Dirty Empire

by Nina West

  “Well, you look good.” She looks perfectly fine, nothing like that pale ghost that stumbled off the elevator earlier. And yet I can’t shake this feeling that something is off with her. She left for the spa all fired up, arguing with me about not needing Moe. But then she came back and curled up into a ball in bed. That’s how I found her hours later, and since then she’s been on edge, jumping when I touch her, tense beneath my fingers, sparing a few smiles and even fewer of her biting remarks that I love.

  Granted, we were a minute away from being charred last night. The poor woman is probably still in shock.

  Or does it have anything to do with me telling her how much she means to me? I’ve never been that open with a woman before. I’ve never cared like this about a woman before.

  Did I scare her away with all that bullshit talk of feelings?

  I can’t believe I’m even worrying about this.

  I ease my chair close enough that I can drape my arm over the back of hers and lean in to taste the skin on her neck, just below her ear. “I’ll make sure you end the night feeling fantastic,” I promise, smoothing my palm high up her thigh, fighting the urge to slip my fingers beneath this short dress to see if she’s wet for me yet.

  The responding tremble in her body sends blood racing straight to my groin.

  “So, will you guys change everything or keep it the same but just change the name? Like, will this place stay like this?” Michelle’s bright blue eyes flitter around our dimly lit alcove overlooking the city.

  “Mr. Green” and “Mr. Pink Panther” were greeted at the hostess desk by Daniela, our concierge, and led here to what I’m assuming is the best table—one of many perks when you fork over the kind of coin we did to stay in that suite. Since then, two servers have tag-teamed us, making sure our drinks were never less than half full, our eyes never wandered for service, and our every need was catered to—and they managed to do it without being annoying. That’s an impressive feat.

  “Guess we’ll have to see what the books look like. What’s working and what’s not.” Caleb is radiating energy. He’s excited about the prospect of owning this place.

  “Don’t go making too many plans,” I warn. “We don’t own shit yet. The current owner won’t even talk to us. He might tell us to go fuck ourselves.”

  “Speak for yourself. Everyone loves me.”

  I snort. My brother’s a pompous ass who pisses people off on the daily.

  Our agent, Howard, gave us a full rundown of Bruce Cohen, the rich prick who owns a majority share of this place—a terrible businessman with a rampant drug problem who hasn’t yet accepted the fact that the Mage is hemorrhaging money. So far, he’s refused to take a meeting with Howard to discuss the idea of selling, which is kind of a big problem given we’re here to meet with him. Word is, though, that Howard’s not the only one breathing down his neck. We need to pinch this place at the right time, just before the bank takes it away from him and sells it to one of the big corporations that dominate the strip.

  “We will meet with him before this trip is over.” Caleb downs the rest of his drink. “And he’s gonna sell to us. He’s not going to have much choice.”

  Mercy gasps beside me, her eyes widening with horror.

  It takes a second to dawn on me what she thinks my idiot brother meant. “Bankruptcy! The guy’s running this place into the ground.”

  Her body sinks with a sigh of relief. “Oh.”

  “Jesus. Is that what you think of us?” That we’re cold-blooded killers who cut down people just to get what we want? That thought bothers me more than it should.

  Mercy cringes. “Sorry, I just…. Sorry.” She weaves her fingers through the one I have settled on her thigh.

  “Well, I think it’s all so exciting.” Michelle reaches over to squeeze Caleb’s leg. “I better get a hotel room whenever I want.”

  With a Cheshire cat grin, Caleb curls his arm around Michelle’s slender shoulder, pulling her to his side. “Babe, you’ll always have a place right here.” He guides her hand over his crotch.

  She bellows with laughter, happily drowning in his attention.

  I like her a lot. I like her with my brother. I’m guessing she won’t like seeing him get his dick sucked by one of the show girls set to arrive later tonight after our little soiree with the Perris. What can I say, except my brother’s my brother. I’m not a praying man, but if I was, I’d pray that she rolls with it and joins in. Otherwise, Mercy’s going to have something else to be sour about.

