Twisted Fate (Vegas Vicious #1)

1. Alina

1

Alina

A hand catches my arm—strong, commanding, a searing touch. The kind of hand you don’t pull away from if you know what’s good for you. Long, strong fingers. Neat, trimmed nails. The tattoos on the hand—a fearsome skull on the back, the ace of clubs between the thumb and forefinger, a small cross at the base of the fourth finger—are a stark contrast to the diamond-studded Patek Philippe watch peeking out from beneath the cuff of an expensive black jacket.

“Who are you?” The voice is low, sexy, intimate somehow even here in the crowded casino amidst the hoots and shouts and ringing of slot machines. There’s a reason for that ringing. It makes people think that someone just won, and if someone won then they can too. So they feed their money into the machine again and again and again, desperate for the win that never comes.

“I’m nobody,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the carpet beneath my feet—gold carpet with dark red flowers—willing the guy to walk away. I don’t look around for Enzo; I hope he’s still doing whatever he’s been doing for the past half hour while he left me here waiting. This is not the moment I want him to arrive with his hair-trigger temper.

“Nobody? I find that hard to believe. Tell me your name.” The stranger’s words are a command. One I have no intention of following.

“Nobody,” I say again, but then make the mistake of raising my gaze. His eyes are as black and cold as a demon’s, but set into the face of an angel chiseled from marble. Thick, dark hair. A straight slash of brows. Three-day scruff that’s artfully maintained. For what feels like a small eternity, I’m trapped, locked in that dark gaze.

Bad boys are my kryptonite, so in different circumstances, I would do exactly as he commands and tell him my name—Alina Madsen—along with my number, my address, and any other pertinent information he might want. I am tempted, so tempted.

But I know exactly what Enzo’s reaction will be if he finds me talking to a man, any man, especially one who looks like this. Fists first, questions later.

How did I not realize that sooner?

I met Enzo a couple of months ago, soon after I arrived in Vegas. He was charming, handsome, and had very deep pockets full of wads of cash that he liked to spend on taking me out to nice places. I foolishly hadn’t questioned where any of that cash came from. Let’s call it a hard lesson learned.

After overhearing snippets of a few business calls, I realized he unofficially worked for the Ivanov family. The Russos and the Ivanovs—two powerful crime families, constantly at war with each other for absolute control over this city. It felt like a world—or, underworld, really—that only existed in the movies—The Godfather or The Sopranos. Not exactly on my everyday radar.

Funny thing about hard lessons, they often come in pairs. The first time Enzo lost his temper with me because some guy was looking at me and he thought I was looking back, he yelled. Then apologized. And I accepted.

The second time, he punched the wall beside my head. Then apologized. And I accepted.

The third time, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me. He apologized. I didn’t accept…until I did. Stupid me.

The fourth time, he bruised my wrist and yanked my arm so hard it left my shoulder aching for days after. He apologized.

I didn’t accept.

But he kept calling, swearing he would never lay hands on me again. Finally, I agreed to meet up with him here tonight, a busy casino with lots of witnesses and security where I can tell him in person that we’re done. I figure that if he sees my face when I say it, sees that I mean it, then he’ll finally get the message and leave me alone.

That’s my goal, and the last thing I need is to give Enzo an excuse to lose his shit.

Hoping he hasn’t seen me, I look around for him. I don’t see him, but I do notice the two guys standing just behind the demon-angel. They’re all tall, over six feet. And they’re insanely good looking. One has light brown hair and green eyes, his nose straight and a little narrow, his features perfect. A little too perfect for my taste. The other one’s blond with blue eyes, his hair thick and wavy, his mouth curved in a smirk. Despite the different coloring, there’s something similar about all of them… the cheekbones or the strong jaw… I wonder if they’re related.

A buffet of gorgeous.

But it’s the demon-angel who holds my attention.

I glance down at his hand on my arm and reluctantly pull away. “I’m meeting someone,” I mutter.

The guy’s grip isn’t tight and I remove it easily. Clearly not taking the hint, he reaches for me again, lean muscle shifting under his impeccably tailored suit jacket.

“Lost your charm, bro?” the blond asks with a laugh and punches him in the shoulder.

I take the opportunity to spin and flee, ducking around a line of slot machines, skirting a waitress carrying a tray laden with drinks, before weaving through a group of girls who look like they’re in Vegas for a bachelorette, if the flowing white veil one of them is wearing is any indication.

