A clap of thunder roars around us, and we’re in a huge marble-floored foyer complete with a winding staircase and a glittering chandelier. Groups of men in tuxedos and women in formal gowns mingle as caterers pass around champagne and finger food.
Expensive Christmas decorations are elaborately placed around the room with soft music playing in the background. A party in someone’s home? More like a mansion. Fuckin’ place is huge.
“Where are we?”
“Graham Pierce’s Beverly Hills estate.”
“Why the fuck are we here?” I ask.
“Always so damn impatient. Just like when you were a kid.”
I suck in a breath, scan the room and focus on Graham talking to a group of men. Although we’re on the perimeter of the room, I can hear every word they say perfectly clear. Fuckin’ weird.
“I should have that deal wrapped up before the New Year,” Graham boasts to his tight circle of friends.
“Glad to hear it,” one of them adds. “Making these connections in Vegasis paramount.”
“I’ve always considered Macau to be the premium and most concentrated gambling empire, while Monte Carlo generates old money and prestige,” Graham says. “Vegas was never high on my list, and I’ve shied away from it due to the lower echelon of clientele, but sometimes we have to scrape the bottom of the barrel when it comes to business.”
“Bottom of the barrel? What the fuck does he mean by that?”
“Patience,” Frank advises. “It gets better.”
The other men in the circle laugh, and Graham adds, “It wouldn’t be so bad if at least the people who ran these clubs were intelligent, but most of them barely have a high school education.”
My heart skips in my chest.
“Yes, that can be difficult,” another one agrees. “Like dealing with the staff at our winter home in Cabo. Very frustrating.”
“Try dealing with two mobsters from Brooklyn.” Graham rolls his eyes dramatically.
“That’s ex-mobsters, you dumb fuck,” I mumble.
“Nick Sinclair even changed his name. I guess with hopes of giving himself credibility, but what’s the old saying? You can take the gangster out of Brooklyn, but you can’t take Brooklyn out of the gangster.”
They all howl with laughter, and my fists clench at my side.
“Nick thinks if he wears enough name-brand clothes, no one will notice, but he’s just another thug in a designer suit. He’s not fooling anyone.”
“Just give me five minutes with that fucker. He won’t be able to laugh for a week.”
“Won’t do any good. They can’t see you or hear you.”
“I ain’t worried about him seeing me. I just want him to feel me.”
“Yet, I have to admit, acquiring Club Wicked will be a nice addition to my portfolio,” Graham continues. “Amazingly, Nick and his partner, Samson, have made it quite a success, in spite of themselves.”
“Damn fuckin’ straight, and we’re not giving it up to you.”
“How exactly did you do that, Graham? I understand these New York types can be quite intimidating.”
“I had some help, actually.” Graham cranes his neck over the crowd, then waves to someone across the room. “One of their friends from Brooklyn. If I thought Nick and Samson were uneducated, all I had to do with this one was offer him a title, and he folded almost immediately.”
Their tight circle opens, and I can’t believe my eyes—Jax.
Graham welcomes him with a slap on the back, and Jax grins, his rented tux straining under his bulging muscles.
“I don’t believe he sold us out.”
