Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series

by Loren, Celia

  Romy dragged herself up the first elevator, down the now-familiar hall, and to the door of Zaida’s lair. She rapped once. She rapped twice. No one responded, so she muscled her way inside. The place was vacant, but the elevator door was opened ominously. Romy checked her prize watch, which she’d worn in a last-ditch attempt at defiance (or perhaps good luck) – 6:02. Just a few minutes late.

  She pressed herself into the elevator, willing it to break down. But no, alas, the car released her into the awful stronghold of the Needle, where a team of ten people—arrayed in a row—all seemed to clap in unison when the doors opened. Their heroine had arrived.

  Bryson was no better off. His un-pressed suit bunched strangely in parts, riding too high along his shoulders. He had dark circles under his eyes. Arriving early, he’d been forced to keep company with a gloating Lefty as he fought off a grab-bag of fear and fury. It would have been easy—too easy—to take this predator by the throat where he stood, hurl him through the glass window of his own filthy empire…

  But Lefty’d remained in higher spirits. “I’m glad you’re a good sport, Weller,” he’d creaked, as if the whole melodrama set to take place were a game of golf in the rain. “We appreciate your patronage. But you understand, a good show wins out, every time!” he cackled.

  And the “show” turned out to be a motley, miserable crew of other high-rollers. It was clear that Lefty had gone out of his way to dredge up some of most disgusting candidates he could find. Chiefly among these was The Dap, who wore a double breasted, purple sports coat and a paper crown, the kind children received in Happy Meals. His mouth was full of tobacco-stained teeth, and it was clear from his goading that despite the early hour, he was already drunk.

  Behind him at the table, there was a certain disgraced newspaper reporter with despicable allegations rising against him. Then, behind him, sat an ancient geezer who needed to be wheeled around by an aid. Even this old man seemed capable of cackling at a young girl’s discomfort, though. He seemed to have made special friends with The Dap during the wait.

  In another stressful twist, Bryson learned that Zaida the Bitch Queen Herself would also be afforded a place at the table. Many of the men drooled ostentatiously at the image of two blondes sharing a bed together, but Bryson knew better: Zaida’s pouty red mouth spelled cruelty, and pain. He couldn’t let her—any of these trolls, really—win the prize of his lady love. He couldn’t bear the thought.

  Among the last two to arrive were a skeletal mystery man, the color of cucumber water and, at longer last, Kellan. His only hope. His brother looked characteristically somber, but was also giving off the unmistakable whiff of Johnnie Walker Red. He’s fucking drunk, Bryson thought. So they were screwed all ways around.

  Lefty led the way to the table; or, rather his belly did. He barked the rules behind him, for those who hadn’t played the Needle’s game before. The assembly revved with encouragement. Then, their eyes fell hungrily over Romy, their prize, who looked younger and more frightened than Bryson had ever seen her. The sight made his eyes ache.

  Just as they were about to take their places, Lefty lifted a bejeweled hand. “Oh, Mr. Weller. I thought I’d made myself plain: you won’t be competing in this tournament. For fairness’ sake.”

  “But—”

  “I called you here as a referee. You can occupy my former place, outside the table. And keep your eyes peeled for any sort of dealer favoritism,” he laughed a bit at this. “Though with this crowd—skeeves, dirtbags, drunks, women—I bet you’ll have an easy go of things.”

  Though Romy’s eyes swam, the lovers managed to exchange an affirming nod. This was a cruel turn of events, but not altogether surprising. Of course Lefty had meant to make Bryson watch helplessly on as Romy's destiny unfolded. This way, even in the unthinkable best case scenario, there’d be no Vaughn brother on the table to take the cash. It was the meanest, shrewdest thing he could have done. They’d underestimated DiMartino, at their peril.

  “LET'S BEGIN!” bellowed the owner, neatly compiling his own fat stack of chips. “And remember: I play here today as an independent citizen. This is all my personal cash, not the Windsor’s.” He winked then, driving his audience wild.

  Bryson felt Romy's heart as his heart. He searched her face carefully, for warring patches of determination and fear. Her fingers shook as she dealt the first round, but her jaw was set. He prayed that she had what it took.