After a minute, I peer past the machine we’re all clustered around and see that the demon-angel is gone. In his place stands Enzo, his face a mask of rage.

He storms over and grabs my wrist in a crushing grip that will leave marks. So much for never laying hands on me again.

Despite my protests, he drags me through the casino and shoves me through a set of doors. And so much for the safety of witnesses and security. The doors swing shut behind us, leaving us alone in a huge, dimly lit banquet hall, empty except for stacks of chairs against the far wall and a single table bearing an empty bottle and two dirty glasses.

I yank my arm free. His fingers have left red imprints on my pale skin.

“Do you know who the hell that was?” he yells, raking his hands through is hair.

“Who?” I snarl at him, rubbing my wrist.

“That was Damian Russo and two of his brothers, you stupid bitch.”

I stare at him for a moment, my heart racing. Then I brazen it out. “I’m supposed to know who Damian Russo is?”

Before Vegas, I was just a normal girl who’d grown up in Buffalo, New York. I’d been an A-student in high school and was in the process of earning my degree in English Lit from a local university when Mom and Dad got hit by a drunk driver on the way back from their regular weekly date-night dinner. The coroner said they died instantly.

For some people, the familiarity of home—the house they grew up in, the park around the corner, the stores and buildings and neighbors—might ease their grief. For me, it only made it worse. Besides, I couldn’t afford the rent on the house. I developed a whole lot of wanderlust. So I started traveling, and eventually I ended up here, in the middle of the Nevada desert. Partly because I like the heat, the energy, the town that never sleeps, but mostly because it’s where my brother Markus ended up and he’s all the family I have left.

For a hot minute, it was a loving reunion. Markus hugged me, fed me, let me stay at his place rent free until I got a job and found a place of my own. He joked that I’d keep him out of trouble. He was so happy to see me. So happy to have me around. Until he wasn’t, because I started asking too many questions and the answers told me my brother was up to his old tricks. Drinking. Using. Gambling. Hanging out with a very wrong crowd.

Between things both Markus and Enzo have said, I know exactly who Damian Russo and his brothers are: Mafia royalty.

“Russo is the wrong man to flirt with.” Enzo glares at me, his face red, a vein throbbing at his temple.

I let out a humorless laugh. “I wasn’t flirting.”

Without warning, he backhands me, leaving my ears ringing and the taste of blood in my mouth. I stumble back and stare at him with shock. “What the fuck—?”

“He’s a coldblooded killer,” Enzo snaps. “You cross him, and you die. No exceptions.”

“Gee, thanks for the friendly warning,” I mutter, my hand pressed to my burning cheek. I cut a glance at the doors and take a step toward them.

“I saw how he was looking at you,” Enzo says, pacing now.

I sidle closer to the doors. How was he looking at me? I don’t ask, not wanting to feed Enzo’s rage.

He stalks toward me, blocking my path and answers as if I did ask. “Like he wanted to fuck you.” Again, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “Stay the hell away from him.”

I guess I’m feeling more anger than common sense right now. “Or what?”

The look Enzo gives me is, in a word, soulless. I know I’ve said the wrong thing. And I’m pretty sure Enzo’s already lost every last one of his morals doing who-knew-what for who-knew-who. For all of Vegas’s shiny, glossy exterior, it’s only a cover for the bottomless pool of darkness that lies beneath.

Enzo is part of that darkness.

For each step I back away, he stalks a step closer. My mouth is dry. Fear makes my chest so tight I can barely breathe. My pulse pounds. I slip my right hand back and reach… reach…

Enzo lunges for me. I swing the empty bottle I’d grabbed from the table at his temple and I run.

I tear through the doors and plunge into the crowd, not daring to look back. Then I see him, Damian Russo, standing near the bar, staring right at me. For a second, I have the weird thought that if I run to him, he’ll protect me from Enzo. And that is probably the craziest thing that’s ever crossed my mind.

His dark eyes narrow as he stares at me, anger flickering across his expression. Then the man beside him puts a hand on his shoulder and Damian turns his head.

A glance back reveals Enzo staggering in my wake, fingers pressed to his temple as he searches the crowd. He hasn’t spotted me yet.

I make my getaway, speed walking through the casino to the lobby, through the exit and out into a blast of dry heat, noise and commotion of the Strip. My pulse races as I sprint for the bus, making it just as the doors are closing, no plan in mind other than escape.

I don’t know where I’m going.

Anywhere that isn’t here.