ALL IN: A Romantic Suspense

by Torre, Alessandra

  Throughout it all, I thought of Dario.

  I thought of the way he’d dropped me off, his Rolls pulling up to my driveway, his hand passing me the suite’s access card. He’d told me to text him if I needed anything, and to use the place whenever I felt like it. I told him I wasn’t ready for it, and he pushed the card on me anyway.

  I’d hid it in my T-shirt drawer and vowed not to use it. I’d changed out of the new clothes, hung them in my closet, and decided I wouldn’t wear them. I’d scrubbed the scent of him off in the shower and fought the smile that came as I thought of him.

  I had to remember our differences. I was nobody and he was somebody. I was single and he was married. I was too young and naive, and he was too old and …

  There were too many words to complete that sentence. He was too everything—a black hole that could suck me in without even feeling the crush of my soul.

  “They don’t mean anything to me. Maybe I’m ready for someone who does.”

  I couldn’t get him out of my mind. And worse, I didn’t want to. I tipped back my third beer and looked away when the goalie smiled at me.

  * * *

  DARIO

  The room was blindingly bright, the fluorescents reflecting off the white tile walls. Dario shut the door and flipped the lock, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. He stepped forward, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt and taking his time as he eyed the two men slumped against the far wall. One moved his foot and the chain scraped against the concrete floor. The bigger of the two lifted his head.

  “Who’s there?”

  Dario didn’t respond, shrugging out of his shirt and examining the bandage on his forearm. The bleeding had stopped, thanks to the neat line of stitches from the doc. Not the first stitches he’d received this year, and probably not the last. He hung his shirt carefully on the door’s hook and stepped closer to the two men, his dress boots clicking against the concrete floors.

  There was a special place in hell for men who hurt women. He’d learned that at an early age, when he’d watched his father beat the shit out of his mother when the Saints would lose, or when his beer was warm, or when his luck at the casino had turned to shit.

  It was why Dario didn’t drink. Or gamble. Or watch football. It was why he’d forced the Cajun drawl from his speech and abandoned work boots and jeans for suits and ties. It was why he’d avoided the fishing boats and had gotten his first job on the casino floor.

  His entire life, he had strived to be the opposite of his father. Now, he looked down into the swollen face of a man so much like him it made his fists ache.

  “If you’re gonna kill us, just do it already.” The man coughed, and a spittle of blood came out.

  “I’m not going to kill you.”

  He’d decided that after seeing the look in Bell’s eyes when she had asked him about the man who’d cut him. He’d seen the worry there, had noticed the way her mouth had tightened, her jaw set. If she ever brought it up again, he wanted her to be happy with his answer. And if making her happy meant keeping people alive, then fine.

  He squatted before the man and examined his swollen face, the eyes now puffy slits, the top lip split and hanging in an unnatural way. This one had squealed when he’d tied him down, his fat body flopping against the restraints. It’d taken two of them to get him into place and into a position where he could use the bolt cutters and the cauterization tool.

  The man’s lips cracked open. “Why are you doing this?”

  An excellent question. The man must have been surprised at the dark suits waiting outside the small-town bar. He must have been confused when they duct-taped his mouth and handcuffed his wrists, must have hated the back of the Hummer, especially once they closed the lid. Fifteen minutes later, when they’d tossed in the second man, he’d probably wondered who he’d been, had probably been annoyed by the stranger kicking and flailing inside of the tight compartment. He’d certainly seemed surprised when Dario had pulled off his blindfold, and he’d realized the man was his son, also prisoner inside this room.

  All day, Dario had left them alone. Plenty of time to think about who he was and why he was torturing them. Dario grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled him forward. “You tell me why I’m doing this.”

  It was the same command he’d given the men that morning. And all morning, the two men had confessed. Thefts. Deceit. Abuses. Rapes. They’d given names and dates, details and apologies.

  But they hadn’t given Dario what he wanted. And they still didn’t realize what this was really about.

  Dario thought of the file he had received on Bell, the court-protected seal worthless when the right cash hit the right hands. He’d opened it without the proper reverence, unprepared for the horrible details that had covered those pages. Details that had never had a resolution. That beautiful girl, damaged by these monsters. That beautiful girl, ignored and disrespected by the system put in place to protect her.

  It’d taken a week, but they were here now. Sniffling. Weak. Afraid. He leaned forward and pressed his fist into the bloody crotch of the man, putting his weight into the action, and appreciated the painful wheeze that resulted.

  “Tell me. Tell me what you’ve done.”

  Finally, the man’s mouth moved and the right words came out.

  17

  BELL

  Lydia groaned. “I can’t believe you screwed us out of front row seats, Bell. You know I’ve never been to a hockey game.”

  Meredith nodded. “Plus, he was hot. You should have at least taken his number.”

  I shifted my weight and pushed the seatbelt tongue into the buckle, thinking of the cute Ukrainian, his cautious smile and the gentle way his fingers had curled along my lower back. He’d offered us front row seats and a tour of their facilities. He’d also asked me to come home with him.

