Ace of Hearts: A Mafia Romance (Vegas Underground)

by Renee Rose

  Tony’s enormous frame unfolds from behind his desk, his eyes traveling over me with the same satisfied perusal he gave me outside, only this time, there’s a hint of surprise. Curiosity.

  The door shuts behind the security guard. Brando says nothing, just quirks a brow.

  My stomach is shoved up so high, it’s tucked under my ribs, keeping my lungs from expanding. I pant, suddenly intensely aware of the way my sweat-soaked shirt molds to my breasts, the prick of my nipples against the built in bra. The fact that my dance shorts are barely more than a pair of panties.

  And judging by the way Brando loosens his tie, I’d say he finds my outfit as provocative as it’s meant to be—from the safety of the stage. Not up close and personal in a mafia enforcer’s swanky office.

  I grip the champagne bottle tighter and hold it up. “Really? Champagne?” I snap. I shouldn’t be so careless with my vocal chords, but fortunately, my words come out clear, only the barest of rasping around the edges.

  He tilts his head to the side, like he’s trying to decode my words.

  I walk forward and set the champagne bottle down with a loud thud. “You and I both know you own me, Mr. Brando.” I meet his dark-lashed eyes boldly. “Pepper Heart, Inc. owes you, and you’re going to get your share every way you can. So you can skip the wine and dine. If you’re exacting payment from me”—I squeeze my breasts roughly—“just lube up and do it. Otherwise, leave me the hell alone.”

  Shock flickers over his face, and then his brows slam down. He stalks around the desk toward me like a giant lion, graceful and terrifying. It takes everything in me to hold my position, keep my chin tilted up, the defiance in my gaze.

  He crowds me against the desk until my ass perches on the edge and one of his thighs stands between mine. He’s so close, I feel his heat everywhere, yet somehow he manages not to touch me. My breath stalls up in my throat.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is so deep and rumbly, eyes gleam dark and angry. I catch a whiff of his scent—not cigars and leather, like I might have expected. No, it’s coffee grounds and earthy spice. “I don’t have to pay for sex. And I certainly never force it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Anyone who tells you different is a liar.”

  My nipples burn, they’re so hard. I swear I feel the heat of his thigh right between my legs. If I just rock down, I might relieve the ache there.

  As if he reads my exact thoughts, his gaze drops between us, down to the points of my erect nips, to the splay of my legs around his. “But if it turns you on to feel owned”—he lifts the back of his knuckle to my left nipple, brushes it ever-so-lightly, like he’s testing to see if I’ll move away—“I might play along.” His voice is deeper, softer.

  The idea is ludicrous, but God help me, I rock my pelvis forward, grind my needy little clit against his pant leg.

  He draws in a shuddering breath, a muscle ticking along his scarred jaw. If he’d shown more arrogance, if he’d mocked me, I would’ve kneed him in the balls—I’m lined up perfectly to do so. But seeing my affect on him calms me. Emboldens me. I grind some more.

  He leans a hand beside my ass and inhales, like he’s breathing in my scent. When he pinches my nipple between two knuckles, my pussy clenches.

  But fortunately, my brain returns. This is a man who has threatened Hugh with bodily harm. He represents a deadly threat to me and my family. Just because he’s over two hundred pounds of sexy man-beef, just because he seems to know more about what turns me on than I do, is no reason to offer myself up for his taking.

  I shove myself off the desk, against his hard, muscled body, pushing his torso away with my hands.

  Thankfully, he backs right off.

  After the way he bristled at my accusation earlier, I’m not surprised. Apparently Tony Brando operates under some code of ethics that involves treating women with respect.

  Well good for him.

  Doesn’t mean I want to tangle with his sexy Italian manhood.

  Tony

  Pepper opens my office door, and the struggle between hiding my hard cock and letting her go out there without a bodyguard becomes real. I mutter a curse and follow her out.

  “Wait up,” I call to her tight little ass. Because, yeah, that’s where my focus can’t help but stay glued. She’s wearing these little shorts—these fucking tiny shorts—that are all spandex and leave half her ass cheeks exposed.

