Table of Contents
Misha
Nicole
Also by the Author
About the Author
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Vegas Boss
Alexis Abbott
© 2018 Pathforgers Publishing.
All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are over 18. All sexual activity is between non-blood related, consenting adults. This is a work of fiction, and as such, does not encourage illegal or immoral activities that happen within.
Cover Design by Wicked Good Covers. All cover art makes use of stock photography and all persons depicted are models.
More information is available at Pathforgers Publishing.
Content warnings: mafia violence
Wordcount: 52,000 Words
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Contents
1. Misha
2. Nicole
3. Misha
4. Nicole
5. Misha
6. Nicole
7. Nicole
8. Misha
9. Nicole
10. Misha
11. Nicole
12. Misha
13. Nicole
14. Misha
15. Nicole
16. Misha
17. Nicole
18. Misha
19. Nicole
Also by the Author
About the Author
Connect with Alexis
Romance Novels to your Email
Misha
I’m like a statue. My hardened face still as stone, while a bead of water trickles down the side of my glass to the polished railing in front of me. My steely gaze pans across the club floor from the second story balcony overlooking everything in the club. I only move my arm every few minutes to bring my drink to my lips, the stage show grabbing my attention.
I don’t make a habit of drinking on the job, but tonight is special.
On the stage below, the strippers are putting on one hell of a show. I can smell their perfume from up here as the lights cast a dull pink glow on the black stage, polished so brightly that every flash glimmers, enticing people like moths to a lamp.
The girls are working the crowds for all they’re worth. Hundreds of bills are being tossed onto the stage while the men hoot and holler under the droning beat of the loud music. In a few minutes, the smell of sweat and lust is going to be thick.
My eyes follow one of the dancers as she arches her back and looks at the crowd upside-down while her thighs hug the bar that spins her around. She winks and blows a kiss to someone in the audience, and I see a laughing grin on her face as money starts flying her way. The way her body moves is like liquid silk suspended in the air.
She’s gorgeous. Worth every penny the schlubs down below are throwing at her.
Her hair tickles against the stage as her pink lips pucker and pout, her fingers teasing their way along her skin. She’s clearly a professional dancer, not like some of the girls just trying some exhibitionism on for size. She knows just how to work the crowd into a frenzy, and I can barely pull my gaze away.
I have to remind myself that she’s not what I’m here for.
Not yet, at least.
People glance over at me from time to time, at my six and a half feet in height, muscular frame, and simple but close-fitting tailored clothes. Their eyes see my silhouette, and they look away, cowed. I’m more of a presence than a person.
This would be the easiest hit in the world, if this club didn’t belong to my enemies.
The man I’m here for is talking to a group of men in suits at one of the private tables. I’ve had my eye on him since he walked out of the back offices. He’s a wiry older man in his mid-sixties, white hair with flecks of gray still visible at his temples. He has a hawkish nose and a thin, people-pleasing smile. His suit is tailored, but not what I would call classy. He wears a gaudy purple shirt with a dark blue jacket. Somehow, it fits the aesthetic of the club.
It’s easy to tell he’s one of the co-owners.
And two weeks ago, he tried to murder one of his girls who wouldn’t put out for him.
If that weren’t despicable enough on its own, it was a stupid move. If he wanted to be responsible, he could have at least hired a professional to take care of his needs and avoid all this mess. Instead, he decided to try fooling around with a girl barely a third of his age.
The girl escaped. That’s an impressive feat. This is one of the oldest Italian clubs in Vegas, and one of the last holdouts of their power here in the city. As it happened, she had connections. Rich connections.
And those connections didn’t take kindly to the way she was treated.
When me and the other Russians running business in the city got word of the hit someone put out on the club owner, I thought Christmas had come early.
It’s the perfect cover for a takeover.
I lean forward on the railing of the balcony after I finished my drink. The taste of vodka and tonic on my lips keeps the other mixed smells of alcohol in the club away from me. My target has just finished shaking hands and saying a few empty words to the important-looking guests at the table, and he starts making his way to one of the back rooms where his office is.
His name is Dio Morelli, and his life is worth a hell of a lot of money that I plan on cashing in tonight.
“And what about this fucker?”
The sound of a young man’s slurred voice behind me makes me quirk an eyebrow. I have a mental picture of him without even turning around. College-age, deep enough voice that he must have a wide, strong frame, and enough alcohol in him to knock a lesser man out cold.
“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you!” he shouts at me, but I don’t even flinch. “You checkin’ out my girl, asshole?”
“Curt, he can’t hear you,” a second voice grunts. The club music is throbbing in my ears, but I can hear their voices perfectly clearly.
