Page 6 of Devil of Vegas

“Let me make this very clear,” I say as I stand in the doorway, laying down the rules. “Your obedience is not optional here. It’srequired. You will stay here as myguestwithout causing trouble. You will eat, train, and obey me at every turn. And in exchange, you’ll have free roam of this place. The kitchen is full, the space is sprawling enough for you to keep up with your dancing, and there’s a study full of books and a complete sound system at your disposal for your entertainment. You will have no access tophones, internet, or anything outside these walls. And if you try to escape, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“And how long is this supposed to go on for?” She asks with a shaking voice that is audibly on the edge of breaking. “How long do you intend to keep me here?”

“As long as it takes me to come up with another plan.” I hold out my hand for her to take as a gesture that I won’t bite. “Trust me, you could be in amuchworse situation. You’re safe here, and I have an entire staff at your disposal. You can think of yourself as a princess—aluckyone that is still alive after having witnessed a murder.”

Isla scrunches up her delicate face in disgust. “I’m not a princess here. I’m aprisoner.”

She walks toward the door, refusing my hand and waiting for me to step aside and let her pass through.

“Your perspective on the matter is up to you,” I say as I walk out into the hallway with her at my side. “The rules here arenot. Follow them explicitly, or there will be hell to pay.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” she teases as her eyes spark with that quiet, rebellious nature again. “I forgot that you’re theDevil.”

I paused the rest of my business this morning to show Isla the penthouse, and here she is pushing her boundaries, watching to see how far I will let her go, and I like her fire.

“So, you’rereallyrich,” she says after we finish touring all the luxury amenities. “You must be used to living in a place like this.”

“I don’t live here. I own this entire building, including the casino downstairs. It’s just one of my manyinvestmentsin the city.”

It’s also my primary hub and a front for a lot of the family business that I head as a mafia kingpin, but I leave that part out. She doesn’t need to know any more about me than is required to keep her obedient and at arm’s length. She’s already seen too much as it is.

“Is that supposed to impress me?” she asks as we walk back to her room.

“Impressed, scared, delighted—it’s up to you how to feel,” I say with a smirk. “Just know that you are undermycontrol while you are here.”

“You’re a real arrogant prick, aren’t you?” Isla hisses at me as she walks over to the table where her breakfast tray remains untouched.

I walk closer, but nottooclose. Being around this woman leaves me feeling strangely vulnerable and distracted. I much preferred watching her dance on a stage to having her captive in my penthouse.

“Brave words,” I say in a low voice. “Especially from a woman who has seen me kill a man with my bare hands.”

Isla visibly shudders. For a moment, her body language subtly shows her submissive nature when she’s not putting on a brave facade. But I’m quickly reminded not to mistake that submissiveness as weakness when she picks up the vase on the table beside her and hurls it at me. I’m sure she intended to hurt me with it, possibly even render me unconscious, and try to make a run for it. She wouldn’t have made it far, though, since I have men guarding every entrance and exit.

My reflexes are sharper than a cat’s, thanks to years of finely perfected brutal efficiency. No one, particularly not a prettyballerina, can surprise me. I swat the vase away with one swift sweep of my hand, sending it crashing to the floor where it shatters into pieces.

For a moment, Isla stands in frozen horror, wondering what kind of angry wrath I might unleash in response to her outburst. But instead of getting angry with her, I simply smile and kick the broken pieces of glass away with my shoe.

“Are you going to adhere to my rules without any further incident, Isla?” I ask her.

“Probably not.”

Her chestnut curls tease a reddish-brown tint as the sunlight streaming through the window touches them.

“Good, I like fire,” I say as I turn to leave.

Behind the closed door, I can hear what sounds like her breakfast tray hitting the floor. I’ll allow one tantrum. Then I’ll send the maid in to clean it up. Indulging Isla by letting her test me is admittedly not a good idea, but I can’t help feeling that it excites me a bit—this defiance of hers. I’ve met men four times her size who cower before me as if I’m an untouchableGod. But Isla Hart, this fragile figure with fire in her eyes, just pitched a vase at my head, and fuck if it didn’t send a bit of excitement pulsing through my veins.

CHAPTER 3

ISLA

Vincent’s devilish smirk haunts me after he leaves. I thought that at the very least, throwing the vase at him would put him off-balance. I took the risk of angering him, hoping that maybe it would distract him enough for me to gain the upper hand, if even just for a moment. But it didn’t even make him blink.

He found the idea of someone defying him intriguing, possibly exciting, rather than infuriating. I’m not even sure what to think about that. I’m also not sure what to do with the strange feeling that swells in my chest when I look at him.

This man is a cold-bloodedkiller. And by the looks of this lush penthouse, he’s probably made his fortune inveryquestionable ways. The Italian mafia has quite a foothold in Vegas, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Vincent is involved in it on a high level. But even as he showed me around my prison here, dwarfing me with his height and stature, and fixing on me with his dangerous stare—I’d be lying if I said his angular jawline’s movement when he spoke, or the way his muscles filled his shirt, didn’t captivate me. Why am I not horrified by this man? Shouldn’t I be? One thing is for sure, right off the bat, Vincent likes to be in controlof things, and I refuse to let him. I won’t allow anyone to have power over me again, no matter what I have to go through.

Only two days after my thirteenth birthday, my mother died, and less than a week later, someone placed me in my first group home. I thought that growing up poor with a single mother was bad, but at least I had been free. Losing my freedom made me wish I could go back to being poor, to have my mom alive, and my freedom back. All those years after her death taught me some important lessons. I learned monsters could look like regular people, and that no one was coming to save me. I realized self-preservation was the key to survival. So, I learned to survive alone and not to trust anyone who held a position of power—the staff at the group homes, the foster families, even the protective service officials who oversaw our care from time to time. Those people only wanted one thing: to exploit and exert control over those of us who were weaker than they were. Anyone who didn’t subscribe to those ideals of corruption didn’t last long in the system. Those counselors or teachers who truly tried to help always ended up quitting and walking away defeated, leaving me feeling abandoned.Thattrauma set deeply into my very bones. But—I learned.

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