Day One…
Las Vegas looks best from above, and I've made a study of all its angles. From my penthouse, the Strip is a river of molten gold, lit with more electricity, money, and delusion than the rest of Nevada combined. Every pulsing LED flashes a promise and a threat. The city glitters so perfectly it camouflages its own filth, hiding the rot until you're close enough to smell it.
The tourists, drunks, adrenaline junkies, and the terminally lost see a playground, a second chance. Redemption, if they can find the slot machine or roulette wheel that tilts the universe in their favor.
I see only territory, a chessboard crowded with pawns and a few useful bishops. All I taste is ownership.
The moan of the woman, bent over the counter as I pump into her from behind, distracts me. It's a high-pitched sound that's supposed to get my attention, when really what it does is make me realize I don't even know her name. She's as faceless and meaningless to me as the rest of them.
Every casino worth bleeding for answers to me, whether its shareholders know it or not. Beneath the noise, each floor hums with the tension of my influence. There isn't a punter or a pit boss or a cocktail waitress this side of the border who doesn't know my face, even if they pretend otherwise. I own slices of this city most men never see: the back hallways where the realdeals are cut, the penthouse suites where visiting dignitaries have their sins scrubbed clean, the cash rooms that never see daylight. There are elevators built for one-way trips, stairwells that lead to whole floors missing from the city's official memory, and doorways you open only with the correct combination of passwords, banknotes, and threats. These are my proprietary routes. The city runs on me, not on luck, and certainly not on karma.
You'd think people would remember that. But just this week, someone forgot, and I don't tolerate memory lapses.
Two nights ago, the first domino fell, a dealer fromThe Lucky Seven; less than three hours later, a club promoter from XS. By dawn, there were six bodies sprinkled through my domain, all dead from coke laced with something nasty, synthetic, and not even a little accidental. It wasn't a message. This was sabotage: noisy, public, expensive.
One of the dead got my attention. A potential news headline, the kind of name that floats on billboards and LED loops. A minor celebrity. When a man like that dies, it isn't just another overdose. It becomes a headline. A press cycle. A public outrage. Once the news hits the stream, it'll drag heat down on it. The shrapnel—gossip, panic, regulatory scrutiny—will do more damage than any single bullet ever could. Press becomes pressure. Pressure becomes investigations. And investigations turn over stones I've worked very hard to leave undisturbed.
If I don't choke this story at the root, I'll have feds nesting in every chandelier from Fortuna to the Lucky Duck. And right now, I cannot afford federal curiosity. Not with the Mexicans probing the edges of my territory, testing how thin the walls are. Not with half my recent cash still mid-launder. Not with Senator Kingsley sharpening his anti-drug crusade for campaign season. I have too many goddamn fires to put out already.
I pause, she moans again and tries to turn her head to look at me, but I grab her by the hair and direct her gaze back straight forward. She'll get a story to tell her friends, and my body gets the release it so desperately needs after the last few days.
She's a pretty thing, from Nebraska or somewhere cold. I don't remember. We didn't talk much. I was on my way to my penthouse when she caught my gaze. She smiled, and I bought her a drink. Ten minutes later, here we are in the men's bathroom, with my men outside to ensure our privacy by keeping anybody out.
My clothes are still on, her skirt is hiked up over her hips, and only the important parts are exposed. After the first few intimate encounters after my… accident, I got tired of women asking about my scars. Always the same questions. What happened? Did it hurt? You must have been in so much pain. For the past ten years, I made sure none of them saw me naked. The current position is my favorite. I have a firm hold of her hips, setting the rules and tempo.
She's close now. Good. I'm ready for my release, too. But I'm nothing but a gentleman when it comes to women. Ladies first. Always. Then a quick goodbye.
"Ah, that was so good. My toes are still curling." She comes, and after a moment's reprieve, she gives me a cute look from under her eyelashes while putting her skirt back in place.
I toss the condom in the trash and wash up. "I'm glad."
"Well… call me?" she asks as I gently, but firmly, lead her out of the washroom.
"Sure, give your number to one of my men. Thanks, sweetheart."
By the time I hit the elevator that goes to my penthouse, I've all but forgotten about her.
An hour later, I stand in my office overlooking the Strip. My phone lies on the glass desk, screen dark until duty summons. Irest my palm on it, heartbeat steady, ready. At 1:42 a.m., Enzo's name blinks across the display. Two words:
Enzo:
We're ready.
The private elevator hums again,and I watch the city slide past the glass. Below, the casino floor swirls like a living tide. Hope and desperation walking hand-in-hand, the tourists flitting between stages, every slot machine yowling for attention, every blackjack table promising an upset. The hopeful believe they can turn their luck. They don't know the house is a living predator, me.
When the doors hiss open to the casino floor, the air thickens. Women turn, their hair tossing in practiced arcs, perfume meeting ozone. The smiles are always too bright, too eager, and never for nothing. They want to be noticed on their own terms or ignored entirely, but I am the one who writes the rules here. Men notice next, some stiffen, others shrink, a few keep their heads down and try not to look at all. My crew falls in around me as if conjured by magic. Six men, all in black, hands empty but never unarmed. They walk in a diamond formation, not because I ordered it, but because years of violence have trained them to move as a single organism.
Outside, three SUVs idle in the turnaround, engines rumbling. One door is already open for me, a courtesy. Luc, the driver, stands at parade rest, eyes scanning the lot for threats or paparazzi. The valet line is long, even this late at night. Customers will wait until my bulletproof Escalade pulls out. I'm halfway to the car when I see it, a flash of red hair in the crowd.
My heart hits my ribs with an old, unkind impact. For a second, the casino floor drops away, and I am twenty-two again, chasing a girl down Fremont Street, my hand closing around hers as she laughs, wild, reckless, impossible. The night had tasted like freedom back then. Like I could outrun consequences if I wanted to.
The woman in the lobby has the same fire-red hair, the same wicked curve at the corner of her mouth. But her laughter is wrong. Too sharp. Too fast. A hysterical staccato instead of something real.
Wrong woman.
Wrong era.
I look again, but now she's just a tourist, drunk, and propped up by her friends as they all move back toward the casino. Nothing special. I exhale slowly and get into the car.Focus. That girl from Fremont was my first lesson. The one I paid for in blood and silence. Never rely on a woman. Never trust a woman. Never confuse softness with safety.
