Prologue
Pope
It never rains in Vegas.
Not the fat, heavy droplets that slap against your skin and leave you drenched. Sometimes, it takes weeks, months even, before those desert skies release so much as a drop. And when it does, even the slightest drizzle feels like a welcome reprieve from the dry air and relentless heat. Yet, when a shadow forms in the sky and the clear blue turns to a bruised gray, I barely notice it. I don’t look up when a couple of lightning bolts tear through the sky, or react when a nasty little gust of wind blows past me.
My eyes remain on the white casket, my chest tight as I watch it lower into the earth.
A low rumble, a distant cough of thunder comes seconds before I see the first few droplets fall. Then all hell breaks loose as heavy drops fall all around us in a downpour that would typically send everyone scrambling for cover, but no one moves a muscle. The rain is cold, a shock to the system after the oppressive heat and it soaks my clothes, plasters my hair to my forehead and sends a chill down to my bones, but I don’t dare look away from the casket as it continues its descent—a casket that carries the one person who shaped me into the man I am today. “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust, you shall return,” the officiant drones even as the rain coats our faces, falling on to the casket and the ground around us. “We commit Deacon Cassidy’s body to the earth;earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We give him back to you, Oh God, in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life. Amen.”
My father insisted on having a priest here today, his dying wish. If heaven exists, the mean old bastard knew damn well he would never see the pearly gates, let alone set foot through them. Fuck, he's probably booking space in hell for the rest of us, but even so, he insisted on a priest and getting buried next to his wife’s grave. We couldn’t say no.
Deacon Cassidy was cunning, clever, cold, even brilliant, but never kind. Raised my twin brother and me to be just as mean and conniving as he was. Bishop and I could shoot before we could drive, fought our way to the top, and worked our asses off to prove that we were indeed the sons of the president of Steel Sinners Motorcycle Club.
My fingers unconsciously find their way to the ink on my forearm, tracing my thumb over the familiar lines of the simple palm tree tattoo that is only ever visible under a black light. It’s not a practical tattoo in any sense of the word as it has to be redone every few years, but that was the point when my old man demanded that every Steel Sinner get it. He believed that it showed loyalty to the club by committing to getting it redone. And for a club that doesn’t wear our leather cuts unless we’re riding together, the tattoo helps maintain our anonymity. My old man preferred to have the Steel Sinners MC maintain a low profile and run our elite, members-only casino without drawing unwanted attention.
But now, he’s gone.
The casket disappears into the ground, but I don't tear my eyes away. It's not until someone claps me on the shoulder that I finally look up to see my brother motion with his head thatit's time to go. With a nod at Bishop, we walk away from the grave site to where we’ve packed our motorcycles. Neither one of us speaks a word as we get on and ride to the casino, our men riding behind us. The clubhouse is right above the MC’s casino, Elysium, and I expect we’re all to gather there to toast my old man one last time, but something about seeing the casino closed to the public draws a sardonic laugh out of me. There is nothing in this world that Deacon Cassidy loved more than making money, and to have it closed in honor of the man makes the whole thing ironic. There is no fucking way he would have allowed this to happen if he were still alive.
But he’s dead.
Fucking hell!
The Steel Sinners clap our shoulders as they head up to the clubhouse and we wait until they’re all gone before making our way to our father’s office on the fifth floor—his former office. We find Ryder, my father’s right-hand man waiting along with our father’s attorney. Knew this part was coming but hell, my old man hasn’t been fucking gone for a week and we’re already discussing the plan for the next generation of Cassidys to take over the Steel Sinners and the Elysium.
Does it have to be this soon?
Hell, the mean old bastard would probably smack me on the head for this thought. Call me weak for wanting to mourn him a little longer before I’m reminded of the responsibilities he’s left behind. Despite all his flaws, he was still my father.
“Gentlemen,” Augustus says in his prim voice, tugging up his glasses as he gestures for us to sit, ignoring the fact that we’re still dripping from the rain. Instead of sitting, I walk to the minibar and select a bottle of whiskey, pouring three fingers into a heavy crystal glass for myself. I welcome the alcohol’s burnin my throat, and after pouring another for my brother, I walk back to them. “I understand this is a difficult time and I won’t keep you long. Deacon Cassidy left behind instructions upon his death.”
The room stays quiet, every eye fixed on the lawyer as we watch him open his briefcase to reveal three envelopes I imagine hold the fate of the Steel Sinners and the Elysium Casino. Augustus takes out the envelopes and passes them over to us, each getting one with our name scribbled on top. “Mr. Cassidy wrote a personal letter for each one of you with instructions that cannot be overturned, as that is his will."
A part of me wants to pocket the letter and open it another day when I don’t have the memory of my old man’s casket fresh in my mind but decide to get it over with. I tear open the envelope, ignoring the sting of the paper cut I get from my recklessness as I pull out the letter.
My eyes skim through the letter and I don’t know what the fuck I was expecting but slowly, I feel my heart race as I read its contents over and over again. I alone am to inherit the MC and the casino under certain conditions because of course there are. Both will be mine if I can find a woman willing to marry me three months from the date of my old man’s funeral and father a child with that woman within one year of the wedding—a child, who I imagine, will inherit the casino from me. The letter doesn’t specify that the child has to be a boy, so there’s that.
There’s nothing about Bishop.
I turn to my brother to see his jaw clenched as his hard eyes skim over the letter and I don’t have to wonder why. Bishop and I always assumed we’d inherit the casino together and run it as partners. It figures that he would be upset at being left out. I glance back at my letter and question what would happen ifI can’t fulfill the conditions left behind by my father. Does that mean Bishop inherits the casino if I fail?
Why the fuck would my old man pit me against my own fucking twin this way?
No, I have no intention of playing along with his little game. The plan has always been to run the casino and the Steel Sinners together with my brother. It’s what we were trained for. It’s what we fucking excel at.
The sound of paper crumpling pulls my focus from my own letter to see Bishop shove his balled-up letter into his pocket before storming out of the room without one word to the rest of us. With a sigh, I fold mine, thanking Ryder and Augustus before following him out. I expect to find my brother pacing down the hall as he often did whenever he and our old man got into it, but he’s gone.
What I find instead is my enforcer, Ghost. The man is the closest thing I have to a best friend. He doesn’t talk unless he has to, never drinks, and rarely even swears, which is odd considering the people he associates with. I know Ghost has connections to organized crime in New York, but he never gave me reason to worry so I never pressed the man for details. He just arrived one day looking for a job in security and something about him made me want to take a chance on him. A year later, he’s a man I trust as I do my own brother.
Speaking of which…
“He’s gone,” Ghost says, nodding toward the elevator. “He stormed off without a word, clearly upset about something.”
“The will,” I say, moving to lean back against the wall and thumping my head back as I try not to think of the task ahead of me. “I don't know why the fuck my old man would try to pit Bishop and me against each other like that."
Ghost is quiet for a moment. “What did it say?”
