All or Nothing (Romano Family Mafia #1)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Dominic

I tap my fingers on the lacquered mahogany of my desk. I’m displeased with the recently delivered financial statement before me. Someone is using my casino as a cash cow, raking in winnings without paying in as much as they should. Usually, we’d dismiss this as luck. But after months of the same names earning the same way, I suspect it’s more than a coincidence.

“Who do you think they are?” My voice remains even, disinterested to the untrained ear, but the man panicking in front of me understands. This is the version of Dominic Tariello that’s most deadly.

Lucas, I think his name is, lifts his hand as if to run it through his gelled, black hair but then seems to think better of the nervous tick and fists it by his side. “Couple of kids from California. They’re in a master’s program for mathematics. They learned how to count cards.”

I hum. Little shits. “Why isn’t Marco here telling me this?” It’s not that Lucas doesn’t have the information I requested; he does, but the five-foot-ten baby-faced man is what some would call a soldier—the bottom of the barrel, someone trying to prove themselves to me. Here, in my casino, I refer to men like him as security associates. Their captain, my brother Marco, is the head of security.

“He’s . . . busy?” Lucas’s voice cracks as my brows shoot up. No one, I mean fucking no one, is too busy to see me when requested.

I sneer and wave Lucas out of my office before he pisses himself and I have to get my carpet steam cleaned.

“Thank you, Mr. Tariello.” He rushes out the door, slamming it behind him in his desire to escape.

Sighing, I rub a hand across my face and turn my chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. From the twenty-fifth floor of my hotel, one of the largest in Las Vegas, my view of The Strip is incomparable. It’s midday now, so the glitz and glamour of the nighttime lights are overshadowed by the desert sun, but the bustle of tourists never stops. I watch the tiny figures of my clientele as they leave and enter the property.

Card counters. What a bunch of punks. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with situations like this. No, I’ve witnessed it all after a decade of living here and overseeing Il Palazzo.

I’ve committed it all.

I lean across the expanse of my desk and hit my intercom. “Sophie, track down my fucking brother.”

My secretary is smart, chirping back, “Yes, sir,” without further question. She knows I expect Marco to be in my office within the hour. I’m not above taking him to our interrogation rooms downstairs and breaking out my brass knuckles if I think he’s fucking around instead of working.

I flip through the stack of papers Lucas delivered, double-checking the math and growling when I see the final numbers. We’ve lost $567, 955 in the past two months because of these card-counting fuckers. At least I know it’s not just happening in my casino. My father told me it’s happening in his two as well.

See, in Las Vegas, gambling is a family business. You have the gamblers who marry other gamblers and have kids who grow up to gamble. If we’re lucky, they move to the city of sin to waste their savings because of some fantasy about winning it big. Then you’ve got the men like me and my father, who take that money and feed into gamblers’ delusions.

My grandfather, Roberto Romano—a captain sent from la famiglia in New York when the desert started booming with life—was among the first to capitalize on this trend. “A legal way to do the illegal” is what he always said. My father, Vincent Tariello, married into the family after Roberto took him under his wing as an associate and then a captain. Soon, my grandfather learned that Vincent had fallen in love with his daughter and they were expecting me. Shotgun wedding at a Vegas chapel. How original.

When my grandfather passed six years ago, he split his empire, leaving two hotel casinos to my father and one to me with the expectation that I would build the Romano-Tariello name and continue expanding. I’m making good on that expectation. My new property broke ground last month.

My intercom buzzes, and Sophie says, “Marco’s on his way.”

I try to cool down before he gets to the office, bringing my laptop to life and checking emails. But that only makes my blood pressure skyrocket. The goddamn headlining show in the Venice Theater downstairs is over budget again. I thought I made it clear to the artistic director that there would be hell to pay if he couldn’t get his stage director in line. I might be making a trip to an interrogation room after all.

Knocks sound on my door as the burly shape of my brother appears on the other side of the frosted glass .

“Come in,” I call out, leaning back in my leather chair and steepling my fingers in front of my chest.

“Hey, Dom, what’s up?” Marco walks in, shoving his hands in his pockets as the door shuts behind him.

I narrow my eyes, analyzing the tells that let me know exactly what was more important than the meeting he had scheduled with me.

