Page 4 of Wicked Embers

The cab jerks to a stop at a red light, and my neck snaps. Great, that’s all I need—whiplash.

“You okay back there?” the cabbie asks, his brow furrowed with concern.

I meet his gaze in the mirror. “I will be,” I say, more to myself than to him. “One way or another, this ends tonight.” Even if I don’t get my money back—from this night forward, my father is dead to me.

The cab jerks forward at the light, weaving toward the Strip—a pulsing artery of greed wrapped in neon glamour. Neon lights blaze against the night sky, relentless and suffocating, like the stench of desperation that clings to the sidewalks. Tourists swarm the area like moths to a flame, chasing the promise ofluck and luxury, while locals prowl the edges, hardened by a city that chews up dreams and spits out despair.

I stare out the window, my stomach churning with disdain. The towering casinos loom like glittering cathedrals of excess, each facade screaming louder than the last. We drive past giants—The Bellagio with its glimmering fountains, The Venetian with its faux canals and plastic charm—until the cab slows in front of the biggest trap of them all.

The Diamond Hotel and Casino looms ahead, center stage in this parade of decadence. Its glittering façade reflects the fountains below, a perfect mirage promising riches and escape. But I know better. This place doesn’t just take your money—it devours your soul.

As the cab approaches the curb, I check the meter, pull some cash from my purse and hand it to the driver.

“Good luck in there,” the cabbie says.

“Thanks.” I slide out and mutter, “But it’s not me who will need it tonight.”

Chapter 2

LEIGH

The Diamond’s dazzling lights blur as I storm inside, anger battling with the dread twisting in my gut. The lobby hits like a whirlwind of glitz and chatter, the stifling hum of wealth grating against my already frayed nerves. I don’t give a damn about the luxury or the excited gamblers—my eyes dart across the room, searching for one man:my father.

That lying, stealing, cheating bastard had better not be in that VIP room. But as I spot the high-stakes poker area at the back, my stomach twists.Of course, he’s there. For a fleeting moment, I had hoped he’d grown a conscience and, for once, put me first. Why do I always allow myself to hope like this? It just leaves me disappointed and battling more heartache.It’s time to face facts, girl! Your father only cares about himself!

I make a beeline for the poker room, shoving through oblivious crowds. The scent of expensive perfume and cigar smoke clings to the air, making me want to gag. I move toward the poker room, but before I can burst through the door, a wall of muscle looms in my path. I look up to see a hulking bouncerglaring down at me, his arms crossed and expression stony. The low lights glint off his bald head, reminding me of a particularly unfriendly turtle.

I try to sidestep him. He mirrors my movement, not budging an inch. I sigh, my frustration bubbling over. “Look, I just need to see my father,” I say, injecting a tremor into my voice. “Please, it’s important.”

“It’s a private game, Miss. Invitation only,” he grunts, his tone flat, eyes giving away zero fucks. “And I didn’t see any women on the guest list.”

I pause, swallowing my fury. With deliberate care, I let my shoulders droop, injecting just enough vulnerability into my expression to sell my next move. “I... I don’t want to cause a scene.” I lean closer, lowering my voice into a trembling whisper. “That man over there—“ I nod toward a creep leering at a server, his eyes predatory. “He grabbed meinappropriately. I’m scared he’s going to follow me.”

The bouncer’s eyes darken as he looks toward the man. I press on, adding a quiver to my voice. “I can’t even repeat the disgusting things he said. I just... I don’t feel safe out here anymore. I need to tell my father I’m waiting in the car.”

His stance stiffens, his jaw clenching as he locks onto the offending patron. “Wait here,” he growls. “I’ll deal with him and then take you to your father.”

The moment his broad back turns, I slide through the door like a ghost, guilt clinging to me. But resolve pushes me forward. I’m here for a reason. I despise myself for this manipulation, but at least I saved some women from being harassed by that slimeball in the hideous purple suit.

The VIP room unfolds in shadows and opulence, the tension suffocating. A dozen poker tables glitter under chandeliers, each surrounded by players cloaked in wealth. My gaze darts through the crowd, hunting for one familiar silhouette. There he is—hunched over his cards, a man more devoted to the shuffle of a deck than he’s ever been to his own daughter. Rage ignites in me, sharp and consuming. How the hell did he even afford to get into a game like this? Unless my father found some new, creative way to gamble away what little we have left.

I charge forward like a pissed-off bull, my focus razor-sharp—until I slam into yet another wall of muscle, solid as stone and radiating brute-force authority.

“Jesus! Where the hell did you come from?” I snap, glaring up at the human mountain I’m sure I’d just left dealing with that creep in the tacky purple suit. How does a lumbering oaf like you move so damn fast? What, do you have rocket boots strapped to those slabs you call feet?”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but you can’t be in here,” the bouncer says, craning his neck to look out the door before fixing me with a stern gaze.

“Yet here I am!” I plant my feet, meeting his eyes with a defiant glare. We both know he could toss me out without breaking a sweat, but I’m not backing down. “Are we seriously doing this dance again?” I ask, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Excuse me?” He frowns, confusion etched across his features.

That’s when I notice the scar running down his forehead and cheek. Oh great, they’re twins—Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, guarding the gates to my father’s personal hell.

My fists curl at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I stare past the bouncer. My focus locks on my father—oblivious, consumed by his pathetic game. He sits there, oblivious to the world around him, lost in the cards and the thrill of the game. The sight of him, so engrossed in his addiction while I fight tooth and nail just to reach him, makes my blood boil. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the confrontation ahead. One way or another, I’m getting him out of here tonight.

“Look, I just need to talk to my father,” I plead, gesturing towards the man hunched over his cards, oblivious to the storm brewing behind him. My voice quivers with barely contained rage. “Then, I’ll leave.”

The bouncer’s face remains impassive, a wall of flesh and bone. “I’m sorry, Miss. House rules. Nobody is allowed to interrupt a game.” He takes a step forward, his massive frame looming over me.

---