REBECCA
The elevator doors slide shut, sealing us inside what feels like a glass-and-gold coffin rising into the sky.
Holy hell. The casino downstairs was overwhelming, all marble and gleaming gold with a sleek modern edge, ceilings so high the constant noise of slot machines and voices felt strangely subdued.
But this elevator? One entire wall is mirrored, reflecting us back at each other in sharp detail.
The other two are floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a dizzying view of the resort towers and the glittering Strip far below as we climb higher and higher.
And then there's Alessio.
The last person I ever expected to see at the Black Canyon Reapers’ clubhouse. What the actual hell was he doing there? And now he's demanding answers like he has any right to them?
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, glaring up at him. If anybody has the right to ask questions, it's me.
"You're going to tell me exactly what the fuck you're doing at the Black Canyon Reapers' clubhouse, Beccs," he growls. His voice is low and rough as he crowds me against the mirrored wall, and dammit, my panties are beginning to soak.
My breath catches. My eyes flash with defiance even as heat licks down my spine at the way he says my name.
He has no right to demand anything from me.
And what the hell was in that envelope? I'd caught the split-second change in his face when the guy whispered to him, like a ghost had walked over his grave right before pure, lethal rage took over.
Whoever that message was from, it shook him.
The elevator keeps rising. My stomach twists with that strange floating sensation.
I don't think I've ever been this high up before.
Well… maybe that one time Dad took us into the mountains in Idaho and we climbed that steep trail together.
The memory hits hard and fast: his laugh, the sun on our faces, before everything went to shit.
As always, thoughts of my father and his betrayal sober me instantly, like ice water dumped over my head.
The doors finally open with a soft chime into a private foyer.
Four more men are waiting, all wearing earpieces and suits that do nothing to hide the bulges of guns beneath them.
The space itself is elegant and modern, dark marble floors, subtle lighting, expensive art on the walls, but it's nothing compared to what happens next.
One of the guards opens a set of double doors. Holy mother of God.
Do people actually live like this?
The penthouse stretches out before me like something from a movie.
Massive floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire space, showing a breathtaking panoramic view of the glittering Las Vegas Strip far below.
The living area is open and luxurious, with sleek contemporary furniture in deep charcoals and creams, a fireplace that looks like it belongs in a magazine, and original art on the walls that probably costs more than my entire apartment building.
A grand piano sits in one corner like it's just waiting for someone to play.
The kitchen is all marble and stainless steel, bigger than my whole place.
Everything screams money, power, and a kind of effortless elegance I've only ever seen in dreams.
My throat tightens with a confusing mix of awe and aching longing.
This… this is the kind of life where you don't lie awake worrying about the next bill, or whether you can afford Charly's next lead on Rachel.
The kind of life where you could wear beautiful dresses and pretty jewelry without feeling guilty. Where you could just… breathe.
I hate how much I want even a taste of it.
Alessio's hand settles possessively at the small of my back, guiding me inside.
The heat of his touch burns through my shirt, sending unwanted sparks racing across my skin.
Even now, surrounded by all this luxury, the tension between us crackles like live electricity.
His body is so close I can feel the warmth rolling off him, smell that dark, expensive cologne that makes my knees weak.
He leans down, and his lips brush my ear as the doors close behind us with a soft click.
"This night is far from over, Grease Monkey," he murmurs, making it sound like a dark promise. I shiver despite myself, caught between fury, fear, and a dangerous, traitorous need.
I feel completely out of place, like a grease-stained mechanic who wandered into a billionaire's dream by mistake. Alessio moves through it like he owns the air itself. He shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of a sleek leather couch, and glances at me. "Drink?"
I cross my arms, still riding the wave of defiance and leftover adrenaline from the clubhouse. "Sure. Got a beer?"
He shakes his head, that arrogant smirk forming, and walks toward an actual bar setup near the massive fireplace. He opens a sleek fridge hidden behind dark wood paneling and starts calling out names that mean absolutely nothing to me.