  “Excuse me,” a voice interrupts. We turn to find the chef standing at our table, holding Mercy’s dinner plate in his meaty hand. “May I ask what was wrong with your meal?” He glares at Mercy, his brow furrowed so deeply that his dumb chef hat starts sliding halfway down his forehead. Our server is standing five feet behind him, studying his shoes.

  “Uh… nothing? It was lovely.” Mercy stumbles over her words, likely as surprised to have the chef questioning her—and with a sharp tone—as I am. “I’m just getting over a stomach bug.”

  “If you’re sick, then why order?” the chef presses, his accent thick but unidentifiable. Mercy’s cheeks are flushing as surrounding tables notice the exchange. “I could take it to go?”

  “To go!” His face twists in horror. “It will be inedible! The pastry will be soggy!”

  I’m biting my tongue, waiting for Mercy to unleash that acerbic attitude she’s launched my way more than once, looking forward to it. But she simply stares with bewilderment in her eyes, as if she doesn’t know what to make of this situation.

  “Is this a fucking joke?” I finally snap.

  “Maybe we’re getting punked?” Caleb searches our surroundings.

  “Joke? I never joke about my creations. And this is going straight into the dumpster now.”

  I exchange a what-the-fuck look with Caleb. “We’re paying for your creation either way, so relax.”

  “You people…” The chef’s mouth curls as if he’s about to spit. “You’re so wasteful.”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s the American way,” Caleb mutters, quickly growing bored with the man. “You can go now, Wannabe Ramsay, and take your shitty creation with you.”

  The chef mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch. What I do catch is the pointed sneer directed at Mercy.

  I stand so fast, my chair topples over. Diners at surrounding tables turn in their seats at the commotion. They’re about to get one hell of a show, one that will likely end in my arrest.

  “How is everyone doing tonight!” A tiny bald man in a black suit storms in, waving his hands frantically. “I hope you enjoyed your meals? That’s great!” He turns to the chef. “Ralph, it’s time to go back to the kitchen now.”

  The chef glares at him with pure loathing.

  “Now!” the man barks, pointing to the kitchen. It’s almost comical, given Ralph is over six feet tall and easily tipping the scale over two hundred pounds. Meanwhile, this little man barely reaches his chest.

  After another long, intense moment, Ralph spins on his heels and stalks off.

  “Thanks for dinner, Ralph!” Caleb hollers loudly, waving at his back.

  Ralph responds with a middle finger in the air, earning dropped jaws from Michelle and Mercy and a bark of laughter from Caleb. Meanwhile, my limbs are vibrating with rage. I’m trying to decide if I can spare Farley tonight to escort Ralph into the trunk of his car and out to a lonely desert road.

  The man winces. “What can I say, he’s passionate about his job.”

  “That asshole should not have a job,” Caleb says. “If I owned this hotel, I’d fire him.”

  “I do own this hotel, and I’ve already been through three head chefs in the past six months,” the man mutters, as if beaten down by that admission.

  Caleb and I exchange glances. This is Bruce Cohen? The wild-child, coke-snorting, orgy-loving owner of the Mage who’s dug his heels in on the reality of selling this place? He looks like Mr. Magoo.

 
“Allow me to cover your check as my apology for Ralph. And if there’s anything else I can do—”

  “Please. Take a load off and have a drink with us.” Caleb makes an elaborate show of edging his chair over, capping it off with a victorious, shit-eating grin and a “told you so” wink at me.

  9

  Mercy

  “Stop fidgeting!” Michelle scolds in a harsh whisper.

  “I can’t help it. I had too many drinks over dinner.”

  “Then use the restroom.”

  “Not now.” We’re only ten minutes into the first act. “I’m not fidgeting that bad.”

  She pries her mesmerized gaze from the stage of acrobats long enough to spare me an exasperated stare. “You’re squirming worse than Bo. How can you enjoy the show?”

  Fantastic. She’s comparing me to her hyperactive two-year-old nephew. The truth is, I’m not enjoying the show and it has nothing to do with my full bladder. I haven’t been able to focus on anything but Gabriel and my father and the dilemma before me.