  In a round or two of betting, the first player was eliminated: the foul-minded reporter, who’d fallen into the trap of doubling his losses. The rest of the table jeered at his failing, all but chasing him from the Needle. Darkness had begun to fall. A single, ghost-y bartender was circling laconically, doing a poor job refilling drinks. Both Lefty and The Dap had already racked up large tabs, and because he couldn’t not, Bryson ordered a double vodka and tossed it back quick.

  “He drinks, when he think about what I do to his pretty girlfriend,” cooed Zaida, her voice stomach-churning, crass as nails on a chalkboard. “But he need no worry. I take good, good care of those big, beautiful…” Zaida then licked her lips with a look of crazed glee on her face. Bryson prayed she was kidding, as the rest of the table hollered in affirmation. His own lovely Romy was fighting to keep the tremble from her voice.

  But Romy showed a 7 up-card with the next hand, and Zaida doubled down on her two 4 cards. Bryson allowed himself to hope that her amateur’s move would bust her; doubling down an 8 against a dealer 7 was rarely a good idea, particularly when the player wasn't counting cards. And sure enough, the icy supervisor had gambled away her chances at a win. Lefty struck 21 this time, leaving Zaida to stand and mutter furiously, to no one, at her bad luck. Eventually, she returned to the bar area, where she began overly scrutinizing the other waifish employee.

  This left at the table: Kellan, Lefty, The Dap, the geezer, and the mysterious sallow man, who no one quite seemed to recognize. Sallow-Man made small talk with the bartender, indicating that he’d visited the Needle before, but Bryson noticed how Lefty made no personal gesture of recognition towards this fellow, as he did with all the other guests.

  “Let’s. Fucking. Plaaa-aaaay,” whined The Dap, who had already let a sizable hunk of his gut flap free of his button-down. He yelled to the waitress for more drinks at every possible interval. Miraculously, Kellan seemed able to withstand this temptation—Bryson thanked his lucky stars. His brother was playing his usual sloppy game, but without the props. Did they dare to hope?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The room temperature seemed to drop suddenly, as if in accordance with the awful new mood spreading across the Needle's floor. Romy shivered in her paper-thin uniform and the players remained silent and still. The game was clicking along swiftly now, gathering speed and momentum like an avalanche.

  Bryson paced anxiously, eyeing the players and their remaining chip stacks.

  Meanwhile, Romy was beginning to embrace numbness. Her imagination had already spiraled across all possible outcomes of this tournament, and in no scenario could she contrive a bright future. It now seemed clear that Lefty had brought them here only to demonstrate his absolute power; with every swig from his gin and tonic, her cruel boss seemed to guarantee that there would be no riding-off-into-the-sunset, there would be no happy ending for his treacherous “employee.”

  She cast a surreptitious glance in the direction of Lefty's two henchmen, Titus and an unknown man, both clad in severe black, manning their posts by the elevator doors. She saw the thick leather straps binding their mid-sections: holsters, she thought. Guns.

  The geezer bowed out fast at the end of the next round (sinking on a 17), and the man's sullen-looking aid wheeled him towards the bar. Lefty cracked a wicked grin in the direction of Bryson's turned back. The Dap, who was impressively still in play despite a buzz approaching catatonia, began to futz impatiently with his paper crown. She could see the heaving mass of his belly when he raised his arms.

  “Oh, sweetcheeks?” Lefty slurred in
the direction of the bar. “I'll have another of these DIVINE Tanquerays!” By now, the boss was raising an uncharacteristic hell; his cheeks had turned a ruddy, alcoholic red. On the other hand, Kellan—who had entered the room smelling sharply of whiskey—seemed to have regained full composure. She contemplated the younger brother at the table, where he was gazing at the visible hands with a sharp concentration. Was it possible he was counting cards? That would be far too risky a move in their current position. Romy tried to catch his eye in caution.

  Lefty was standing now; or rather, trying to stand. He teetered on his feet. She could smell the booze on his skin from feet away.

  “I have...an announcement,” the boss began, his voice a bellow. “Gentleman's intermission. Everyone, gather round. Gather, damn it!”

  Romy set the shoe aside and locked up her chips. Zaida, the outed geezer and the bartender ambled back towards the table. Bryson, still drumming patterns in the floor, merely turned his head.

