by Danika Fox
“So you just put ‘Crush’ down on all your paperwork?” she asked. “Like Madonna?”
I looked out the window again. Her eyes were getting to me. “No.”
“Then it does matter.”
“Chrissy, you’re a lot of things,” I said, “but the government, you’re not.”
“It must be something really embarrassing,” she mused. “I bet it’s Horton. Or Eugene.”
I clenched my jaw until I could feel my pulse in my teeth. “It’s not either of those.”
She looked thoughtful. “What about Melvin? That’s a classic.”
“Look,” I gritted, “this was supposed to be a business transaction for me and my club. Your Uncle Tony was supposed to give us some money and send my happy ass back home. That was it. Nice and simple. But now shit’s complicated. I’m stuck babysitting some Mafioso’s kid, who’s got a chip on her shoulder because Daddy wouldn’t let her fulfill her lifelong dream working a pole, and I don’t see how telling you my given name is going to make this easier on either of us. In fact, seems to me everything would be a lot less complicated if we didn’t go mixing business with pleasure. We all know how that turned out for me the first time around.”
When I turned her way, Chrissy was glaring at me. Her eyes were lit up by some spark I couldn’t place, but the pale draw of her lips made me think I’d taken shit too far.
And maybe I had. She was clutching her glass of vodka so hard I swore I could hear it cracking in her grasp. But goddammit, this wasn’t a weekend getaway for either of us. This was a job for me, and a life-or-death situation for her. I needed to keep my head in the game if I was going to protect her and get my money, and she needed to realize just how much danger she was in.
Still… maybe I was being a little hard on her. It took a lot for me to hold back a wince. Too soon.
Without breaking eye contact Chrissy downed the rest of her drink and slammed her glass into the cup holder. She was pissed. Well, good. That was just going to make Don Falcone’s rules a little easier to follow.
If only she didn’t look so damn cute when she was angry.
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the ride, which wasn’t terribly long. The limousine soon pulled out of traffic and into a curving drive, then stopped beneath an overhang in front of a set of sliding glass doors, over which was painted in Greco-Roman lettering, The Bacchanal Hotel and Casino.
I knew Vegas mobsters had their hands in the gambling game, but seeing just a mafia don’s casino—knowing that I was going to be staying in his personal penthouse—was utterly surreal. How was I going to explain this shit to the boys without sounding like I was completely full of it?
I went to open the car door on instinct, but apparently, that wasn’t how rich folk did shit around here. The driver beat me to the punch, pulling the handle out of my grasp and letting the blinding mid-day sunlight stream right into my face. Blinking, I climbed out first, scanning the sidewalk for anything unusual.
Then I turned, reaching in for Chrissy’s hand.
But the driver wasn’t the only one who got the drop on me.
She slid off the seat herself, shoulder-checking me on her way up and over the curb. By the time I’d pivoted to follow her, she was already strutting through the doors.
I sighed. I knew right then and there this job wasn’t going to be the usual security gig. This chick was gonna be a real handful.
8
Chrissy
The last of my vodka burned all the way down as we came to a halt outside of the Bacchanal, my dad’s pride and joy and the biggest source of legitimate income that he had. After all, where else but a casino could he legally cheat people out of money that they actually earned?
I stepped out of the limo after Crush, only to find Lonnie already outside waiting for the two of us, looking none-too-pleased to be there. Crush was looking up at the casino itself, gazing in awe at all of the rooms that seemed to go on and on into the sky. He didn’t have the terrible luxury of knowing the kinds of awful things that went into paying the rent on that place, and for a moment, I envied him for his ignorance.
“You know if you keep your mouth open like that, you’ll get bird shit in it,” I said to Crush, the liquor making me bold. “And it’s not as nice as it seems.”
“Well, excuse me, princess,” he chided. “Not all of us are used to five-star resorts and limousines. Some of us had a tougher life than yours.”