“Let’s check his hearing,” the man called Curt slurs, and heavy footsteps tell me he’s coming up beside me. The next second, he appears at my side, catching himself before leaning too far over the side of the balcony. “Hey, jackass? Quit staring at my girl down there!”
Slowly, I turn my head barely an inch toward him and raise an eyebrow.
“Your girl?” I say simply.
“Yeah,” he barks, and he points down to the stripper center-stage down below, who’s now doing splits on the bar and has enough cash on the stage to buy a round for all the other girls, if she wanted. “I got a VIP pass, and I’m gonna make her mine later tonight, so piss off to some other club!”
I’m vaguely amused.
“Curt, forget this asshole,” the man’s friend calls.
“Listen to your friend,” I warn him in a casual tone.
I know that’s just going to piss him off, though, and the vein that throbs in his forehead tells me I’m right. Normally, I wouldn’t even bother with small potatoes like him. But he’s made the bad move of getting my attention.
His hand flashes forward, intending to knock the drink out of my hand.
The moment his hand moves, I swiftly yet calmly set the drink on the railing a foot away from me, just barely evading his swipe, and with my other hand, I simply take his wrist.
I don’t e
ven increase my heart rate as I twist his arm around his back and whip his whole frame around. I do so just in time to put him between me and his friend, who was throwing a punch at the back of my head. Instead, the blow catches Curt in the jaw, and I hear a tooth clatter to the ground with the flecks of blood that go flying.
I squeeze Curt’s wrist until I hear a painful pop, and I thrust him forward into his friend. I was right—the two men are about the size and build of football players, and they’re both glassy-eyed enough that I know they’re closer to getting thrown out than being let into the VIP room.
Once the two men collide, Curt starts throwing punches wildly, thinking I’m the one in front of him. The moment his first punch connects with his friend, I reach around his waist and slip two fingers into his pocket. Curt’s VIP ticket is poking out. I grab it, pocket it, take my drink, and calmly walk away as the two friends start throwing blows at each other.
By the time I’m setting my glass on the bar and giving the bartender a nod, security is already busy trying to get the men to break up. It’s a task easier said than done, considering both the men are pushing three-hundred pounds.
I make my way down the stairs and check the time on my phone. Twelve-thirty in the morning. I’ve lost sight of my target, but I have his schedule memorized. He’s a creature of habit, and I know exactly where he is, unless something’s gone awry.
And I spend enough time planning every hit that I do not make mistakes.
Right about now, every night, he goes out back for a smoke with two of the meanest bastards on the security crew with him as bodyguards. That would be easy enough, if he didn’t also take the other club owner with him on his breaks.
Personally, I’d love to deal with both of them in one quick and clean bloodbath. There’s a pistol strapped to my leg and a silencer in my jacket. Four quick shots, and they’d all be down.
Usually, the next course of action would be to simply follow the target home and deal with him there.
But tonight is special.
Tonight, I’m sending a message.
The exit my target will have used is through the dancer’s rooms and offices, meaning I can’t get to them from the inside. I’ll have to take an outside approach.
I slip out of the club and wade through the crowds of people in the streets of Vegas until I can slip into one of the steamy alleyways behind the club. A rat scurries out of my way as I make my way down the shadowy street, my footsteps silent.
The alley is wide enough for a car to pass through, and there’s nothing blocking the path. This is the way the owners pulled up in their expensive sports cars. I stick to the shadows and stay low as I near the edge of the building.
Voices reach my ears as I get there, and I glance just far enough around the corner to see the four figures standing there.
One of the guards is standing with the two owners. The other is standing at the door, his arms crossed. As I suspected, there are a few cars parked in the little lot back here, and there’s only one steady light illuminating the place.
That’s all the cover I need.
Silent as a shadow, I get low and wait for a time when none of their eyes are looking my way before I dart out and start sliding through the cars to get closer to the men.
Their voices reach me as I get close enough that it’s time to take my pistol out and screw on the silencer.
“Dunno why you can’t just use the fuckin’ lounge we paid out the ass for to have your smokes, Dio,” his partner is saying with a dark chuckle. “I think you just like making us feel like the girls, having to come out here.”
“Easier for James here to go get us a coffee without getting distracted by the girls up to the lounge,” Dio shoots back with a slap on his guard’s shoulder. The guard cracks a stony smile at him. “Besides, it’s a nice lounge, let’s just keep the fuckin’ smoke out of it for another month or two before we start ruining it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” his partner laughs. A moment later, his tone gets more serious. “So, that business last week. With the girl.”
“Christ, Frank, this again?” Dio groans. “I’ve got it handled.”
“I’m just trying to make sure we don’t get blindsided by anything,” Frank says. “With the Russians trying to bust down the gates, I don’t need any more surprises. She might have been a little cunt, but she had some connections out west.”
