High Card: A Billionaire Shifter Novel (Lions of Las Vegas Book 1)

by Ellis Daniels, May

  “Oh shit!” I yelp as the glass hits the green carpet and half-melted ice scatters across the pit floor. “What a klutz I am! Jason could you—”

  “That’s it for bets folks,” the croupier says.

  “But I vant to bet,” Maya pouts.

  “And you will, hun,” the croupier says, forcing a polite smile at a customer she obviously finds irritating as hell. “Next spin and the spin after that…”

  Jason steps back from the table, waves at a waitress to get help with cleaning up—

  The wheel’s slowing. Tick tick tick and the little white ball isn’t doing anything right. For a second I lose the act and lean over the table, eyes glued on the bouncing ball. At eleven to one if I lose I’ll owe the house five thousand six-hundred and ten dollars. But that’s also what I stand to win, minus everyone’s cut.

  My breath stops in my lungs and if anyone with any sense or experience sees me now they’ll know I’m no rookie, they’ll see the flushed cheeks, the laser focus, the way I’m tapping my palm with my index finger real quick, a tell I could never get rid of that made me shit at poker, gave me the street name Miss Palmer, and now the wheel’s crawling around and man do I need this payout, a grand could go a long way to keeping my moms in meds and I could go grocery shopping and fix the fucking blown-out muffler on my 1997 Civic that leaks exhaust into the car at every traffic light—

  There’s all that, yeah.

  But even better would be knowing I drew an eleven to one score from Landon fucking Stone on the opening night of his soft launch in the largest, poshest most high-tech casino in the world—

  Half a spin more. The double zero’s are there.

  Right there.

  I haven’t drawn a breath.

  Landon was plastered all over TV for months, bragging about how he spent more on security in his new casino Savannah’s than it takes to build most casinos, and wouldn’t that be a laugh, taking a score nicknamed Savannah after a stripper from a high-roller’s red-rug casino of the same name—

  The irony’s delicious.

  I got this play. I know I do. I know it.

  The wheel shudders to a halt.

  Boom.

  We need to get the fuck out of here.

  Now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LANDON

  “WHO IS SHE?” I ask, eyeing one of the forty screens linked to the closed-circuit cameras above my casino’s roulette tables. There’s a woman at a table who’s not feeling right. Call it a vibe.

  So yeah, I’m glued to the screen. My breath quickening.

  I want to see if she’s going to try and rob me. Takes a bit to focus on that. Because the girl…the truth is I can’t stop looking at her. Wondering how her skin feels beneath my lips. What she looks like with her blouse off. Leaning over me, slipping a leg over my waist, straddling me—

  Christ. She’s a thief. Trash.

  I take a sip of ice-cold water, wishing I could shower with it.

  I haven’t been in Vegas long, but already I’m learning there are two kinds of people in this town: those who want to rob you blind, and those who want to take advantage of you. Or maybe that’s only one kind?

  One of my computer guys swallows hard, wipes a line of sweat from his brow. “We’re working on it, sir.”

  Sir.

  No matter how often I tell my staff to drop the formalities, they still insist on calling me ‘sir.’ I don’t mind the respect. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. Built an international corporation from the ground up. But ‘sir’ makes me feel like a crusty old bastard.

  I’m still years away from thirty.

  The woman on the screen leans into her boyfriend. Kisses his shoulder. Tosses her hair back. A pinprick of anger makes my jaw tense. I don’t like seeing her with that guy. Not at all.

  She’s mine.

  The thought arrives in a flash.

  There’s a heat to it. An energy.

  I check my watch as a way to drag my attention from the screen. “I’m due for an engagement in ten,” I say to the security guy, hoping to hurry things along.

  “Plug her face into the system,” my older brother Blake snaps.

  The security guy gives Blake a nervous nod. Hits a button on the keyboard, bringing up a wealth of police data. Moves some images around, codes through a few passwords—

  If she is acting, the nameless girl sitting at my high-roller roulette table deserves an Oscar. I can’t see anything suspicious about her. Neither did any of the security paid to watch every patron’s every move.