I gave him a hard look before shaking my head, deciding that it wasn’t worth it to start arguing with him—especially not in broad daylight. Whoever had shot up the club might not know I was still alive, but making a spectacle of myself would sure shorten the amount of time it took for them to figure it out.
“It’s only a four-star, actually,” I said, heading toward the door. “My father’s still mad about that.”
“Ms. Falcone,” Lonnie muttered as he fell into step beside me. “I have my men in place around the building. You should be safe here.”
“So long as I’m where my father can control my life I won’t feel safe, Lonnie,” I replied. The cool rush of the air conditioning washed over me as we entered the lobby, Crush in tow. “But if this is what’s going to keep me from getting shot, then it’ll have to do.”
“Jesus,” Crush said, looking around at the grand marble entryway of the Bacchanal, hands in his pockets. “Your dad knows doesn’t spare any expense, does he?”
“No,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes, “not where he thinks it counts. Daddy likes to throw money at his problems and hope it sticks.”
“You’re going to need to sign in,” Lonnie cut in, looking directly at Crush. “Ms. Falcone and I are associated with the Don, but as far as anyone’s concerned, you’re a free agent. No one will be looking for your name on the registry.”
“You think a bunch of armed thugs are actually going to be checking hotel registrations?” Crush asked, but the look on Lonnie’s face told both of us that he wasn’t in the mood to be argued with.
With a long-suffering sigh, Crush complied, and the two of us walked over to the front desk where a peppy young lady in a suit jacket and a tight skirt awaited us.
“Welcome to the Bacchanal Hotel and Casino!” she said as Crush’s hands came to rest on the counter. “Are you checking in or out, sir?”
“In,” Crush said, raising a brow at the rather boisterous nature of the woman’s tone. “We have a room reserved for us.”
“And your name?” she asked, her smile never wavering.
“Monroe, Jackson,” Crush said, turning to glance at me from the corner of his eye. Finally, I could put a proper name to his face besides “Crush.” He obviously didn’t like that, but I was elated.
“Of course, Mr. Monroe, the penthouse suite has been prepared for you and your…” She glanced in my direction for the briefest moment, her eyebrows raised.
“She’s a friend,” Crush finished for me pointedly before I could open my mouth. “She doesn’t need a name… or a key.”
“Of course,” she said, her smile faltering for just a moment before she handed Crush a golden plastic swipe-card. “Here is your room key, which will also activate the elevator that will take you directly to the penthouse.”
“Thanks,” Crush said, taking the card from her hands and heading toward a bank of elevators.
“Jackson, huh?” I asked, a grin spreading across my face. “Can I call you Jack for short?”
“You can call me Crush,” he said, glaring at me as he went. “And don’t ever call me Jack.”
“Crush is a soda brand, not a name,” I shot back, sticking out my tongue as he turned away.
“Wait,” Lonnie said, holding a hand out to stop the both of us. “I’m going to need your phones. Both of them.”
I rolled my eyes at his outstretched hand. “Of course. Good to see Daddy’s as trusting as ever.” I dug it out of my pocket, but Crush wasn’t having it. He didn’t know better than to argue with these people.
“T
he hell do you need my phone for?” he asked, although he allowed himself to be directed away from the elevators to a hallway just off the main lobby.
“We’re trying to keep you safe, and the less people who know you’re here, the better off you’ll be. This just removes any temptation,” he said as we rounded a corner to another elevator. “This elevator can only be accessed by you, Don Falcone, and myself. There’s a small dumbwaiter that carries up room service deliveries. They get placed in here on a cart. After you’re done, you send the cart back down.”
He swiped an identical card to Crush’s through the reader and the elevator doors popped open. We stepped inside.
“The phone in the room won’t make calls outside of the hotel, so it’s only good for room service and calling the front desk. Don Falcone will be checking on you daily. You can make a list of things that you’ll need, and we’ll have them brought to the room by one of our men.”