His curly brown hair is ruffled. Even cropped short, it’s messy. His tie is slightly askew, and the second button on his shirt is undone. His tailored dress slacks are crumpled as if recently tossed into a ball, and his suit jacket is nowhere in sight.

“Were you fucking Amanda?” I scoff. His fiancée is our head of HR, and Jesus, those two could not be more of a human resources nightmare.

He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk, and I wonder how pissed our mother would be if I pulled my Smith and Wesson from my waistband and put a bullet in his thigh.

My tongue traces over my teeth as I seethe, trying to decide what the fuck to do with him. “You sent a soldier to do your work.”

“Now, wait a minute, Dom.” He throws his hands up, palms out, as I glare. He’s going to get the shit kicked out of him just for using that damn nickname I hate. “Lucas is an up-and-comer. I gave him the job on purpose. I wanna see what he’s capable of, and I wanted to get your impression before I promoted him.”

“He’s a scared little pussy.”

“He’s useful when the ladies get out of control—got that good-guy vibe. They eat it up. Remember the catfight last week near the dollar slots? He’s the one that ended it. Even got handed one of the chick’s phone numbers.”

“So, what?” I laugh. “You want to make him head of out-of-control bitch fights? ”

Marco sits in one of the brown leather armchairs in front of my desk, no longer fearing bodily harm. “Something like that. Figured I could make him a security lead. Bitch fights being his specialty.”

“I’ll trust you. But next time you send someone else to do your work —”

“Yeah, got it. You wanna hear bad news from me. Wonderful.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and I realize he’s missing his socks. “What are you gonna do about the card-counting math freaks?”

“Did Dad tell you they’re hitting him up too?” I ask.

Marco nods.

“Next time they enter a Tariello casino, we’re taking them to the warehouse.”

“Fun. Do I get to go?” His foot drops to the floor as he leans forward, excited about the prospect of a trip to the old warehouse halfway to Lake Mead. The Romano-Tariello family has nullified threats there for decades, but we no longer use the lake as a dumping ground. My modern methods don’t leave any body parts behind to dump.

I place my palm on my desktop and level him with a look. “If you’re not too busy fucking your fiancée.”

“Oh, come on, Dom. You didn’t see her today. Tight skirt, red lips . . . Jesus, the fucking blow job.” He brings his fingers to his lips, kissing the tips to tell me how fucking splendid his blow job was.

My face twists in disgust. I don’t want to hear any more. “You’re missing your socks.”

“Casualties of war.” He grins.

“We’ve got another issue.” I ignore him and turn back to my computer, my anger flaring as I see the fifty-thousand- dollar discrepancy with Zachary Miller’s disastrous show downstairs. “The show is over budget again.”

Marco cocks a brow. “We need to pay them a visit?”

I groan, because the last thing I want to do today is visit Miller. He’s the kind of jackass that uses “slay queen” unironically and makes innuendos about getting into my Armani slacks. Fuck no. I’ve considered banging every showgirl on his stage just to get the damn message across. I’m into cunts, not cocks.

Before we go downstairs, I tell Marco to stop by his penthouse to pull his shit together. When he returns, the second button on his shirt is still undone, and I have to point it out. I also smack his cheek in warning. He can’t be running around like some college kid chasing pussy. We’ve got a reputation to uphold.

Slipping into my suit jacket, I lock my office door and nod at Sophie as we pass. She’s a pretty girl, twenty-four, with nice tits, shoulder-length blonde hair, and a perky nose that plastic surgeons get paid a shit ton of money to replicate. But unlike Marco, I avoid the mess of office flings.

Our elevator quickly descends as we don’t stop on guest floors, only the twenty-fifth where our offices are and the twenty-sixth for our penthouses. The doors open on the first floor to a side lobby only accessible by key card. Marco holds the lobby door open as I slip into my busy casino. Classic Italian decor greets me. Everything from the distressed gold accents to the marble floors screams luxury. The soft glow from chandeliers overhead casts light over replications of famous paintings and statues.

I breathe deep, loving the scent of money and the expensive perfumes women wear when visiting Il Palazzo. Buttoning my jacket, I pass the high roller blackjack tables. Marco follows, his eyes missing nothing. He’s my right-hand man for a reason. He’s fucking observant .