  There’d been a moment where I’d thought about leaving with him. He’d leaned in close, whispering in my ear, and I’d thought about turning my head. Letting him kiss me. Seeing if there was a connection—the sort that might lead to a night of rumpled sheets and moans and orgasms.

  But I hadn’t. Instead, I’d pulled away from his lap and turned down the hockey invite, and absolutely none of it made sense because I shouldn’t, couldn’t, make decisions based on Dario, or on any man’s weak comparison to him. And that had been half the problem—that the goalie, that Ian, that every man seemed suddenly unimpressive when compared to Dario’s pull on me.

  “In regards to your heart? I can’t protect that. That’s a risk you’re going to have to decide whether to take.”

  I’d always been a gambler, with my money, my time, my safety … but never my heart. Still, didn’t it mean something that it was even at risk? Didn’t the fact that I had the potential to fall for someone mean that I should take the jump?

  For four days I’d been mulling over that question. Four days. Countries made peace treaties and war decisions in less time. I’d buried myself in studying and work and had made no headway with the decision.

  I could take the jump. Be Dario Capece’s girlfriend. Live in his million-dollar suite. Accept his decadent lifestyle and ignore the wedding band on his finger. I could do it.

  But would I? Should I?

  Meredith turned on the radio, and I rested my head against the window. When we got home, I changed into sweats, washed my face, and called a taxi.

  * * *

  The access card got me into the garage, and I rode the giant car elevator up on foot. When I got to the coded door, I paused, taking a moment to remember the sequence. Birthday. Last four of my phone number. 04182996#. The lights changed and the knob gave underneath my palm. I pushed the door open and stepped into quiet tranquility, everything smooth and perfect. A lamp on the entry table illuminated woods, leathers, and fabrics, a gorgeous place I didn’t fit into.

  I moved into the bedroom and stripped, leaving my clothes where they fell and crawling into the bed. I unlocked my phone and stared at the text from Dario, sent a hal
f-hour ago.

  —Let me know when you’re home safely.

  It was the same text I’d gotten the last three nights. Short and sweet, easy to ignore. But, I hadn’t. Each night, I had texted him from bed, my phone now filled with short chatter about my shifts, classes, and life. I typed out a quick response.

  I decided to come to the suite for the night. I hope that’s okay…

  —More than okay. It’s yours, for as much or as little as you want to use it.

  I settled into the pillows and curled onto one side, cupping the phone close to my face. The bed, which had seemed so cozy with him beside me, suddenly felt cold and empty.

  The bed feels lonely without you :(

  I repositioned the pillow under my head and watched as dots appeared, then his response quickly followed.

  —Is that an invite?

  yes

  —On my way.

  I grabbed one of the giant feather pillows and pushed it between my knees, settling into a cocoon of comfort. I laid the phone on the bed beside me and watched the clock, wondering how long it would take him to pull on clothes, make an excuse to his wife, and come down to this level.

  Though, maybe he didn’t need to make excuses to her. According to him, they slept in separate beds. Maybe he just came and went as he pleased, and she did the same.

  I was half asleep when the bedroom door clicked open, my head lifting off the pillow enough to recognize his build. I threw back the covers, inviting him in, and smiled when I felt the warm length of him, curling up behind me.

  He kissed my bare shoulder and I felt his arm tighten around my waist. Before I could tell him goodnight, I was asleep.

  * * *

  I dipped a strawberry slice in whipped cream and brought it to my mouth, the sweet taste mixing perfectly with the chilled mimosa. I stepped away from the tray and curled up at the end of the couch, picking up the note that had been on my bedside table and rereading it for the tenth time.

  I could wake up to you every morning.

  I smiled and wandered into the bedroom, picking up my phone to text him. He’d beaten me to the punch, and I opened a text from him, sent just a few minutes ago.

  —Want a massage? I can have a team at your suite in fifteen minutes.

  I tapped out a response.

  I’m not claiming it as “my suite” just yet.

  The phone rang, his name lighting up the screen. A hundred men couldn’t have stopped me from answering. “Hey.”

  I could hear the chimes and cheers of the casino in the background. “Good morning, beautiful.”

  I yawned in response, stretching my legs forward and examining the polish on my right big toe.

  “I hated leaving you this morning.”

  I smiled. “You should have woken me up.”

  “You looked too peaceful. Listen, I’m about to walk into a meeting. I’ve got to go but let me send up Paul. Every woman at the spa raves about his hands.”

  “You really want another man rubbing all over me?”

  He lowered his voice, and I imagined him ducking his head and moving away from his staff. “You haven’t met Paul. I’m not too worried about it. Plus, I like the idea of you being naked. It’ll get me through the next hour of spreadsheets with Chinese investors.”

  I eyed the clock, a sleek piece that hung next to a blood-red painting. “I better not. I need to head home soon and study a few hours before work.”

  “This weekend, I’ll have the staff outfit the suite. I don’t want you trekking back and forth over things you could have there. At least until you move.”

  “I’m not moving.”

  He laughed, and maybe he’d heard the waver in my voice. “Okay. Whatever. It’s there if you want it.”

  His voice became muffled, and I heard bits of a conversation, something about rooms and time. He came back on, and there was a new clip to his tone, a business-like edge that lost all of its playful warmth. “I’ve got to go.”