“Great, I get to be my father’s little bird again,” I sighed, shaking my head. “Stuck in my gilded cage.”
“This is for your protection, Ms. Falcone,” Lonnie said, though his expression gave me the impression that it was more of an annoyance for him than any act of concern. “Don Falcone doesn’t want you hurt.”
“Yeah, but the problem is that he ends up doing the hurting most of the time,” I said as the elevator began to rise. “I left because I was tired of being locked up, and the moment I come back, I’m being locked up again.”
“Once it’s over, you can leave,” Crush said with a shrug. “You’re a grown-ass woman.”
“Thank you,” I said, glad someone was willing to admit it.
“And a brat,” he continued as the doors opened up once more.
I ignored his little jab.
The elevator opened up right into the penthouse itself, sunlight streaming in through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that might have made me feel exposed—if we weren’t so damn high up.
“Jesus,” I whispered, my eyes coming to rest on the glimmering waters of an enormous infinity pool that took up the majority of the balcony outside. “This place is gorgeous.”
“Pretty nice for a gilded cage,” Crush said, giving a short whistle. “That balcony’s a security risk, though.”
“Now I wish I’d brought my bikini,” I muttered. Compared to being locked up in my father’s house most of the time, this was a paradise, but deep down, I could still imagine the bars lining every inch of this place.
“I’ll add it to the list of things to bring on the next visit,” Lonnie said. “In the meantime, make yourselves at home. We aren’t entirely sure when all of this will blow over.”
He headed for the elevator, then paused. “Oh, and Mr. Monroe…”
Crush looked over. “‘Yeah?”
Lonnie held out his hand. Crush sighed.
“This is the stupidest shit,” he grumbled, slapping his phone into Lonnie’s palm. “You should know that if I don’t check in with my club soon, there’s gonna be problems.”
“I’m sure,” Lonnie replied tersely, and in a way that let us both know he didn’t give two shits about whatever trouble Crush might get into back home.
He left us then, Crush carding his fingers through his dark hair in agitation, me worrying my lip between my teeth as I realized that for the foreseeable future, we really were holed up here. Alone.
“At least there’s room service,” Crush said, walking over to the couch and flopping down onto it, his hands behind his head. “And a view.”
“Glad you’re enjoying my father’s hospitality so much,” I muttered, rolling my eyes as I turned my gaze back toward the pool. I took a deep breath, only to hear the telltale sound of a gun being drawn and loaded behind me. My stomach clenched as memories from he club came crashing back. My eyes cast to the windows, and I saw my own reflection looking back… only it wasn’t my reflection. It was Melody. Her eyes cold and scared.
The world tilted on its axis. Sweat poured down my face in frigid rivers. My pulse was all I could hear as I stumbled backward, grabbing the edge of the couch to keep myself from collapsing completely.
Crush was there in a moment, his arms under mine as he tossed the gun onto a side table, dragging me up and then pushing my head down. “Bend your knees. Breathe…”
I did as I was told, steadying myself by placing my hands on my thighs, doubled with my face toward the ground. The spinning lessened, but I was shaking all over.
“Breathe,” he added again.
I did. I’d forgotten that part.
“What happened?” he asked as I found my balance once more. “Jesus, you almost passed out.”
What was I supposed to tell him? That I was afraid? That I saw my dead friend in the window? That I thought he was about to shoot me? He had a gun. Of COURSE he had a gun. He needed one if he was going to protect me. I glanced over at the table he’d thrown it on, feeling the pit of my stomach drop out again.
I couldn’t let him know how scared I was. He’d tell Lonnie or my dad the first chance he got. He was here to play babysitter, not be my friend. I had nobody left to confide in. Nobody.
“N-nothing,” I mumbled, pulling away and heading straight for the minibar. “It’s nothing.”
I grabbed a bottle of vodka off the shelf and headed to one of the open bedrooms. I shut the door without another word and collapsed onto the bed, tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I threw back my first shot.
