ALESSIO
One month later…
A month. Thirty fucking days of her haunting me.
Beccs. That sharp-tongued, grease-streaked goddess who let me fuck her senseless in a bathroom and then vanished like smoke.
I've torn through every lead. The catering company gave me nothing but blank stares and nervous lies.
None of the staff from that night remembered her name, her face, or where the hell she went.
They swear she was just a temp. I haven't started peeling skin yet, but my patience is bleeding out.
One more dead end and I might stop being polite.
She's under my skin. In my head. Every night I stroke my cock to the memory of her tight, dripping pussy clenching around me while she moaned my name. Her scent on those stolen panties is fading, and it's driving me insane.
I recall the way she looked. The way she'd changed her hair from black to a brunette-brown with dyed blonde streaks at the front. She looked fucking hot as hell.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I climb into the large SUV and nod at my guards. I don't recognize the number, but I answer anyway.
"Have you considered my offer yet?" The voice is smooth, oily, laced with that fake politeness that makes me want to reach through the line and rip out his throat. El Recaudador—the Collector.
Nobody knows who he is. Nobody knows what he looks like.
Nobody even knows if The Collector is an actual title or something he pulled out of his ass one day and decided sounded intimidating.
The problem is that it worked. Everyone is fucking terrified of him.
Terrified as if the devil himself were standing in front of them.
For months now, even before we realized he was there, the bastard has been slithering around the edges of our territory like a snake looking for a hole in the fence.
Most enemies come at us with guns. Or bombs.
Or enough stupidity to think they can kill Massimo and walk away afterward.
The Collector is different. Smart. Patient. Dangerous.
The kind of man who understands that the fastest way to destroy an empire isn't from the outside.
It's from within. A month and half ago, six people died because, somehow, he infiltrated our dealers and laced some of their coke.
Not all of it. Some. Random sales. One of the dead was prominent enough to make national headlines.
The media lost its collective mind. The feds started sniffing around through every casino we own.
Every club. Every business. Every legitimate operation.
Every illegitimate one. Massimo has been putting out fires ever since.
And while we're busy dealing with the fallout, The Collector keeps calling. Not just me. Everyone. Capos. Soldiers. Associates. Accountants. Bartenders. For all I know, he's tried recruiting the guy who shines shoes in the lobby of the Sovereign.
Like some deranged salesman trying to hit his monthly quota. Always the same bullshit. Promises. Offers. Opportunities. Betray your family. Join his side. Help him tear ours apart. I tighten my grip on the phone. The metal casing creaks.
"Still no?" he sounds casual, as if we're discussing dinner reservations.
I smile. The kind of smile that usually precedes violence. "Let me save us both some time."
A chuckle crackles through the speaker. I hate that sound. "I don't think—"
"Go fuck yourself."
That shuts him up for a second, and I continue before he can speak. "You're not half as smart as you think you are."
A low, amused chuckle drifts through the line. "That's where you are wrong. Don't underestimate me." He pauses for an effect that's lost on me. "Let me tell you what I find interesting."
Despite my better judgment, I don't hang up. Because the truth is we don't know shit about this bastard, whereas he unfortunately holds the advantage of knowing a whole lot about us. I hate this, but right now we can only wait to see if he trips himself up.
I don't reply, though. I wait him out.
With what is supposed to sound like a disappointed sigh, he continues. "Maybe you can help me solve this riddle. It's about a man who rules half this city, but who can't track down one slippery little Grease Monkey. Tell me, Alessio… does she still taste as sweet as you remember?"
My blood turns to ice, then lava. He knows about Beccs. The fucker knows. Before I can snarl a reply, he continues, his voice dropping to something colder. "Tick tock. My offer won't stand forever. Choose wisely… or I'll choose for you."
The line goes dead. Rossi, my second in command, turns to me. "Bad news?"
"The Collector. He knows about the girl."
I don't need to elaborate. Rossi is aware of both. My obsessive search for Beccs and the Collector.
His eyes narrow. "Well fuck."
Yeah, that about sums it up.
"You want to go harder on the catering people?"