We walk through the casino with purpose, eyes and heads turning toward us as patrons work to decipher the men in the expensive suits. We intimidate, I know that, but according to our mother, people, especially women, stare for other reasons. She tells us that Tariello men are gorgeous. I think that’s an adjective used when describing a chick.

One thing I know for sure is Marco’s not fucking gorgeous. I guess he’s good-looking enough to score a hot piece of ass like Amanda. But the two of us are opposites in a lot of ways. The only thing similar is our height. I’m an inch shorter than him at six-foot-three, but where he’s stocky, I’m lean. Don’t get me wrong, I’m strong enough to fuck you up. I run and lift weights, and I’ve got biceps and defined abs, but I’m not a fucking caveman. My face is more angular, whereas his is rounder. My eyes are hazel green, and his are brown. And my hair? Well, fuck. Just forget my hair. I’m in a constant battle to tame the wavy disarray of espresso brown.

Marco slows, holding his arm out to block my path. “Check out the dude in the Tommy Bahama on our left,” he whispers.

I spot the man immediately. He’s around seventy with curly gray hair. He’s reaching to accept a Manhattan from a cocktail waitress dressed in our signature white-and-gold, eye-catching uniform consisting of a short skirt and lots of cleavage. But the blonde in the red dress draping herself over his shoulder has me chuckling. The guy is wearing socks and sandals. He’s some midwestern tourist who’s got no idea he’s about to pay five hundred dollars for half an hour with a call girl.

“You wanna put Lucas on it? According to you, he’s good with the ladies,” I snark.

Marco catches himself before he disrespects me by rolling his eyes. “Nah, I’ll deal with this one. That’s Ruby. She’s a repeat offender.” Say what you will about Vegas, but what happens in my casino doesn’t always stay in my casino. We’re known for being top-of-the-line in everything. If you’re a high roller that needs call-to-order pussy in my hotel, you’re getting something a lot better than herpes-infested Ruby .

Marco has her by the arm and is talking to his team in his earpiece before Mr. Hawaiian Shirt knows what hit him. I lean against the nearby Mediterranean-themed Capri bar, watching the scene unfold with a satisfied smirk. Marco drags the girl to an employee-only area and hands her off to a couple of his guys.

“She’s a sweet talker, that one,” he says as he rejoins me. The bartender has already placed two tumblers of McCallan on the bar top for us. My employees are well trained. “Told me she’d give me an hour free if I let her work the floor tonight.”

“What are you doing with her?”

“Dropping her off at Michael’s.”

I snort into my drink. Michael Ryan is a friendly rival of ours; his hotel backs up to one of my father’s, and we’ve dueled over clientele for years.

We push away from the bar and continue past the slots—where a group of bachelorettes cheers over a hundred-dollar win—and walk toward the entrance of the Venice Theater. Marco pulls out his key card, unlocking a set of double doors and allowing us entry.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark theater. Stage lights flicker as the crew rehearses cues, shouting instructions to each other. A few of the dancers are on stage, warming up and stretching. It’s easy to get distracted by their long legs kicking above their heads and the tiny shorts and sports bras they practice in, but again, I don’t screw around with employees.

I spot Olivia, the stage manager, walking up one of the aisles between a set of dining tables. I lift an arm, alerting her to my presence .

“Oh. Mr. Tariello! And Mr. Tariello. Are you here to watch rehearsal?” She wrings her hands, caught off guard because it’s not often we make personal visits to the theater. Fuck, I can’t even remember the last time I watched a show here.

“Where’s Jason?” I place my drink on a table and shift my sleeves, tugging on my cufflinks. It’s a move I learned years ago from my grandfather. Used subtly, it’s powerful intimidation.

She sucks in a breath, eyes scanning the dimly lit audience for the artistic director. “He might be backstage.”

I stare at her, waiting while she shoves her hands into the pockets of her black cargo pants. Her chin-length blue hair swishes when she glances toward the stage, clearly hoping Jason will appear out of thin air. “You maybe want to go find him?” I snap, holding my arm toward the stairs that lead to the wings.

She gives us a weird bow and a, “Right away,” before running to track down her boss.

“Well, that was fucking hilarious,” Marco says, checking out the long legs and big tits on the stage. I don’t remind him that he was just fucking my head of HR—his fiancée.

