowls, staring me down. “Why couldn’t your father come here and deliver this pathetic amount of cash himself?”
“He didn’t want you to kill …” I pause to select a better choice of words. Don’t want to give the man any ideas. “Er … hurt him.”
“He’d rather I kill … or, er , hurt you?”
I draw in a shaky breath.
Damien drops the cash on the table before sliding off the edge of it and standing in front of me. “What if I don’t want the money?”
“That’d be”—I clear my throat—“ very kind of you.”
But what does he want instead?
Men like him don’t just kindly forgive loans.
He catches my chin in his hand and tightens his grip when I attempt to jerk away. I shiver when he brushes his thumb over my cheek.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I want instead, Pippa?”
“A high five?” My reply is ballsy. He could easily lower his hand to my neck and strangle me.
He raises my chin. “What if I said I want you ?”
I breathe in through my nose when he plucks his thumb along my bottom lip.
“Too bad,” I whisper against his thumb. “I’m not a means of currency to pay someone’s debt.” Tearing out of his grasp, I attempt to stand, but he cups my shoulders and pushes me back down on the chair.
His face hardens as he dips in closer. “You’d be surprised how many men would be perfectly okay with accepting you as currency.” He works his jaw, as if surveying me like I’m an item for sale. “In fact, as much as you don’t want to hear it, that’s how your father saw you when he sent you in here.”
My stomach tightens, and I stay quiet.
“Did that cross your mind?” He skims his fingers down my shoulder. “That whoever came in here would find a different way to make up for the missing money?” Each word is sneered and deliberate, driving the fact into my brain as deep as he can.
“My family’s safety was the only thing on my mind.”
“What about yours ?”
I turn my head, hating the truth in his words.
He pulls back, standing tall. “Get up.”
“What?”
“I said, get up.” When I don’t move fast enough, he stalks behind me and jerks my chair out from beneath the table as if I were weightless.
I struggle as he drags me up from the chair, forces me to my feet, and steps away to open the door. I snatch my purse at the same time he pushes me through the doorway.
He shoves the cash inside my bag. “You think of running, you won’t get far.” He stays behind me, a possessive shadow, while walking me outside.
The sun beats down on our bodies when we land in the parking lot.
“Where’s your father parked?” he asks.
I scowl. “I drove myself.”
“Fun fact about me, I fucking hate liars,” he snarls. “I watched you on camera before I came into the room. Saw you exit his car. I was only curious if you’d be honest. You failed.”
He leads me straight to my father’s red Volvo. The window is rolled down, and my father drops the crossword he’s holding when he sees us.
Damien doesn’t give him a chance to react before he sticks his arm through the window, curls his massive hand around the back of my father’s head, and slams his face into the steering wheel. The horn blares, drowning out my father crying out in pain.
“What the hell?” I yell, pulling at the back of Damien’s blazer to stop him, but he doesn’t budge.
He gives my father another steering-wheel face-plant, releases him, and steps back. My father pushes up his now-cracked glasses and scrambles for fast-food napkins to cover his bloody nose.
He grunts, dropping the napkins when Damien snatches him by the collar, tugging him closer.
“Don’t you ever ask her to do this again,” Damien yells. “Do you fucking hear me, Paul?”
My father violently nods.
“If I find out you do, your punishment from me will be worse than anything you can imagine. ”
My father holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Never again.”
Damien releases him. “Now, get the fuck out of here.”
Tension in my body loosens, and my knees feel wobbly as I start walking around the Volvo toward the passenger door.
“I didn’t say you could go.” Damien captures my wrist and tugs me backward, my back connecting with his rock-hard chest.
“Damien … Mr. Bellini—” my father sputters, blood dripping on his shirt.
So, he knows this is Damien, not Vinny.
“I won’t hurt her,” Damien sneers. “Not that you gave a shit about that earlier. Did you, Paul?” He says my father’s name as if he’d just tasted expired milk.
My father stares at him, speechless.
When his attention turns to me, a flicker of apology flashes on his face.
Not enough for me to believe he’s remorseful, though.
Damien keeps his hold on me, his fingers sinking into my skin. “You have until the end of the week to get us the rest of our money.” He smacks the Volvo’s hood with his free hand. “Don’t come back until you have it all.”
My father nods and slams his foot on the pedal. The Volvo bolts through the parking lot, a passenger short.
Damien whips me around to face him.
I glare at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He smirks, licking his lips as if he can’t wait to prove me wrong. I attempt to wrestle from his hold, but I’m not strong enough.
“Now, we can do this the easy or the hard way,” he says, dragging me through the parking lot. “I’d hate to have to shoot your pretty little face.”
People stare, but not one offers me help.
I talk shit as he hauls me toward the rear parking lot and straight to a blacked-out Range Rover. I up my struggling game when he opens the passenger door.
“We’re about to get to know each other so much better, Pippa.” He shoves me inside the SUV and shuts the door before locking it.
Ready to flee, I hit the unlock button, but nothing happens.
What did my father get me into?