  And she has a super hot ass. Muscular, shapely. Cute.

  “I’m not letting you out there without a guard.”

  She ignores me and keeps on sashaying down the hall. Swinging those hips on purpose.

  I catch up quickly with my long legs, and I have to work hard to keep from popping her butt. “Next time you parade through this casino in your panties I’m gonna smack that ass pink,” I growl just behind her.

  She flips me the bird, but when she throws a glance over her shoulder, I see a smirk. And a slight blush.

  Good. I read her right. She may be offended by me; she may hate that I’m the guy whose thumb she’s under, but sexually? Sexually, she’s a little bent.

  Maybe she likes to be tied up. Maybe she wants to be held down. Or she’s got a thing for a guy’s fingers around her throat. I don’t know; I just get the vibe. Women who are turned on by me aren’t vanilla. They see big and tattooed and they think daddy. Or a bad boy. They want dark and dangerous—maybe with a splash of pain. Maybe punishment.

  And for Pepper Heart, I’d be happy to oblige. Yeah, I’d tie her up and fuck her senseless. Keep her on the brink of an orgasm for hours straight before I let her come. Wake her up three times a night with my fist in her hair and cock in hand.

  She wants it dark? I’ll give it to her dark.

  But she’s gonna have to ask nicely.

  She can’t come skidding into my office accusing me of owning her unless she admits to herself she wants to be owned.

  We’re halfway through the casino when I realize she’s lost. Basically, she’s about to walk in a full circle. I get it; it’s a big place and she had an escort when she found me. When she stops in front of a bank of elevators and looks both ways, I sidle up behind her.

  “Did you want to go up to your room?” I stand too close, partly to unnerve her, partly because I wanted to get another whiff of her crisp apple and cucumber scent.

  She whirls to face me, her mouth tight. Her eyes dart right and left.

  I cock my head, waiting.

  “I don’t even know my room number,” she admits on an exhale. Her voice sounds throaty.

  Adorable. I can’t say what it is about her that gets my cock so hard. Something about the achingly beautiful features offset by the punk trimmings, maybe. Big brown eyes against such pale skin. The glint of the diamond in her nose. She has a sex-fairy quality to her. Tough, yet feminine.

  I hide my smile. “I’d be happy to escort you to your room, Ms. Heart.” I indicate a different bank of elevators—the ones that go to the higher levels.

  She lifts her chin and walks to them. All around us, people hold up their phones and snap pictures of her.

  I grind my teeth, the urge to pound all of them into the ground surprisingly strong. I hold the elevator door for her. “Take the next one,” I growl at the guests gutsy enough to try to dart on with us.

  Pepper sighs and brushes her hair out of her face with trembling fingers when the doors close. I eye her, using my all-access keycard to punch in her floor number.

  “You shaking because of me or them?”

  I expect more feistiness, but when her chest sags, she appears weary beyond her years. She lifts her slender shoulders, but doesn’t answer me. Instead, she puts her hand to her throat, like she’s warding off being choked. Or remembering it.

  Seeing Pepper diminished does something uncomfortable to my insides—even though I’ve been the one antagonizing her. I want the Pepper who flipped me off to return, but this one stares straight ahead with a zombie-like emptiness. The elevator stops and the doors open.

 
“It’s this way,” I tell her. “Suite 1460.” I escort her to the room—one of our premium suites—and use my keycard to open it. Out of long practice, I step in to check for threats and make sure her luggage has been delivered before I back toward the door. “You need anything?”

  She rotates to stare at me, like she’s not sure if I’m for real or not.

  I shrug.

  “No thanks.” Her voice sounds rusty.

  I love the way she stares at me, a mixture of bald curiosity and defiance. It’s the same intense study she gave me when we first met outside. I’m the kinda guy who attracts plenty of attention. I’m big. I have a deep voice. I swagger.

  But all people see is the role I portray—mafia enforcer. Or around the Bellissimo, where we no longer engage in organized crime activities, big man in charge.

  No one ever looks past it, stares right into my eyes like they want to unearth my secrets.