9
Crush
It was only natural that the news was all abuzz with the story of what happened at the strip club last night. Damn near thirty dead, including a major Las Vegas organized crime figure. If living this life had taught me anything, it was that once the mafia was so much as mentioned in passing, you were going to have cops and the feds swarming like flies on shit.
The fact that there were going to be federal agents snooping around was enough to make me nervous—no doubt they were already talking to Don Falcone himself about what happened to one of his top men at a club he owned. Which left open the very real possibility that they might come looking for Chrissy. If someone at that diner noticed her still wearing the outfit from the club with a goddamn biker in tow… people might start putting together the pieces.
As if that weren’t bad enough, Chrissy was already starting to make herself a problem. There hadn’t been a single moment since we’d arrived that I hadn’t seen her with a bottle of liquor in her hand, staring out the window. I could tell by the length of her gaze that whatever she was looking at was much further away than the cityscape itself—that the memory of what happened at Earthly Delights was haunting her every moment she was awake.
Maybe more than that. I hadn’t thought to ask how she’d slept.
Not your problem, I reminded myself, shaking my head as I sat down in front of the enormous flat-screen TV broadcasting the latest update on the “strip club massacre.”
“—body count has been released, indicating twenty-nine victims in last night’s shooting spree,” the news anchor said, voice cutting in as I unmuted the sound. “Investigators have yet to determine who could be behind this horrific crime. According to law enforcement, all surveillance equipment on the premises had been damaged by the assailants, and a number of hard drives were stolen from the scene. Police are questioning several club employees who were not working last night, as well as looking into possible disgruntled ex-employees as suspects.”
I turned the volume down on the TV as they started rattling off a list of names. Chrissy didn’t need that shit right now, but there was something I needed to know.
I wasn’t shocked when they left out Tony Santorini’s name, but it did confirm a few of my suspicions. Either the cops were dying to keep the idea of an organized crime hit from leaking to the public, or they were waiting for the FBI to move in—after all, organized crime was their bag, and the feds loved to wave jurisdiction in the faces of the local PD.
The soft click of one of the bedroom door closing
was enough to tear my attention away from the screen. It was well past noon and Chrissy hadn’t come out of her room since we’d turned in the night before. I had honestly started to worry she might have done something to herself—until I saw the intricate string bikini she was sporting.
Lonnie had sent it up, just like he said he would… and now I wished he fucking hadn’t.
I didn’t think I could possibly see any more of Chrissy than I already had—I mean, after you see a girl propped up in a corset and a pair of shorts too small for a fucking Hooters, you’d think a bikini wouldn’t even make your head turn… but holy shit you’d be wrong.
Chrissy’s curves were without a doubt the best I’d ever seen in my life—and I’d seen my share. Somehow Chrissy put them all to shame, the way her body filled her suit just right, her hips swaying to a rhythm I could only wish to hear. I found my eyes lingering on her long, smooth legs as she made her way toward the balcony before halting for just a moment and turning her head my way.
“I’ll be in the pool,” she said, catching me red-handed in my wide-eyed inspection of every inch of her exposed skin. I thought she might chastise me at first, use it as an excuse to really read me the riot act. But after a long, inscrutable look, she actually afforded me the hint of a smile. “Just let me know when you’re calling downstairs for dinner.”
“It’s not even time for dinner yet,” I said. “You’re not going to be in there all day, are you?”
The TV chimed with the station’s “breaking news” music. Another news anchor—a woman in a neatly tailored suit—appeared on screen, her expression grave.
“We’ve just received reports that police are seeking a woman in connection to last night’s horrific shooting,” she said, those few words making my gut tighten as I awaited Chrissy’s picture being plastered all over the screen.
Great. Just fucking great. I’d been hoping it wouldn’t come to this, praying that her identity would stay a secret just a little while longer. But no, somehow the press had gotten wind of Don-fucking-Falcone’s daughter surviving the hit that was supposed to leave no witnesses.