Page 5 of Twisted Fate

Bracing my weight on my right hand, I rear back and stare into my father’s eyes. But he isn’t there. He’s gone, shot through the head and the heart with hollow-point bullets. Double tap.

His blood pools on the floor around my hand, warm and dark.

I’m dimly aware of Dante and Cassio tearing out of the room, going after the shooter, and of the two armed guards grabbing Leo and trying to drag him away. Protocol. The boss is dead. Protect the new boss.

Dead. My father is dead.

For a second, I feel nothing. Nothing at all.

And then pain and rage and hate flood my veins.

I throw back my head and howl.

3

Alina

Two months later

Emergencies only.

That’s what I told Markus when I gave him my new phone number last week. And then I’d reiterated that I was being serious that he call me only if he had no other option. The night I’d fled the casino and Enzo had been a turning point for me. No more bad boys. And that included my brother. I love him. He’s the only family I have left. But I can’t let him bring his bad decisions into my life.

It’s halfway through my shift when I feel my phone buzz in my apron pocket. It’s an old phone, no screen, no call display, but I know it’s Markus since he’s the only one who has the number. I’d changed it the morning after Enzo hit me.

I quickly drop off a trayful of drinks at a table full of middle-aged businessmen, leering at me as if they fully believe I’ll be the next one on stage, swinging around the pole with my tits and ass fully on display.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it—for half a second, anyway. Money’s lean right now. I’d make a lot more of it working on the Strip, but this place, despite the scumbag clientele I’ve experienced since I started here, feels safer.

And I’m all about safety these days.

I’d originally taken the job waitressing at the Emerald—an off-Strip gentlemen’s club—because I thought Enzo was less likely to find me here. But since the night he hit me, I haven’t seen Enzo or a single face I recognize from my time with him, which I consider a very good thing. Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but I never want to see him again. Turns out that I might not need to worry. Enzo’s disappeared. The night I’d taken off after he hit me was the last I’ve seen of him. Once I’d made it back to my tiny apartment, I’d double locked my door and hidden out for a week, but he never came after me. I still haven’t heard from him. No call, no text, no explanation.

Gut instinct is telling me he’s dead, that someone put a bullet in his head. Or worse.

Still, I’m lying low. He took me places—clubs, restaurants, a couple of parties. People saw us together. I’m connected to Enzo, which means I could be in danger. What if one of his associates thinks I know something valuable? I could swear I’ve felt someone watching me when I leave the club at night, but no matter how often I look around, I never see anyone. Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe not. I would have left Vegas—should have left Vegas—but I don’t have any money, and no family to fall back on. Just Markus.

And here we are.

By the time I lose the tray and grab the phone, it’s stopped buzzing. At least, for all of five seconds before it starts again.

“I can’t talk,” is the first thing I say when I hold it to my ear.

“Hey, Sis,” Markus says. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

I wish I could say the same. “I’m at work.”

“I know. But I need you to do something for me.”

I groan. “Markus, I said only emergencies—”

“This is an emergency,” he cuts me off. “A big fucking emergency.”

I finally hear the strain in his voice. It’s usually covered really well by the bravado and easy confidence he slathers on like butter. Markus doesn’t like to look weak to anyone. And he doesn’t like to ask for help.

Unless it’s a big fucking emergency.

Shit.

---