  That’s how Pepper looks at me now.

  It awakens in me the desire to be someone. Someone else. Someone with secrets that wouldn’t make her run and hide.

  “I’m looking forward to your show tonight,” I tell her, which is true. Especially now that I’ve met her.

  And seen what she wears to rehearsal.

  I hope for all of our sakes, her show blows the audience away.

  Chapter 3

  Pepper

  Hugh shows up at my door, Anton standing behind him. “Where the hell did you disappear to?”

  Jesus. The man has become my fucking keeper.

  I stick up my chin. “I went to tell Tony Brando where he could shove his champagne.”

  Hugh’s eyes bug out of his face. “You what?” He pushes his way into my room and Anton follows. So much for me resting before the show. “Seriously, Pepper, I don’t think you understand who these guys are.”

  “Oh, I understand.” My voice warbles and Hugh fishes a throat lozenge out of his pocket and shoves it at me. “I understand we’re all going to get our fingernails pulled out with a pair of pliers if I don’t earn the Tacones back their money. No pressure at all, considering my voice is completely shot.” To make my point, my voice gives out on every other word, making me sound like a dying frog.

  “All you have to do is keep your throat lubricated enough to speak between tracks. I’ll take care of the rest,” Hugh promises. He reaches out like he’s going to cup my face and I jerk away.

  Ew. We’re long past him playing daddy to me.

  I close my eyes in frustration. This is the lowest I could possibly sink as an artist—lip synching my own songs for an auditorium filled with people who paid one hundred bucks a pop for tickets and the promise of an intimate show.

  “And if someone figures it out?” I demand.

  “You make damn sure they don’t.” He gives me a hard stare. Hugh’s been my manager since I was sixteen. Since back when I used to believe every word he said—trust he knew best, because my dad believed in him.

  Not so much anymore.

  “They’ve already threatened to go after your parents. They’re not going to hurt you, because you’re the cash cow, but believe me, they know exactly how to apply pressure. These men are violent and dangerous. They won’t hesitate to poke you where it hurts. Do not, I repeat, do not piss them off. That includes getting mouthy with their enforcer. Tony Brando is gonna be the guy who gives the order to take possession of your parents’ house, or worse yet, rough them up. Is that what you want?”

  Cold slithers up my spine. I turn and walk to the window, look down at the third floor rooftop pool deck.

  “Pull it together, Pepper. I know you’re not feeling your best, but there’s a lot more riding on this gig than whether you get decent press or your fans are satisfied. And don’t ever go anywhere in this casino without Anton. Understood?”

  “Go to hell,” I mutter, but I sound like a surly teen, rather than an adult who has the reins of her own career. That’s because with Hugh, I still am a surly teen.

  And I’ve just about had it with him running my life.

  Pepper

  One thousand seats—all full. Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the hell out of performing at the Bellissimo. I like the intimate setting, the swanky, well-equipped theater, and the mix of old and young filling the seats. Under different circumstances, I would’ve given tonight’s performance one hundred and thirty percent. I would’ve joked and cajoled, told private stories, sang my little bird heart out.

  But I’ll be lucky if my voice will make it through the end of the show, and that’s just for shouting to the audience between songs. I’m not lip synching to my last album--that would be way too obvious. Instead, Hugh pulled a recording he’d made for critique purposes from one of my early performances on tour. That way, it sounds more authentic. The hard part is remembering the little fumbles I made, trying to get the timing perfectly synched up. And my band members have to pretend to play, too. None of them are happy about that.

  I do my best. The audience is warm, but we don’t really connect—probably because I’m all wound up about lip synching. Every time I do this, I literally puke before I go on. Still, I dance, I move my lips, I try to chat them up. I change costumes four times. I have a couple small glitches—dropping my head and the mic a moment too soon at the end of a song, forgetting that I’d dragged out a word, but I don’t think anyone would notice unless they’re really looking for it.

  I head off-stage after the encore. Sweat drips in my eyes, and I can’t see because I’ve been staring into stage lights. As I fumble through the curtain, Izzy grabs my arm and yanks me into the shadows.