  Agent Lewis’s business card feels like a brick sitting in my purse.

  What if it’s only a matter of time before the FBI makes their case against Gabriel? The Easton brothers could end up at Fulcort without any help from me, and then I’ve lost my chance to secure a second chance at life for my father. Am I a terrible daughter for having not jumped on this opportunity the moment I had it?

  But then all I have to do is think about Gabriel—that playful smile, the way my heart skips when I see his name appear on my phone, the way his hands feel on my skin, the safety I feel when I’m folded within his arms—and thoughts of conspiring against him make me want to vomit. I can’t do it to him.

  Is it because I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me? Yes, there is that, and it’s a twisted notion when I spend any amount of time thinking about it. But I’m beginning to think it has less to do with fear of retribution and far more to do with how I feel about him.

  I’ve fallen in love with Gabriel, that deplorable man who bribed me to sleep with him. Who has given me everything I’ve asked for.

  Whose heart I seem to have won.

  I can’t believe I’ve fallen in love with him. He’s a criminal, and not just a petty thief or the “got into a drunken bar fight and hurt someone worse than I intended” brand. And yet I find myself making enough justifications for the things he’s done to be able to see past his wrongdoings to the man he is beneath.

  And that man? He makes me laugh; he makes me cry out with pleasure; he makes me enjoy life again.

  “Would you just go already?” Michelle hisses.

  I sigh reluctantly. “Fine.” With whispered “excuse mes” and cringes of apology past four people, I exit our row in center orchestra and focus on my stride up the long, dimly lit aisle, the numerous martinis making my head light and my heels wobbly.

  Moe appears from the shadows to trail me, his movements sleek. How he secured a corner to stand in is beyond me, but I’m sure it involved plenty of green dollar bills.

  “Stay here with Michelle. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m just going to the restroom,” I explain, trying to keep the irritation from my voice.

  He ignores me, speeding up to push through the door ahead of me, his head swiveling this way and that to check our surroundings, as if there might be a threat waiting in the corridor.

  I roll my eyes and silently pray they find this murderous uncle soon so I can lose the pleasure of my chaperone.

  That thought is immediately followed by a stomach-spasming question: what happens when they do find him? What will Gabriel do? What role will he play in retribution for Felix and Finn’s deaths?

  Will he pull the trigger?

  That thought doesn’t elicit the same harsh reaction that discovering a bloody T-shirt in Gabriel’s trash can brought about, when I convinced myself he was out burying bodies while I slept soundly in his bed.

  Have I so quickly become desensitized to what Gabriel is capable of?

  Or am I tired of being a victim in this shitty world? Have I become attracted to the power Gabriel holds, the semblance of control over what happens in my life that he seems to provide?

  A part of me doesn’t care who does what, as long as the threat is gone. This uncle killed four innocent people. He tried to kill us, and it sounds like he’ll try again. It’s either us or him who survives. I choose us.

  Shit. Gabriel and I are an “us.”

  Moe is still hot on my heels as I reach the women’s restroom. I pause at the door and muster all my courage to glare at him in warning. “You’re staying out here.” There’s no way this guy is standing outside the stall to listen to me pee.

  Thankfully Moe doesn’t argue, settling in with his back to the wall to study the empty hallway.

  Beyond a long, narrow hallway and a second door is the most luxurious restroom I’ve ever been inside. It’s empty of people. I scan the marble floors and elaborate stone sinks before ducking into a stall—each one a private little room with a full door. Temporary relief overwhelms me as I empty my bladder of my liquid dinner. I wish I’d been able to stomach a bite or two of that impressive-looking meal. Maybe then Ralph the angry chef wouldn’t have had reason to cause that embarrassing scene. Then again, it led to Gabriel and Caleb meeting the hotel owner ahead of schedule. They were still talking—and laughing—when Michelle and I left for the show. By the grin on Caleb’s face and Gabriel’s playful wink, I got the vibe that the impromptu meet-and-greet might set things up nicely for their future business conversations.