“We won’t have to worry about blowback from the Russians on this one,” Dio says, and I’m mildly surprised. “Report from Carlo says they’ve got some internal trouble. Change in leadership might be on the table very soon. Some top-level old guard schmucks on the chopping block. They won’t be looking outward to make money off vendettas anytime soon.”
My eyebrows go up, and my fist tightens around my pistol.
This is news to me, and I don’t like getting news like that from my enemies.
I want to wait and listen for more. If this is the first tip I’m getting about something big happening in my mafia, that’s not a good sign for my position. Something’s afoot.
But every second I spend waiting is another second I risk losing this job.
“Alright, big guy, get us a couple of coffees from the place around the corner, will you?”
I take out a ski mask from my jacket and slip it over my head.
As soon as I hear the guard step down from the ramp leading up to the back door, my Spetsnaz training kicks into action.
I pop up over the hood of the car I’m hiding behind with my pistol out. In a fraction of an instant, the four men freeze. In that fraction of a second, I take aim and pull the trigger.
There’s a soft thunk as a hole appears in Dio Morelli’s right eye, and his body falls to its knees before folding to the ground, cigarette falling off the ramp.
That was the easy part.
I vault over the hood of the car and sprint toward the other three men. The guards are reaching for their guns, and Frank is staggering toward the door. I have about six seconds.
In the first two seconds, I clear the distance between me and the first guard who was about to get coffee. Before he can even look up from drawing his gun, mine is out, and I pistol-whip him squarely on the forehead without breaking my pace. His heavy body hits the ground, unconscious.
In the next two seconds, I leap up the ramp and dive, not for Frank, but for the second guard in front of the door. Our bodies collide, but my hand clenches his face as I crash against the door with him padding the impact. As hard as I can, I slam the back of his head into the metal door. I release him and watch him sway a moment, dazed, and another quick punch to his nose drops him. His heavy frame blocks the doorway.
In the last two seconds, I turn to see Frank sprinting away from me, toward his car. I take off after him, and it’s like a hawk chasing down a rabbit.
I catch him from behind and wrap my arms behind his head.
“Jesus fuck!” he whimpers as soon as he realizes I’ve got him. “L-look, I don’t know who the fuck sent you, but I’ll double their price! What do you want? One of the girls? I’ve got more blow in the back than any other club in Vegas, you want that?”
I say nothing to him. If he so much as hears my voice, it could endanger my mission.
Instead, I turn him around and start walking him slowly back to his partner’s body.
“You cock-sucker,” he rasps when he sees Dio’s dead body. I tighten the grip on him until I feel one of his shoulders pop, and he lets out a grunt of pain. “If you’re gonna do this, make it quick.”
I walk him right up to the body, then shift my grip on him to put him in a sleeper hold. He starts to struggle, but I keep a tight grip on him until I feel his body go limp in my arms as he passes out. I hold up his dead weight and make sure he’s unconscious before I take my pistol and put it in his hand. I guide his hand to aim the gun at Dio’s head, and I pull the trigger. Another thunk, and I’ve just incriminated Frank for the murder of his partner.
I unscrew the silencer, wipe the gu
n down, and leave it wrapped in Frank’s hand. There’s a good chance the guards’ memories will be fuzzy when they wake up. Regardless, I’d like there to be a little confusion about what exactly happened out here and hedge the risk that they’ll dare let an investigation take place over Dio’s murder.
Evidence planted, I slip away, silently as I came.
I’m a second generation Russian here in Vegas. We’ve been slowly pushing our way into the scene, chipping away at the Italians since the cops cracked down on the city and made it too family-friendly for the old Italians to keep up. We run aggressive businesses, but they’re legitimate.
Soon, this will be one of several newly taken over Russian clubs. And I have no doubt that the staff will welcome the new management.
In the meantime, I pull the VIP pass out of my pocket and look it over.
I’d like to enjoy a little time to myself in this club before the bodies get found.
After a little thought, though, I tear the pass in two and toss it into a garbage can before I exit the alley and start walking back to my car half an hour away.
I didn’t make it to the top by wasting time, blowing off steam, as much as I might have to blow off.
I got here by being the best.
I’d like to see my rivals try to shake me.
Nicole
I can feel the music pulsing like a heartbeat under my toes, the bass bumping and vibrating the glossy wooden stage underneath me. It’s a song I used to listen to as a teenager, dancing and singing into my hairbrush in the relative privacy of my bedroom. I would lip sync in front of the mirror, tossing my hair around, pretending to be whatever singer or pop star I was into at the time. It was a welcome break from the hours and hours of studying I put in, since I was determined to make perfect grades and get more scholarships than anyone else in my class.
Vegas Boss: A Mafia Hitman Romance Page 1