Page 1 of Twisted Fate

1

Alina

A hand catches my arm—strong, commanding, a searing touch. The kind of hand you don’t pull away from if you know what’s good for you. Long, strong fingers. Neat, trimmed nails. The tattoos on the hand—a fearsome skull on the back, the ace of clubs between the thumb and forefinger, a small cross at the base of the fourth finger—are a stark contrast to the diamond-studded Patek Philippe watch peeking out from beneath the cuff of an expensive black jacket.

“Who are you?” The voice is low, sexy, intimate somehow even here in the crowded casino amidst the hoots and shouts and ringing of slot machines. There’s a reason for that ringing. It makes people think that someone just won, and if someone won then they can too. So they feed their money into the machine again and again and again, desperate for the win that never comes.

“I’m nobody,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the carpet beneath my feet—gold carpet with dark red flowers—willing the guy to walk away. I don’t look around for Enzo; I hope he’s still doing whatever he’s been doing for the past half hour while he left me here waiting. This is not the moment I want him to arrive with his hair-trigger temper.

“Nobody? I find that hard to believe. Tell me your name.” The stranger’s words are a command. One I have no intention of following.

“Nobody,” I say again, but then make the mistake of raising my gaze. His eyes are as black and cold as a demon’s, but set into the face of an angel chiseled from marble. Thick, dark hair. A straight slash of brows. Three-day scruff that’s artfully maintained. For what feels like a small eternity, I’m trapped, locked in that dark gaze.

Bad boys are my kryptonite, so in different circumstances, I would do exactly as he commands and tell him my name—Alina Madsen—along with my number, my address, and any other pertinent information he might want. I am tempted, so tempted.

But I know exactly what Enzo’s reaction will be if he finds me talking to a man, any man, especially one who looks like this. Fists first, questions later.

How did I not realize that sooner?

I met Enzo a couple of months ago, soon after I arrived in Vegas. He was charming, handsome, and had very deep pockets full of wads of cash that he liked to spend on taking me out to nice places. I foolishly hadn’t questioned where any of that cash came from. Let’s call it a hard lesson learned.

After overhearing snippets of a few business calls, I realized he unofficially worked for the Ivanov family. The Russos and the Ivanovs—two powerful crime families, constantly at war with each other for absolute control over this city. It felt like a world—or, underworld, really—that only existed in the movies—The Godfather or The Sopranos. Not exactly on my everyday radar.

Funny thing about hard lessons, they often come in pairs. The first time Enzo lost his temper with me because some guy was looking at me and he thought I was looking back, he yelled. Then apologized. And I accepted.

The second time, he punched the wall beside my head. Then apologized. And I accepted.

The third time, he grabbed my shoulders and shook me. He apologized. I didn’t accept…until I did. Stupid me.

The fourth time, he bruised my wrist and yanked my arm so hard it left my shoulder aching for days after. He apologized.

I didn’t accept.

But he kept calling, swearing he would never lay hands on me again. Finally, I agreed to meet up with him here tonight, a busy casino with lots of witnesses and security where I can tell him in person that we’re done. I figure that if he sees my face when I say it, sees that I mean it, then he’ll finally get the message and leave me alone.

That’s my goal, and the last thing I need is to give Enzo an excuse to lose his shit.

Hoping he hasn’t seen me, I look around for him. I don’t see him, but I do notice the two guys standing just behind the demon-angel. They’re all tall, over six feet. And they’re insanely good looking. One has light brown hair and green eyes, his nose straight and a little narrow, his features perfect. A little too perfect for my taste. The other one’s blond with blue eyes, his hair thick and wavy, his mouth curved in a smirk. Despite the different coloring, there’s something similar about all of them… the cheekbones or the strong jaw… I wonder if they’re related.

A buffet of gorgeous.

But it’s the demon-angel who holds my attention.

I glance down at his hand on my arm and reluctantly pull away. “I’m meeting someone,” I mutter.

The guy’s grip isn’t tight and I remove it easily. Clearly not taking the hint, he reaches for me again, lean muscle shifting under his impeccably tailored suit jacket.

“Lost your charm, bro?” the blond asks with a laugh and punches him in the shoulder.

I take the opportunity to spin and flee, ducking around a line of slot machines, skirting a waitress carrying a tray laden with drinks, before weaving through a group of girls who look like they’re in Vegas for a bachelorette, if the flowing white veil one of them is wearing is any indication.

After a minute, I peer past the machine we’re all clustered around and see that the demon-angel is gone. In his place stands Enzo, his face a mask of rage.

He storms over and grabs my wrist in a crushing grip that will leave marks. So much for never laying hands on me again.

Despite my protests, he drags me through the casino and shoves me through a set of doors. And so much for the safety of witnesses and security. The doors swing shut behind us, leaving us alone in a huge, dimly lit banquet hall, empty except for stacks of chairs against the far wall and a single table bearing an empty bottle and two dirty glasses.

I yank my arm free. His fingers have left red imprints on my pale skin.

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