  It was Blake who spotted her.

  He has a nose for sniffing out thieves and criminals.

  Takes one to know one.

  I press my fingers to my eyes, trying to block out the cynical thought. This casino is a new start for Blake. A new leaf. But I can’t help thinking about all the other new starts over the years. The mistrustful, guarded part of me already has this figured out.

  Blake will do what he always does.

  Play at being loyal while it suits him. But then he’ll start to slip. The resentment he feels working under me will begin to show. He’ll start undermining our pride, maybe even sabotaging the casino. It’ll all be subtle at first. Then one day…not so much. Blake’s angry at the family he’s convinced always thought he’d be a fuck-up, and so that’s what he became. He’ll start to poison—

  Blake’s pacing beside me, a wrecking ball of barely-contained aggressive energy. He stabs his thumb at the screen. “That bitch is no college girl. I don’t need a fucking database to tell me that. She’s working. Look how she’s watching that wheel. And the idiot croupier—where the fuck did we pick that one up? Fire her. And fire the guy who hired her.”

  “Rachael hired her,” I remind my brother.

  “What? Oh, fuck sake.” Blake takes a long swig of Scotch and chases it with Red Bull. I tell the security geek to keep scanning the Gaming Commission and FBI databases, then pull my brother away from the computer and say under my breath, “You keeping him under wraps? I need you cool and collected today, brother.”

  Blake fires me an icy glare. He’s a vicious looking bastard. Narrow faced. Thin. Tiny little eyes perched on a hooked nose.

  But he’s my older brother. Nothing can change that.

  No matter how much I might wish it isn’t true—

  “I’m nothing if not cool,” Blake says.

  “You off the blow?”

  “Totally.”

  “Totally bullshit. Since when?”

  “Since…uh. Fuck it. Stop mothering. I’m good, bro. Really. Just the stress, right? Opening night and all.” Blake’s features twist into a real ugly look, the kind I’ve seen before. It’s the kind of look that means he’s itching to kill someone. “But that bitch. She’s a grifter, Landon. A thief. I mean—opening night! At Savannah’s. She’s got stones. I’ll give her that much.”

  “She could just be a college girl.”

  Blake smiles in a way that reminds me he’s very comfortable assuming the worst about people. “Sure. A fucking college girl—

  “Uh, boss?”

  “What?” Blake and I snap at the same time. Blake gives me a quick look, then sidles out of my way. He might be Chief of Security and a fifteen percent partner in this enterprise. But I’m the casino’s single President and CEO. It was Blue Line, my Fortune 500 company that bankrolled Savannah’s Casino, and it’s my name engraved in gold on the plaque in the entry foyer—

  “What is it?” I repeat to the security guy while Blake tilts his glass at a waitress, smiling when she hands him another Scotch straight off her tray. There’s four more lined up right behind that one. Booze doesn’t hit our kind like it does humans. Stronger blood. Still…Blake’s management. He should be setting an example.

  “The college girl…I, uh…?” the security guy stammers.

  “C’mon, man!” Blake shouts, scaring the dude half to hell.

  “She’s…I think she’s…playing the Savannah.”

  “
We’re in Savannah’s, you idiot!” Blake says. “Are you high?”

  “No. I mean…she just dropped a stack. Brown under two reds.”

  My breath catches in my throat. “Did the croupier see? Did she call the high bet?”

  Security guy shakes his head. I check his name-tag. Savannah’s employs over ten thousand people. I’m still working on remembering names. “Are you sure, Darren? The croupier did not see her place the high bet?”

  I’m speaking real slow. Over enunciating.

  “No, sir. The high bet wasn’t called.”

  “Fucking bitch,” Blake scowls. “I knew it! I’m gunna cut her throat—”

  The serving girl flinches. Just a little.

  I shoot Blake a watch-your-mouth glare.

  Me, Blake and Darren the security guy are huddled tight around the monitor now, our attention glued on the college girl. She’s tapping her palm with her index finger in an odd, nervous way. Could just be excitement. But it doesn’t feel that way. I’m no expert in gaming. But I can read people pretty well, especially humans.

