4. Alina
4
Alina
An hour later, black canvas duffle bag slung over my shoulder, I walk through the front entrance of the casino Markus directed me to. My heart’s pounding hard, since it’s smack-dab in the center of the Vegas Strip, swarming with tourists and thousands of pairs of eyeballs. I feel exposed, and it isn’t just because my short black skirt and sequinned halter top leave little to the imagination. I might not be a stripper, but I’d quickly learned how to get maximum tips for minimal effort. I glance around, wondering if any of the people I pass are Enzo’s associates.
Markus told me where to find him, so that’s where I head. Through the casino, a distracting gauntlet of bells and dings from the slot machines, a low roar of conversation throughout the massive space, and shouts of glee or regret over the results at the blackjack and roulette tables. I ignore it all, focused only on my destination.
At the back is the entrance to the private VIP gaming rooms, and my steps slow when I see it’s flanked by two hulking, musclebound guards wearing matching jet-black dress shirts and trousers. The monoliths eye me, expressionless.
“I’m here to see Markus Madsen,” I tell them, raising my chin as I try to look like I did this sort of thing all the time. Totally confident, no problem at all.
Their gazes flick to the duffle bag and, without a change in his expression, one opens the door for me. I don’t bother with a thank you before I swiftly move through it.
I’ve already decided not to do more than what I’ve been asked for. Find Markus, make sure he’s all right. Give him the duffle bag. Then get the fuck out of here.
I can’t let whatever shit Markus has gotten himself into tonight become my problem as well.
Past the entrance is a long, dimly lit hallway leading to an open door. Markus appears in the archway and quickly closes the distance between us. His light brown hair is disheveled, his shirt wrinkled. There are purple smudges under his blue eyes, and the scruff on his jaw is at least a couple of days old.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says under his breath. “I wasn't sure you’d come.”
“You weren’t?”
“I'm never sure when it comes to you,” he says.
His words sting since I’d like to think they’re not the truth.
“The feeling’s mutual.” I shove the bag at him hard enough that he takes a step backward. Then I add, “Asshole.”
This would usually earn me a grin, but not tonight. It worries me.
“Did you look inside?” he asks.
“No. I don’t want to know what’s inside.” It’s the truth, even though a million possibilities had gone through my mind on the way here.
“Good.” Markus nods firmly. “Now, get out of here.”
It’s not like I expected a thank you. Or an excuse to get the fuck out of here at my earliest convenience. “Way ahead of you. Good luck with…whatever the hell this is.”
Worry nags at me as I turn away, a bit reluctantly now, and take a few steps before I hear a deep, male voice that doesn’t belong to my brother.
“Who are you?”
The sound freezes me in place. Three words, but I feel them twist right down to my core like hot silk.
I’ve heard those words before. That voice before.
Keep walking , I command myself. And don’t look back.
But I can’t move.
“She’s my sister,” Markus supplies when a deadly kind of silence falls over us.
“I didn’t ask you,” The Voice says. “I asked her.”
I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I’d stayed right where I was that night when Damian Russo had asked my name. Or if I’d followed my impulse to run to him after Enzo had hit me.
I guess there’s no time like the present.
“My name’s Alina,” I say, raising my chin as I finally turn to face him.
And there he is. My demon-angel.
No, not mine. Never mine. No more bad boys for me.
I note all the things I saw that night, and some I didn’t. He’s a little taller than Markus’ six feet. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Lean muscle. He isn’t wearing a suit tonight. Instead, he’s wearing dark, slim fit jeans that outline muscular thighs and a dark gray casual button-down, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and covered in tattoos. His face is angular with high cheekbones and a straight nose. I stare at his lips as they shape my name.
“Alina,” he repeats, sliding each syllable slowly over his tongue, like he’s tasting it. Tasting me .
His gaze snares mine, those cold, dark eyes flaring with heat. I swallow. He’s a forbidden fantasy come to life. Did he remember me? I give myself a mental shake. There’s no way someone like Damian Russo would remember me. And I shouldn’t want him to.
“She was just leaving,” Markus says.
Damian tears his gaze from mine and glances at my brother. “Is that what you think?”
“Come on.” Markus’s voice is thin and reedy now. “She’s not part of this.”
One glance at Damian tells me my chance for escape tonight has come and gone. I’d blown a clean getaway.
“What the hell is going on here?” I ask.
“We’re in the middle of a poker game,” Damian says, and the edge of a smile turns up the corner of his mouth. It’s a cruel smile.
Something inside of me goes cold.
I’ve heard about Damian Russo’s infamous poker games. Again, that handy demon analogy fits nicely here. Rumor has it that he likes to win at any cost. That he has a taste for souls. Whatever someone cared about the most in this world, that was what he wanted to bet for. What he wanted to take. There’d been a couple of really drunk guys at the Emerald just last night talking about a friend of a friend that Damian Russo had destroyed.
Damn it, Markus, I think. How the hell did you get into this mess with someone like him?
“We’re leaving,” I say aloud as confidently as I can. “I need my brother’s help with something super important. Come on Markus. Let’s go.”
“But we’re not finished yet,” Damian replies, before my brother can say anything. “Right, Markus?”
“Right,” Markus replies with a mix of pain and regret in his voice.
“Then let’s get on with it.” Damian holds the door open and waits until Markus, without another glance at me, goes inside. Then Damian nods at me. “Join us.”
“I’d really rather not—”
“I insist.”
He says it smoothly, almost pleasantly. But this is not a negotiation. My heart pounds as I glance over my shoulder at the exit back to the main casino floor. Both of the musclebound guards are now standing on this side of the door, silently watching us.
“You need to know something about me, Alina,” Damian says softly.
I hate that the sound of my name on his tongue makes things twist and tighten inside of me. “What’s that?”
His gaze narrows. “I’m a man who expects to be obeyed.”
I add that to my small dossier on Damian Russo.
Expects to be obeyed.
Son of Salvatore Russo, whose recent murder has been all over the news.
Brother of Leonardo Russo, the newly minted crime boss currently running Las Vegas.
A demon with a heart as black as his eyes, one who’s trapped Markus in a game that I know might mean the difference between life and death.
But that isn’t all I know.
I also know I’ll do anything it takes to save my brother.