"Peroni? Moretti? Or I've got a few bottles of Baladin Super or a '22 Cantillon if you want something interesting."
I roll my eyes. "Whatever. Surprise me."
He pulls out a bottle, pops the cap with practiced ease, and hands it to me. I take a sip. It's crisp, smooth, and annoyingly good.
"Not as good as a Corona," I remark, just to be contrary.
Alessio smirks, leaning against the bar with that lethal, predatory grace. "It's an Italian import. One of the best."
"Yeah, yeah," I quip, taking another sip to hide how much I actually like it. "Everything's better when it's Italian, right?"
His eyes darken as they rake over me slowly. The familiar electric charge between us snaps back into place. He doesn't move closer, but somehow it feels like he's crowding me anyway.
I set the bottle down harder than necessary. "So. Are you going to tell me what was in that envelope? Who gave it to you? Why?" I pause, locking eyes with him. "And most of all… what the hell were you doing at the Black Canyon Reapers’ clubhouse tonight?"
His crystal blue eyes give nothing away. "You first, Beccs. Why the fuck are you working in that shithole?"
I step closer, refusing to back down even though my heart is racing. "None of your business. I asked first."
He pushes off the bar and closes the distance until we're only inches apart. The heat rolling off his body makes my skin prickle. "Everything about you is my business now."
"Since when?" I fire back, tilting my chin up. God, he smells too good. Looks too good. "You fuck me once in a bathroom, and suddenly you own me? Newsflash, Vitali, I don't belong to anyone."
His hand comes up, not touching me, but hovering just above my hip like he's fighting the urge. "You sure about that?" His voice drops, rough and dark. "Because the way you came on my cock said something different."
Heat floods my face and between my legs. I hate how easily he affects me. "That was one time. Doesn't mean shit."
"Keep telling yourself that, scimmia unta." The Italian rolls off his tongue like sin, low and intimate. His eyes flick to my mouth. "You're in my world now. And I protect what's mine."
I laugh, sharp and breathless. "I'm not yours."
"Not yet." The promise in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. "But you will be."
We stand there, staring each other down, the tension so thick it feels like the penthouse might crack under the pressure. Neither of us wants to give an inch. And damn it… part of me doesn't want him to. The night really is far from over.
The tension snaps. Alessio moves like a panther, backing me against the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering Strip. The cold glass presses against my back as his big body cages me in.
"Tell me what you're doing with the Reapers," he growls.
Before I can answer, he yanks my tank top up roughly, exposing my breasts. His eyes flare with raw hunger.
"Goddess," he snarls, and then his mouth is on me. Hot. Wet. Demanding.
He sucks one nipple deep into his mouth, his tongue flicks hard, his teeth graze just enough to make me cry out. My back arches off the glass. His other hand palms my breast, rolling the nipple between strong fingers while his hips grind against me, letting me feel exactly how hard he is.
I whimper, the sound embarrassingly needy.
Dear God… he's too good at this. His free hand slides down, cupping me roughly through my jeans, rubbing firm circles right where I need it.
The pressure is perfect, relentless. My head falls back against the window with a soft thud.
I'm panting, my hips rock shamelessly against his hand, so close I can almost taste the edge.
He switches to my other nipple, sucking harder, and whispers hotly against my wet skin, "Now tell me what you're doing with the Reapers, Beccs."
I'm trembling, right on the razor's edge. My mind is fuzzy. My body is screaming for release. I want him to make me come so badly I could cry.
He keeps working me—sucking, rubbing, grinding his thick cock against my thigh—driving me higher and higher.
"Tell me," he whispers again, lips brushing my ear, "and I'll let you come."
The words hit like ice water. A broken cry of sheer desperation tears out of me. I shove at his chest with everything I have. He's surprised enough to step back. I'm half-naked, my chest is heaving, my nipples are wet and aching from his mouth, but I don't care.
"You don't get to ask me that!" I yell, my voice cracking with raw pain. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you?"
Tears burn behind my eyes. The words pour out, all the fear and grief and exhaustion I've been carrying for years.