  Gabriel wasn’t joking about buying this hotel and turning a new leaf, getting away from the dirty side of the Easton empire. Those good intentions must account for something, right?

  I stare at my clutch purse in my hand, Lewis’s card buried depth within, as my conscience tries to work through this mess.

  Maybe the FBI has nothing on them. Maybe she’s fishing, hoping I’m her meal ticket to making her case. She certainly seems willing to risk my life in order to succeed with that.

  I’ll wish Diego had finished me off.

  Dad’s warning to not do anything risky rings in my head. Working as an FBI informant against the very man I’m falling hard for isn’t just risky; it’s insane.

  I should just destroy this business card and remove all temptation. Trust that Justin DeHavilland will work legal magic and reverse this murder conviction. Believe that Gabriel and Caleb are going legitimate, that they’ll change. And let myself dream about a future with Gabriel, as slim and idiotic as that may be. Flutters stir in my stomach at the thought of that.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I fumble through my wallet, digging the card out from its hiding place. I tear it in half, and then quarters, and I keep tearing until it’s nothing but a tiny pile of paper, the ink on the scraps a puzzle no one will ever piece together. I dump it into the bowl and flush the contents.

  A heaviness lifts from my chest, and I know that, while that might not be the smart thing, it’s the right thing for me. I don’t want any part in sending Gabriel to prison. In his twisted way, he has helped my father and me more than anyone else has in my life.

  With this newfound sense of relief, I exit the stall.

  And stumble. Agent Lewis is leaning against the sink, drawing a fresh coat of lipstick over her full lips with precision. Her thick black curls are shiny and styled loose, framing her face.

  I didn’t hear anyone come in, but the stalls are well sealed and I was preoccupied. In part, by this fucking woman. How does she keep finding me?

  I steal a panicked glance toward the exit, where I know Moe stands on the other side. The restroom was empty when I entered, so she must have passed him on the way in. Did he size her up and decide she was no threat to me? I mean, why would he suspect the attractive, curvy woman in a sexy black pencil dress at a Vegas Cirque du Soleil show is an FBI agent plotting to take down his employers?

  But what the hell is she doing here? Wasn’t one stealthy ambush enough
for today? Has she been following us, just waiting for another opportunity?

  I waver on the idea of leaving without washing my hands so I can avoid a conversation, but something tells me there’s no avoiding this woman. She’ll find me again. Next time could be with Gabriel around the corner.

  My heartbeat is pounding in my throat as I choose the sink closest to her and fill my hands with soap. I grit my teeth, saying nothing, waiting for her to make her move.

  “I wish I could bend my body like these guys,” she murmurs, puckering her lips against the flattering deep plum shade.

  I hesitate. “Same.”

  “Of course, they’re probably all born double-jointed. How else do you explain the things they can do?” She snorts. “Ten years of yoga, and I still lose my balance on Downward Dog.”

  She’s keeping it light, casual. She would have seen Moe on her way in. She recognizes the danger of serious conversation here.

  I allow myself a soft sigh of relief as I rinse my hands. “Enjoy the show,” I offer, drying off with a paper towel before crumpling it and dropping it into the trash can.

  I turn to leave.

  “So, have you considered my offer?” Her sharp dark brown eyes regard me through the reflection. “Are you ready to work with us?”

  I give the door a pointed glare before hissing, “Are you trying to get me killed?”

  A satisfied smile curls her lips. “So you’re admitting that you know who Gabriel is?”

  Shit. I swallow, taking a moment to steady my voice. “I’m saying, if he is who you say he is, then you’re risking my safety by cornering me in the bathroom like this, especially with him outside.” Granted, there’s a long hallway and two doors between us but still.

  She nods once, as if accepting my response, before shifting her focus back to applying another layer of color. It’s all an act; her lipstick is already impeccable. “Gabriel and Caleb met with two men this afternoon, while you were at the spa. Vince and Merrick Perri.”

  A prickle of awareness dances along my spine. The FBI must be watching our elevator. “Okay?”