  “I just wanted to say...to my nearest and dearest, gathered here in my favorite room of my favorite casino: thank you. Truly. Thank you for coming.” Humoring him, the audience clapped lightly. Bryson crept a few feet closer to the action.

  “Thank you for coming,” Lefty continued, seeming briefly to lose his train of thought. “...and thank you for spending your hard-earned cash in pursuit of the world's greatest ambition: getting MORE. HARD. EARNED. CASH!” The spectators led a sprinkle of confused applause. Rousing slightly, The Dap attempted an enthusiastic cheer, but with a single glare, Lefty motioned him quiet.

  The room followed suit and everyone now craned to follow their host's speech. Bryson inched closer still. Romy could now feel the sweetness of his breath on the back of her neck.

  “Now I know a lot of people have a lot of shit to say about the morality of the casino business. How gambling is evil, how it breeds addiction, blah, blah, blah. But I take the opposite tack. Everything we do is a gamble. We gamble for career, for home, for love—” He threw a pointed gaze in Romy and Bryson's direction, “—and the best part is, as in life, gambling rewards the winners and punishes the losers. It re-assigns. It takes away. And if I take something from you, it becomes mine.” For emphasis, Lefty lunged across the table, seizing a neat handful of The Dap's chips. The Dap looked bewildered, but for the first time Romy spotted a twitch of fear moving in his jowly face. So even this monster was afraid of Lefty DiMartino.

  “Now I've always been very, very good at gambling. You might have guessed. So good, in fact, that I never lose.”

  Then Lefty wheeled on Bryson, extending a shaky figure.

  “And because I'm no loser, I know what you're up to. You sack of shit.”

  The room was tomb-silent now. Romy didn't dare look to her lover. She steadied herself against the table instead, as if maintaining perfect balance might help her disappear.

  “I don't tolerate cheaters,” Lefty went on. He was gaining steam now. His voice was cracking with fury, spit was flying from his lips. “But I especially don't tolerate people trying to take my property away from me. I never tolerate thieves.” Now suddenly, awfully, the mob boss was flanking Romy. She felt a thick, muscular hand encircle the soft skin of her throat like a noose. His fingers dug into her flesh. In a panic, she tried to cry out but his grip was so firm that her voice caught.

  “So, Mr. Bryson Vaughn: if you want my filthy whore, you'll need to win her back fair and square.”

  Everything that followed happened in a tight blur. Romy remembered the corners of her vision growing dark, a few last gasps of air slithering from her aching lungs. She remembered the sharp, terrible sound of a bullet cracking the air, then the sink of it finding its target. Someone pushed her to the floor after that. She remembered the smell and feel of the Needle's grimy carpet, rising up to braid her face. Then... nothing.

  Bryson had pulled the first gun. On his signal, Kellan had swiftly removed the .44 Magnum from his leg strap and shot an advancing Titus square in the chest—his aviator sun glasses flung from his face. The Sallow Man had pulled a glock on the other bouncer, popped him first in the right knee and then in the neck. A fine spray of blood had sooted the room. Zaida and the bartender had screamed and cowered, while the geezer's aid fainted in a heap from sheer terror.

  A slight silence had followed, during which the air was filled with the painful last cries of dying men. Romy learned later that Lefty had expired with a sick smirk still etched on his face. She would try, in the days to come, to conjure sympathy for the dead tyrant: but it wouldn't come. She wasn't sorry.

  In the midst of the carnage The Dap had struggled to remove his own Jericho 941, but his drunkenness had proved an obstacle. Before the cretin had even reached the trigger, Bryson shot him dead. Three fat bullets straight into his wide heaving chest.

  The first thing Romy saw on waking was Kellan's frightened face, hovering inches above her own. He stroked the side of her cheek with a frantic tenderness.

  “Get her up, Kelly! We don't have much time,” cried Bryson, from the far end of the room.

  He was crouching out of sight, somewhere behind the bar.

  “What's happening?” Romy asked. Had she dreamt it? But no, even in the dark light, her eyes began to discern the hulking corpses of four men, the sheen of red liquid making rivulets on the playing cards. So. Much. Blood.