  I said goodbye and ended the call, feeling detached from him, wanting a moment of before, where his voice had curled around the edges, and there’d been a smile in his tone.

  I swung my legs off the couch and stood, thinking of Vegas traffic, of the taxi line and crowds of tourists. I sighed and sucked the last bit of whipped cream off my finger.

  Time to get back to real life.

  * * *

  DARIO

  This late at night, the view was all lights, a hundred tiny specks of pulsing color. He rested his weight on the railing and looked at the smaller hotel beside them. The curtains were open in some of the rooms, bits of people seen, movements recorded, shadows on balconies. The door behind him slid open and Gwen stepped through, coming to stand beside him.

  “It’s good to be home.” She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “You don’t mean that.” He smiled to soften the words, and she laughed, pushing her thick dark hair over her shoulder. Her hair reminded him of Bell. They had the same dark coloring, the same long hair. Gwen’s, he’d handled a hundred times, knew the scent of her shampoo, the texture of its strands. Bell’s… he’d barely had a chance to grip, to pull, to appreciate.

  “You’re right. I miss it already. And the horses miss you. You should go there soon. Ride BB. He needs the work.”

  “How’s Nick?”

  Her back stiffened a little at the cowboy’s name, but she hid it well, turning to lean back against the railing, her glass of wine brought up to her lips. “He’s good. Said to tell you hi.”

  “I bet he did.” It came out wrong, as if he cared about her cowboy fuck toy, though he knew the man was more than that. Honestly, if anyone had married Gwen to save her from her father, it probably should have been that strapping stretch of masculinity and good intentions. Lord knew the man was protective enough of her.

  But Nick hadn’t married Gwen. Dario had. Nick hadn’t even known Gwen back then. Dario had wanted an empire, and Gwen had needed a savior.

  It had worked out for both of them. It had been perfect, thirteen years of side fucks and friendship, of mutual respect and understanding. Only now, suddenly, it felt like shit. It felt like she was still trapped, and both of them were still dancing for Robert Hawk.

  From contentment to misery. How could everything change in just weeks?

  He knew, of course. It was Bell. Ten thousand cocktail waitresses in this town and he had to meet the one that might break him. The one that might ruin everything he and Gwen had built. The one that might be worth it all.

  The one that might not be.

  He thought of last night, how it had felt, having her in his arms, listening to the soft sighs as she slept. It’d been over a decade since he’d slept beside a woman other than Gwen. And his nights with Gwen had been perfunctory, each staying on their own sides of hotel beds, their pillow talk filled with financials and business plans.

  He had liked sleeping next to Bell. In the half hour it had taken him to fall asleep, he’d felt a level of calm and contentment he hadn’t experienced in years. And that, in itself—fuck the addictive way she’d wormed into his mind—was a problem.

  Gwen’s arm slid around his back and she looked up at him. “I was going to watch some TV in the theater room. You want to join me?”

  He shook his head. “No. We’ve got someone in the cage.” It was a lie. The cage was now clean, disinfected with bleach, a fresh coat of paint covering the bloodstains. Bell’s rapists had been set free, dropped back in their shithole lives with a very clear understanding of their mistakes.

  Gwen’s face curled in distaste, as he’d known it would. “Well. Go easy on him, will you?” It was funny. As bloodthirsty as her father was, Gwen was the exact opposite. Her gentle nature, despite her upbringing, was something he’d always loved about her.

  He glanced back at the view, the city stretched before them, the city they owned. He followed the Strip down, let his gaze linger on the patch of buildings where The House was, and thought of Bell.

 
The way she’d panted beneath him, her hands gripping his hips, trying to pull him tighter to her. The way she’d looked curled inside a robe, a puzzle piece in hand, smiling at him.

  He should probably watch some TV with Gwen. Talk about business, laugh at some stupid show, and enjoy some time with his best friend. Like they’d always done. Pushing her off and avoiding moments like those felt wrong. Wanting those moments with Bell ... that didn’t feel fair to Gwen. Shit.

  Instead, he kissed the top of her head and stepped away, heading inside. He could go to his office for an hour. Push around some papers and pretend he’s beating the shit out of someone.

  He ran a hand over his mouth and swallowed a groan. Talk about properly fucking things up.

  18

  BELL

  Some nights, when The House was closed, we played poker at Lance’s. Strip poker, if we got drunk enough.

  Tonight, we were definitely drunk enough. I tipped back a cold bottle of Miller Light and eyed my cards, my jeans and tennis shoes already kicked into the pile of clothes beside the table. The rules were simple. If you won the hand, you got the pot, and your clothes stayed on. If you lost, a piece of clothing hit the floor. I had panties, a bra, T-shirt and sweatshirt standing between me and stark nudity.

  “Come on, B,” Lance urged. “You ain’t got shit.”

  I glared at him and ran a thumb along the side of my first Ace. The second Ace, cozying right next to it, I ignored. “Raise, twenty.”

  I pushed the chip into the pile and studiously avoided Rick’s eyes, who sat to my left. It was a ploy, one that he bought with a laugh and a push forward of chips.