  This one is up to something.

  Excitement races through my blood. I reach up and loosen my tie. I thought the casino would be mostly all show. No bite. But this? This could get interesting. If she’s caught she’ll be in my debt—

  Then I scent something. Blake’s hunched over right beside me. Gripping the edge of the table. His claws slowly slipping into the wood as his animal emerges.

  I give him a hard slap on the back.

  “You all right?” I ask.

  “Sure. Yeah. Just…pissed off is all.”

  “Right. Remember who you are,” I say, lifting the security clearance badge that says his name and title. “Remember what you’re here for.”

  Blake flicks his narrow tongue over his thin lips. “Sure, little brother. Anything you say. Now. You mind if I get back to work?”

  This was a lousy idea.

  The casino.

  Partnering with Blake.

  Moving Blue Line’s headquarters from Belgium to Las vegas.

  It was all one colossal fuck-up of an idea.

  Why, then? The question I’ve asked myself for months as we went through the long process of designing and building the world’s largest most expansive casino.

  For family loyalty.

  Because we look after our own. The pride comes first. Always.

  Even if they’re a bunch of fuck-ups.

  Or in Blake’s case…murderers.

  At least that’s what I keep reminding myself.

  But the hard truth is…I came to Vegas for me.

  I cut the thought short and return my attention to the girl. She’s wearing a blouse that’s exactly the right kind of revealing. Her laugh comes easy, ostensibly loosened by the Long Islands she’s been sipping for nearly an hour. Suddenly I feel myself…intensely drawn to the screen.

  To her image.

  Like I could watch this girl all day and never get bored. There’s something in how she carries herself. Her shoulders held up, capable but not haughty or arrogant. Self-possessed, maybe. I can’t see her eyes very well, but I get the feeling they’re pretty. Fiery. Not bitchy or condescending. Simply…alive. Quick. Sharp. I get the sense this is a girl who’s been hit hard by life and keeps on fighting—

  “Do we have a goddamned name yet?” Blake shouts in Darren the security guy’s ear.

  “The woman is a grifter,” someone says from directly behind me. “And she’s violating federal parole.”

  I drag my gaze away from the screen, surprised by my reluctance to stop staring at the girl. A weird voyeuristic sensation tingles through me. I think about watching her undress. See her stepping into the shower, hot steam billowing around her—

  Shit.

  This potential thief-girl is under my skin. What the hell?

  That never happens.

  Well, almost never.

  And yeah, she’s all right looking. But she’s not what you’d call a stunner. What’s happening is I’m more stressed by the casino opening than I’d like to admit. That has to be it. Displacing that stress into desire—

  “Excuse me?” I say, turning to meet the bright green eyes of a smoking hot blonde. She frowns, tenses as our eyes meet. All business. “And you are? Excuse me, of course. It’s day one. I’m still learning—”

  “Colette Williams,” the woman says. “Nevada Gaming Commission liaison for Savannah’s Casino, Mr. Stone? We met—”

  “Of course, Miss Williams. We met several times during security strategy meetings. My apologies. Now. Who is this woman in my casino?”

  Her demeanor changes. Becomes…inviting. “Please, Mr. Stone. Call me Colette.”

  She turns to study the screen. Blake stares at her ass.

  Shit. Sometimes I can’t even stomach the guy—

  “The gambler playing roulette is Summer Alexa Mason,” Colette says. “A convicted felon. Local girl. A known lifelong grifter. Ties to Il Potere.”

  “Il Potere?” I ask.

  “The Power,” Blake says, locking eyes with Colette.

  Colette nods. “Don Luca Abatelli isn’t known for being a modest man. I heard your organization had a slight…disagreement with Abatelli over some property?”

  “Whatever. The wop didn’t want us here,” Blake scowls. “Too bad. Money talks—”

  “You think this is Abatelli’s doing?” I ask Colette.

  I know about Il Potere and Abatelli’s mafia crime family, of course. You want to do business in this town you learn about them, sooner rather than later. But it’s good to keep people questioning what you know. If Colette thinks I’m a bigger fool than I am, fine. You don’t become president of a world renowned corporation by being scrupulously honest a hundred percent of the time.