  “Don't worry, Ro. We're going to be just fine. Just listen to everything I say.” Even from inside her panic, it occurred to Romy that this was the first time she'd spoken to Kellan Vaughn outside the ruse. She nearly smiled at him—his floppy hair, his friendly gaze—it was refreshing to hear him call her name, a spell unbroken. But then she remembered herself and the fact they remained in incredible, incredible danger.

  Kellan helped her slowly to her feet. He held her gaze. In her periphery, Romy glimpsed a figure darting back and forth in the shadows. Out of instinct, she screamed.

  “Ro! Don't scream! Hush!” Bryson said. His voice sounded wrought, fractured. He now stood above the bar, so she could see his face. It was cracked and manic, there was sweat pouring down his handsome face. She wondered if he'd ever done this before...killed a man. Men.

  Kellan tracked her gaze, then placed his spindly musician's hands on her shoulders. His hold was strong. He could guide her. “Don't worry, Ro. The man running around, he's just Brownstein. He's a Devil's Ace.”

  “And a great fucking shot!” called Bryson, attempting a laugh. Now Romy could hear the plaintive wails of women, and a ragged, harsh breath. She scanned the bar area, where Bryson stood. Of course: Zaida, the aid, the geezer, the bartender, all of them were witnesses. They'd been left alive.

  Her eyes caught the mysterious Brownstein again by the makeshift dealer's bank, in the Needle's far right corner. He seemed to be scooping handfuls and handfuls of stacks of hundred dollar bills into one of four huge duffle bags. Looking down, she saw that the table before her was already clear of loot.

  “Seven....seven and a quarter...seven and a half...” Brownstein sang. “Seven and...nearly three quarters.”

  “We've got ten minutes!” Bryson called in response. “The automatic locks are going to click on. Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

  Kellan now lead a dazed Romy across the spattered Needle. He wouldn't let her look down, or to either side. “Stay focused on me,” he repeated, all sweetness. “We're going to be fine now. You're going to be safe.”

  “Seven and three quarters...annnnnd....eight!” Now, a less-sallow Brownstein darted towards the elevator banks, where all of the little party but Bryson had assembled. “Eight fucking million dollars,” Kellan murmured. “Christ Almighty.”

  Finally, Bryson himself emerged from behind the bar. He had the barrel of his gun pressed firm against a quivering Zaida's shoulder blades. Romy nearly felt sorry for the Queen Bitch right then, though as supervisor, she'd so recently been the object of Romy's unequivocal hatred and fear. Now, Zaida's always-perfect ponytail was askew, and her kohl-rimmed eyes glimmered with tears.
She walked quickly, tripping over her high-heels.

  “Zaida's going to show us out of the casino. Aren't you, Z?” Bryson asked, nudging her back with the gun's barrel. The woman nodded dully. “She's going to see we aren't bothered until we reach city limits. If she does that, she's free to go back to Russia or whatever shithole she crawled out of.”

  Sighing shakily, Bryson surveyed the rest of the room. Romy couldn't help following his suit. Behind the bar, the motley remaining crew had been loosely tied together with bands of bungee cord. The old man seemed to be rolling in and out of a troubled sleep, completely oblivious to the current situation.

  “What's going to happen to them?” Romy stuttered. To her right, Kellan squeezed her hand.

  “As soon as we're out of sight, the casino staff will find them and help them to safety,” he said. Then he tilted her chin, so their eyes met once more. His eyes like shallow pools, blue like his brother's but much less deep. She felt the jab of a memory moving in her heart...something about those silly, sweet songs he'd written in high school. That life seemed laughably far away now, in this room full up with murdered men. And she was an accessory...

  “Don't worry, Ro,” Kellan repeated, in the same sure tone. “No one else is going to die here tonight.”

  Once they were all sandwiched into the tiny elevator, Romy at last let her gaze come to rest on Bryson. Her hero. He was flustered. His eyes were darting madly around every corner of the small space. She imagined he was replaying the recent scene over and over in his mind, experiencing again the feel under his fingers of a smoking gun, seeing in vivid picture all that flying blood. She fought the urge to reach for him then and there, to quiet his churning spirit. For whatever the awful consequence, he had saved her life. All their lives. That much she knew.