Clapping and a high-pitched, “All right, ladies!” makes me turn toward the stage and cringe. Miller is here.

“We’ve got fresh blood today.” He’s wearing gray sweatpants with purple leg warmers and a crop top. I’m shocked he hasn’t tried to work himself into the show by now. “Y’all help her, because Lordy knows I’m not slowing down for anyone!” He claps three times and barks for the girls to get in their rows.

Shaking my head to rid it of the high kick I see Miller attempt, I turn to Jason, who’s rushing up to me, wringing his hands.

“Mr. Tariello, how can I help you?”

I pause momentarily, my eyes narrowing as I watch him sweat. No, seriously, there are literal beads of sweat forming under his blatant hair plugs, and I wonder if I can wait him out so long they’ll drip down his toucan-beak nose. “Care to explain why you were twenty-five grand over budget last month?”

“Uh, well.” He reaches up and tugs at his collar then attempts to play it off like he’s got an itch at the side of his neck. “Have you seen the show recently?”

“That’s not an answer.” I’m getting irritated, and I let it seep into my tone. I better get an answer quickly, or the best-case scenario for Jason is he’s walking out of here without a job. Worst-case, he’s rolled out on a gurney.

“Mr. Miller wanted to add those pyrotechnics, and then, of course, we had the incident with the stallion riding on stage and the showgirl who sued for negligence . . .”

“ What the fuck? ” I’m loud enough to disrupt Miller’s counting onstage. I make the mistake of glancing over and earn a spirit finger wave from him. Gritting my teeth, I turn back to Jason. “What lawsuit? Why am I just hearing about this now?”

He shifts his weight from heel to heel as if he’ll somehow find a comfortable way to explain his bullshit. “It was filed yesterday. To avoid it, we tried to pay her for her time off and her medical bills.”

“What the fuck happened to her?”

“The horse trampled her leg. Broke it.”

“ Why the fuck was there a horse? ” I’m screaming now, and Marco’s fucking chuckling. I’m sure he will tell me later that the vein running through my forehead was popping out. He finds that shit hilarious.

Someone snaps, and I roll my eyes because I know exactly who it is. “The horse was an artistic decision that I stand by.” Miller has stopped his rehearsal to face us, propping his hand on his hip. “It is not my fault Bianca didn’t know her choreography and spooked him. ”

“This is awesome,” Marco hisses. Someday, I will have to shoot my fucking brother so he learns when to shut up.

“No more horses,” I demand, pointing Jason in the face. “You pass everything new by me from now on, and you don’t say yes to this asshole until something is approved, do you understand?” Jason nods, his face pales, and a sweat bead rolls down his temple. “As for the lawsuit, I want it on my desk immediately to get my lawyer on top of it.”

Done with the fucking nonsense in this damn theater, I retrieve my drink from the table and take a deep pull. It burns, calming me with the fire rolling down my throat. Marco tells Jason to scram while my eyes scan the stage, looking for another egregious expense I need to cut.

My glass is halfway to my mouth for a second sip when I spot her. She’s the shortest one up there, five-six maybe, but she’s got these lines—toned legs that stretch for miles, tits that bounce alluringly with her movement, and a trim waist with a belly button piercing that sparkles when she moves in the light. Her short shorts and cropped top do little to cover her dancer’s body, and for the first time in years, I think I ought to check out the show.

“The new brunette is hot.” Marco’s next to me, smirking.

“Hands off.” I surprise myself when I release the words in a growl.

“Hey, I’m getting married.” He laughs. “I’m just saying.” He throws a palm up as he turns down the aisle to head out of the theater.

I take one last glance at the siren up on stage. This time, she’s looking straight back at me. There’s a depth in her amber eyes that, for a moment, makes me want to drown in her. I want to know where she’s from and what she’s doing on a stage in Vegas because no one’s dream is to end up here. But then she’s looking at her feet because she kicked the chick next to her, and both are struggling to keep their footing. My brunette reaches out to catch herself but uses another girl’s hair as a handle, and suddenly, all three are screaming before they hit the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Jesus, that’s some funny shit.

Marco’s laughing from the doorway while I try to keep my shit together. I can hear the sound and lighting crew cracking up in the box overhead.

As I slip back into the casino, I text Sophie. I need a reservation for the next show.