  “He knows,” she whisper-shouts in my ear over the applause.

  I think she means Hugh, because he’s the asshole we usually commiserate over, but as she throws a towel around my neck, she spins me to face the figure standing in front of my dressing room door.

  The huge, hulking form of Tony Brando. And he radiates pure fury.

  “Oh shit,” I attempt to croak, but my voice is so shot, no sound comes out but a wheeze.

  “Where the fuck is Hugh?” Izzy’s nails dig into my hand. “The jackass is probably hiding and letting you take the fall on this.”

  Fucking Hugh.

  Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. If it’s time to face the music, I’ll have to do it. I lift my chin and march to my dressing room door, giving Tony my haughtiest stare.

  “What. The Fuck. Was that?”

  I feel each syllable in my chest. Wow. He’s quite practiced at delivering menace with every word.

  He blocks my entrance, but I dodge right and left, and get my hand past him to turn the knob and push the door open. Since I don’t want to have this conversation in front of the whole band and crew, I extend my hand like an invitation to my dressing room.

  He turns his body to the side, allowing me to pass—still a gentleman, even when he’s about to break kneecaps, I see—and follows me in. The door shuts automatically behind him.

  “Fucking lip synching? Seriously? What are you—Milli Vanilli?”

  Even if my voice worked to defend myself, there’s nothing I can say. It’s horrible and wrong, but he’s the asshole who’s making me do this. My tour should be over now. I should be home recuperating. Figuring out who I am and when I became this hollow shell of an artist.

  So I go for completely ignoring him. I give him my back, pull my sweaty tank top over my head and pop off my bra, dragging the towel between my breasts.

  “You owe the Tacone family nine hundred thousand dollars. That’s a lot of dough, sweetheart. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  I straighten and turn, letting him see my bare breasts, like they’re the only weapons I have. Maybe he was right. The idea of him taking me as tribute has some taboo appeal to me. My nipples pebble up for him. I’m slightly disappointed, but not surprised when his gaze merely flicks over them before it travels to the butterfly tattoo on my shoulder and returns to my eyes.

  He sta
lks closer to me, crowding me up against the counter. “To sell enough seats to get you out of here by July, I need a real fucking show. Not some lip synching bullshit crap—”

  He stops when I hook my thumbs in my silver dance shorts and start sliding them down my hips. “Okay, you wanna play games?” he snaps. “Let’s play games.” He spins me around and pulls my wrists behind my back.

  My heart jams in my throat. His hand crashes down on my ass.

  Ouch! He continues to spank me fast and hard. Holy shit!

  I fight him, but he holds me easily, forcing my torso down onto the counter, ignoring my attempts to claw free of his hold. He packs a wallop behind that huge palm and my ass starts to burn. I dance beneath the onslaught, my pussy turning molten as my body gets mixed up about what’s happening.

  I dimly realize he’s still going on about ticket sales and the debt, but I can’t focus on his words because my ass is on fire. “Whose idea was this?” he demands. “Answer me!”

  “I lost my voice!” I shout, but, of course, nothing comes out except wheezing scratches.

  He stops spanking. “What?” His tone is incredulous.

  “I lost my fucking voice!” I noiselessly shout again. There are a few cracks and squeaks around the edges to punctuate the words.

  His palm comes to rest on my burning ass, hot and large and… delicious. “You have got to be kidding me.” He sounds disgusted. He rubs my ass. “How long ago?”

  “Three weeks.” I meet his gaze in the mirror as he leans forward to decipher my words, his brows scrunched down.

  He growls and smacks my left buttcheek again, three times. Hard. “Then I should have had a call three fucking weeks ago.”

  More rubbing. My pussy is wet, and so, so randy. I want his fingers between my legs, giving me some relief.

  “I have this place sold out for the next six days. If I’d had a little more notice, I might have been able to reschedule, but now? No way in hell I’m going to shut down this show.” He slaps again, a sharp, quick smack between my legs. I gasp at the contact with my needy lady parts. It doesn’t hurt—it’s amazing. Exactly what I need. I spread my legs to give him better access.