Page 17 of Tainted Love

Behind him shines the Zappia Casino but the Las Vegas Bellagio it ain’t. It’s one floor with about a dozen or so tables scattered around. The air is full of controlled, chaotic sounds like chips clacking, cards shuffling, and dials spinning as the dealers speak softly to the players. It smells like cigar smoke, cheap whiskey, and a hint of chocolate — but I haven’t the slightest idea why.

A large man is stationed by the door and he steps forward, blocking me from going any further inside.

“I got caught up,” I say, my eyes flicking between Marty and the brute. “What’s this about?”

“Caught up? At the ballet?” Marty asks, raising his brow. “Tell me about her.”

“You wish, kid.” I hold up my briefcase. “I’ve got a surprise for your old man.”

He slides his cards into his breast pocket and pushes off the wall, flicking his dead cigarette butt toward the trash in the corner. It doesn’t make it and lands on the floor several feet away. My nose recoils as I sense his god-awful, repugnant aftershave from six feet away.

“You gotta get checked out first,” he says.

I glance at the new security again. “What for?”

Marty smirks. “Just a precaution. Word on the street says the Lutrova brothers are back in Chicago.”

I shrug, putting my poker face to good work as I file that information for later. “Kid, you know me. I don’t work for Russians.”

“My father said no one enters the casino without getting searched first.” He smiles. “That includes you.”

I fight the urge to rip the fucking lips off his annoying, boy-bandish face. He reaches out for the briefcase and I hand it off to him before raising my arms and letting the security drone do his thing. He waves a magnetic wand along my legs and hips and easily finds the Glock stashed behind me in my belt.

Once again, I shrug. “I’ve never walked in here unarmed.”

“You can have it back when you leave,” Marty says, signaling for the big guy to stash my gun away for me. He lays the briefcase flat in one hand and pops open the buckles to peek inside. “Looks a bit small to hold a man’s head, Hart.”

“Terrance Vaughn paid his debt.”

He scans the stacks of money and he closes the case again. “Check him for a wire.”

“A wire?” I repeat, scoffing. “Come on, kid…”

“Hey, we can never be too careful,” he says, his voice bouncing with delight. He’s so fucking tickled right now, just relishing in the chance to mess with me and get away with it.

“I’m not a damn cop.”

The mound of steroids reaches for my shirt and I snatch his wrist in the air, drawing a thick cackle from Marty’s throat.

“Either you submit to this security check or we find someone who will…”

The threat is very unwise — but so is noncompliance. Casting a spotlight on me in any way isn’t a smart move on my part. If I want them to think I have nothing to hide, then I have to act like it.

I grab the bottom of my shirt myself and raise it to show my entire bare torso. “See? No wire.”

Marty stares at the black cobra etched into my skin. “Nice ink,” he says. “Old gang?”

“Something like that,” I mutter, dropping the shirt back down.

He snorts and tosses the briefcase back to me. “He’s good.”

I catch it with both hands, casting a harsh glance at the guard to urge him to back off. He does and returns to his spot by the door as I step forward and dodge Marty toward the stairs.

I feel him following me up, but he keeps his pace slow. Marty Zappia, my constant shadow. Ever since the day I arrived in Chicago he’s given me shit. It’s easy to understand his hostility, though.

He wants my job.

Daddy’s right-hand man? The family hitman? It’d be the perfect way to cement himself in the family business, but the problem is his stomach.

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