  Colette shrugs in a way that says: you’re in trouble, bud.

  Good. She’s underestimating me.

  “That Summer bitch is a fucking lifelong casino cheat,” Blake says, almost spitting at the screen. “I knew it.”

  “You called it,” I admit, trying to give credit where it’s due.

  Blake extends his hand to Colette.

  She lets it hang between them until the moment grows awkward.

  But Blake doesn’t give a shit. He thrives on awkward. After a few moments Colette gives in and takes my brother’s hand. He gives her a squeeze hard enough to make her eyes flutter.

  “We’ve also met,” Colette says, trying to pull her hand away.

  “I know,” Blake says, giving her a slimy smile. “I remember that sweet rack.”

  Blake has this thing he does with women. A way he looks at them. Like he’s hate-fucking them. I’ve told him to cut it out. He swears he doesn’t know what I mean.

  I step between the two, forcing my brother to release Colette’s hand.

  The Gaming Liaison visibly relaxes.

  We’re in Wing Three of Savannah’s security complex, built directly under the casino floor. The staff have taken to calling the security area the dungeon, although from the amount of high-tech equipment in here it looks more like a passenger jet cockpit.

  There are eleven security wings in total, each focused on a different area of the casino and linked by corridors so long we’ve installed moving walkways for the staff. There’s a wing for the nearly six thousand slot machines. Another for the two hundred-forty nine poker tables, both high and low roller. A wing for the three hundred and twenty-one roulette tables. A wing for each of the three hotels and nine thousand rooms and twenty-eight restaurants. Even one for the indoor jungle safari, complete with zip lines. Imported exotic animals are valuable.

  Every square inch of space in Savannah’s is under twenty-four hour surveillance. And that’s saying something in a building designed to be not only the world’s biggest casino, but twice as big as the next largest. The Venetian Macao in China is five hundred fifty thousand square feet.

  Savannah’s comes in at over a million.

  My head hurts just thinki
ng about it.

  Not to mention how much I indebted my award-winning company, Blue Line, to finance this place—

  “We should go up and snatch her,” Blake says, excitement quickening his voice. “Drag her into the box. The bitch is already violating parole—”

  “Not yet,” I say, struggling to stay calm. For some reason the thought of my brother touching Summer…makes my throat tighten and my animal begin to pace and scratch. “Not unless she pockets that stack if the roulette spin doesn’t land.”

  “Of course it’s not gunna land. And of course she’s gunna pocket the stack,” Blake says, looking at Colette to back him up. The Gaming Liaison Officer crosses her arms and ignores him. Blake shrugs. “That grifter look like she has five grand to lose?”

  “Let it play out,” I say. “It’s opening night. There are a lot of high rollers out there. Media. Industry insiders. I won’t swamp the floor with security until—”

  “She fucking robs you blind?” Blake sneers. “She’s a grifter. Cheating’s what she does. You should leave this shit to me, little bro. You don’t have the stomach for it. I’ve lived in this town most of my life. Seen its fucking underbelly. It ain’t pretty. You were off making batteries—”

  “Electric fuel cells. Clean energy.”

  “Batteries. Whatever. I get this town.” Blake’s voice drops. “You made me Chief of Security, Landon. You gotta trust me—”

  Trust.

  The word settles into an icy pit in my gut. In my experience, the more a person asks for trust, the less they deserve it. Blake deserves it less than anyone in my life. And he’s been asking for it over and over these last few months—

  “Who’s that frat-boy fucker?” Blake snaps at Colette as a stocky, mid-twenties man settles at the roulette table beside Summer. “Her accomplice?”

  Colette leans close to the screen. She does have a great rack. I move a little closer. Lean into her. Let my hip press against hers. She stiffens slightly, but doesn’t flinch away. I’m standing beside and slightly behind her. She’s wearing black slacks and a grey jacket. She’s trying real hard to give the appearance of being professional.

  But I know if I had her alone for half a minute she’d be on her knees.