"Find out what they want. Everybody has a price." The last thing we need right now is senseless violence against civilians, not with the Feds and the press hanging around because of the fucking coke and the socialite who was killed in one of Massimo's clubs the other night.
The thought of Beccs being on the Collector's radar because of me infuriates me beyond reason. I don't know the woman. I've seen her twice. We had good sex. Well, great sex. My cock pipes up: the best sex we ever had.
I rub my neck to stop myself from losing control.
"You got it, boss," Rossi pulls out his phone.
The Collector is wrong. I don't own half of Vegas.
It's all mine—my family’s. Because that's what the others and I are.
A family. And if this fucker thinks for even a minute that he can come between us, he has another thing coming.
Unfortunately, he also has a point. Because we do own this city, so how come I can't find one woman?
It's not just annoying. It's extremely annoying.
Most people think obsession is emotional. It isn't. It's unfinished business. Unanswered questions. And the one burning hottest right now is this: how does a little Grease Monkey from a shithole nowhere town in Idaho end up serving champagne at a high-end Vegas event like she belonged there?
Who the hell is Beccs?
That's where obsession comes in.
I should be irritated. I am irritated. But that's not the entire problem. The real problem is that I can't stop thinking about her. Not because of the sex. The sex was phenomenal. But sex has never been the issue. If all I wanted was another woman in my bed, I could have one there before midnight.
No. It's her. The mystery. The contradictions. The questions.
Why does she keep appearing where she shouldn't? And why do I get the distinct feeling she's hiding something? Most people bore me within ten minutes. Beccs somehow managed to occupy space in my head for nine months. And we've barely spoken.
That should concern me. Instead, it pisses me off. Because I know exactly how this usually works. Find the woman. Get answers. Get her out of my system. Move on. Simple. Efficient. Clean. At least that's what I keep telling myself. The problem is I'm no longer entirely convinced that's true.
I remember the way she looked at me. Like she saw straight through the tailored suit, the money, the reputation, and decided she wasn't impressed by any of it. Most women see the casino. The penthouse. The power. Beccs looked at me and saw a spoiled asshole stranded beside a broken car.
The worst part? She wasn't entirely wrong.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. Maybe that's why she fascinates me.
Or maybe it's because every answer I uncover seems to create three more questions.
She niggles at the back of my mind like an itch under the skin where you can't reach it.
Something feels wrong. Or at the very least incomplete. Like there's a piece missing.
A thought occurs to me. What if she wasn't there by accident? The Collector's voice echoes through my head. Call after call. Calls filled with attempts to manipulate. Calls with information he shouldn't have. Information about us. About our operations. About our movements. About me.
Then: a woman appears in the middle of nowhere.
Disappears. Reappears in my orbit. Disappears again.
Interesting timing. Very interesting timing.
Could she be connected? Could she be feeding him information?
Working for him? Watching me? The possibility settles into my mind.
Not because I believe it. But because I can't afford not to consider it.
Paranoia keeps people like me alive. Trust gets them buried.
Either way, the answer remains the same. I need to find her. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now.
"We're here," Rossi announces.
Only now do I notice that the SUV is no longer running, that we've parked in the underground garage leading to Massimo's office. I curse Beccs. No woman ever got me distracted like this, causing me to lose track of my surroundings for several minutes.
God help her once I find her, and the Devil help her if she's working for the Collector.
"Looks like Gabe's waiting for you." Rossi moves his chin towards Gabe, leaning against a concrete pillar like he owns the damn place.
His expression is grim, making me wonder what bad news crawled up his ass.
I notice his men standing by the elevator bank, and I wave at Rossi to go and join them with the rest of my men.
Taking a deep breath to clear my mind of the Collector and Beccs, I stroll toward him like this is just another Tuesday.
"Waiting for me in a parking garage?" I adjust my cuffs. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”
"A word," he says.
I glance at him. That look on his face… whatever this is, I'm not going to like it. "What's up?"
"I don't know if this means anything," Gabe pushes off the wall. “But Audra used to run with an MC crowd. Black Canyon Reapers."