PROLOGUE
Four years.
It had been four fucking years since Las Vegas encountered the most violent—and most consequential—day of its existence.
On that day, the man who went by King, the iron ruler of the underground—and a good chunk of the above-ground—activity in Las Vegas was killed by his son, Prince. His operations went up in smoke, quite literally. The Black Reapers Motorcycle Club, well known for their activity in California, New Mexico, and Arizona by that point, could have easily turned the town into theirs. They could have ruled as kings of the city in a way only the mob had in the 80s.
For some reason, they didn’t.
Rumors abounded that they had turned inward, attempting to quell outside investigations by major players like the FBI. Some said that they had fled to Mexico and elsewhere. Others said that the reason was more like Occam’s Razor—they had simply found something better than blowing shit up and getting into shootouts with rival clubs.
Love, apparently.
Multiple members of the motorcycle club, spanning every state they inhabited, had gotten married. Some even had kids. I suppose that has a way of slowing you down. If I were to be nice, I would say that if they really wanted that, good for them.
But I’m not nice.
I just know how to fake being nice.
That’s the difference between the Black Reapers and me, Cassius Vale, billionaire owner of the newest casino in Las Vegas,Ruby.They only get power through violence. I know how to get it without it blowing up in my face.
One look at the Reapers is all you need to know they’re trouble. They couldn’t get a bank loan for a Subway sandwich if they tried. All those tattoos, wild hairstyles, stenches of cigarettes and booze and God knows what the fuck else—it forces them to make their power plays overt. You never have to question whether a Black Reaper wants something from you, because they’ll stand over you, bump you, and tell you to do it or else. A growling pit bull has more subtlety.
That’s fine.
That approach might work if you kept your ambitions small. Run a local town. Protect your club and your women. Get sex, drugs, and everything else on the cheap.
But if you craved true power? If you wanted to hold an entire city in your palm? If you wanted the kind of control I have over everyone from politicians to police to, dare I say it, other dangerous men?
You have to be smarter than that. You have to hide the monster in you behind a nice suit, a well-groomed haircut, and a smile for the press. King almost got it right—but he couldn’t control his temper. He couldn’t control those closest to him. It’s the most overlooked part of his story—it wasn’t a Black Reaper that killed King, but his own fucking son.
I might have come to Vegas with three of my brothers. I might have rivals who would crush me if they had the chance. I might have to keep a closer eye on my family than on my enemies.
But me?
I’m Cassius Vale. I play the long game. Only one person in my life has ever made me second-guess my decisions, and she destroyed a part of my life so badly she’s lucky I haven’t called in a Reaper to cut her throat.
I run Las Vegas now.
I am the King of Hearts, the most powerful billionaire in Las Vegas.
1
CASSIUS
Agolden hue from the setting sun cast over Las Vegas Boulevard. As I stood at the glass windows of the penthouse ofRuby,I watched as the ants of the town scattered about. Tourists poured their money into my slot machines. Men drank up my liquor, hoping like the idiots they were to get women only a man like myself got. Women put on their tightest, most revealing outfits; the more innocent of the bunch thought they’d have the time of their lives. The more experienced ones went over which men they’d go after, whose tables they could raid at the nightclubs and exhibits.
I sipped on a glass of bourbon as I took it all in, wondering how I’d spend tonight. Our marquee art exhibit,Allure,was set to have its grand opening in about two hours. We already had an A-list cast of women set to drag men and their dollar bills into our coffers. We’d hired a top jazz musician to perform, and we were in negotiations to get her to establish a residency here.
But that didn’t answer who I’d fuck tonight.
I had options, but honestly, those options bored me. Call me crazy—my brothers certainly did—but I could have used a woman who put up a little bit of a fight, who didn’t just spread her legs and call me king just because my bank account had tendigits in it. Contrary to popular belief, such a woman was not likely to be an actress or a celebrity; if any, those types were the fucking craziest of all. Doing press tours for clout, posting to social media for likes and followers… funny, I didn’t recall being able to build theRubywith Instagram likes or clicks on TMZ articles.
The opposite, really. The fewer people knew of my activities beyond what I allowed newspapers to publish, the better. I had an image I had carefully cultivated, but what Hollywood types failed to get was you didn’t want the maximum media coverage, but the absolute minimum to establish a reputation.
Me? I was the King of Hearts. Reporters, bloggers, influencers all called me that because I was the most handsome billionaire. Why go for a fat, older billionaire one heart attack away from croaking when you could get someone like me?
I didn’t disagree with the notion.
