Page 4 of Vicious Little Games

The extent to which he’s willing to go for her is one of the few things I respect about the bastard.

“I need more time,” I tell him, unable to just snap my fingers and let go of the hurt and anger. And I’m sick and tired of people giving me deadlines and ultimatums today.

“You have until the end of the day.”

I snort and roll my eyes because he’s an unrelenting asshole.

“Speaking of things you can’t control, have you heard anything from Madison?” I ask him.

“No, I haven’t.” His response is sharp as a knife. Dante doesn’t want to talk about his missing daughter.

“In this case, no news is probably good news, right?”

“Her ass better be alive, because I’m going to fucking kill her for putting me through this hellish year when I do find her.”

“And that’s exactly why she probably won’t reach out,” I tell him. Glancing out the window, I see the familiar sights of the strip. “Are we going to the Royal Palace?”

“No shit,” he mutters, sounding just as annoyed with this conversation as I am.

Dante doesn’t say anything else until we pull up to the front of the casino. A guard retrieves my luggage from the back and rolls it up beside me so I can take over.

“I’m not staying here. I’ve got plans to crash with a friend...”

“You mother would want you to stay here this summer,” he remarks as he comes to a stop at the elevator bank. Removing his sunglasses, he tucks them inside his suit coat.

“Tough shit. I’ve already made plans and I’m not changing them. I’ll visit for a few minutes, then I’m gone.”

“No, your plans have changed. You’re staying here for the entire summer and I’m assigning you guards.”

“Babysitters? Awesome,” I huff sarcastically. “And let me guess, you’ll be putting me up in one of the hotel rooms?”

I know for a fact that there are multiple spare bedrooms in the enormous, multi-million-dollar penthouse. Dante just doesn’t want me near his beautiful daughters. When my friends and I were all cooped up on a private island with Sophie and Cass for weeks, he kept guards on their doors at night to ensure neither me nor my friends tried to slip into their beds.

He didn’t have to worry.

Sophie is sweeter than sugar and more innocent than a Disney princess, which means sex with her would require nothing less than a marriage proposal. And Cass, well, the feisty redhead is dangerous. Not just in the kick your ass way, either. I imagine that sex with Cass would have to take place in a dark dungeon where she wears a black leather Catwoman-style bodysuit, wields a whip, and would happily bite a chunk of a man’s dick off just for shits and giggles.

“I’ll allow you to use a bedroom on the second floor of the penthouse,” Dante says, interrupting my fantasy of his masochist, domineering daughter. “As long as you abide by the house rules.”

“Do I even have a choice in the matter?”

“Of course not. Will you abide by my rules?”

“Yes, sir,” I agree with a sigh, telling him what he wants to hear. Living in the penthouse is a hundred times better than sleeping on a hotel bed where hundreds or thousands of people have fucked.

“You haven’t even heard my rules yet,” Dante mutters as the elevator finally arrives. He steps on first before holding up his palm to prevent his guards and any other guests from joining us. Rude, but whatever. It’s his staff and his hotel.

“Right, let’s hear the rules.”

Dante’s glacial blue eyes glare at me as the elevator doors close, clearly not in the mood for my blasé attitude. Most people would be scared shitless to be trapped in a small space with the mob boss, but I know I’m in no real danger. He wouldn’t risk losing my mother because he’s more than in love with her. I’ve known since the second I saw them together that he’s obsessed with her. So, he won’t ever do anything to give her a reason to leave him, like permanently maim or kill me. He might slap me around, punch me, or whatever, but I can handle anything he dishes out.

While I’m still pissed at my mom for keeping her entire identity, my identity, a secret from me, I am happy that she has the kind of fierce protection that Dante can offer now.

“You will not step foot on the third floor ever,” Dante tells me. “I don’t care if there’s a five-alarm fire up there. You leave the saving to the professionals.”

“Yes, sir.” I don’t point out to him that he didn’t specify if he meant the third floor of the casino or penthouse. And he still hasn’t pressed any buttons, so we’re just standing in the stuffy, unmoving elevator cabin.

“You do not lay a finger on either of my daughters,” he says. As if sensing the sarcastic question in my head, he adds, “Not even if they’re hanging from the balcony by their fingernails. Leave any and all saving to the professionals.”

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