Page 24 of Devil of Vegas

“I understand,” I say. “I can see the devotion that people around Vincent seem to have for him. But the idea that he’shurtinginnocent people?—”

“Vincent hurts people who cross him,” Zara interrupts. “Hekillspeople who betray him or threaten what’s his. But he doesn’t just kill unscrupulously. He could have killedyou, and he didn’t.” She smiles as if to drive her point across. “And his casino businesses are used as a cover for illegal gambling operations, loan sharking, and extortion. Vincent might not have much of a moral code left, but he draws the line at engaging in business that would put deadly drugs or guns into the hands of kids.”

Despite Vincent’s questionable activities, Zara’s account suggests a potential for goodness within him. Like he’s more of a broken boy beneath all of his violence instead of merely a monster.

“Thank you for telling me all of that,” I say gratefully.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies as she feigns ignorance to wipe away the conversation that we just had.

Zara and I exchange a mutual glance before she leaves. I go back to spending the day thinking about what I reallywant.

I spend half the day training, dancing across the large, wooden penthouse floor and practicing old routines to keep my skills up and my muscle memory limber. Wine in hand, I spend the afternoon contemplating Vincent while gazing upon the cityscape. At night, I want to dream about the last kiss we shared and how Vincent’s touch felt so passionately uncontrolled. Instead of drifting into a dream, I am abruptly awoken by a loud noise. I get out of bed and walk quietly toward the hall. Something outside the penthouse hallway repeatedly causes a loud thud against the exterior wall. Then there’s the sound of gunshots.

When the door flies open, I freeze in fear.

Marco stumbles inside the penthouse, holding his shoulder with one hand to stop the blood that is seeping out. He slams the door shut behind him and I can hear the ongoing noise of fighting in the hall.

“Oh my god, Marco, what is happening? Are you alright?” I run toward him.

He puts up his hand and points toward the opposite hall that leads towards the library inside the penthouse. “Go! There’s a panic room behind the bookshelf. Pull the Shakespearean Anthology out from the shelf, the green binding. Stay inside the panic room and don’t come out, no matter what you hear.”

I reach down to help him and bring him with me, but he shakes his head as he turns toward the door and draws his gun. “Isla, go,now!”

Without any further hesitation, I turn and run down the hall. My fingers fumble over the book’s bindings as I search for the green binding. Upon finding it, I hear the penthouse door crash open once more, signaling the start of a fight. I pull the book, and the wall slides open, revealing a hidden panic room inside. Quickly, I step inside and seal the door behind me.

Once I’m safely hidden, I realize that there is no way out of here. With the door closed, there is no handle, no way to open this room from the inside. This room offers safety, yet its darkness feels like a tomb. When I hear screaming, one of which sounds like it comes from the nice maid who sometimes stops by overnight to prepare things for the next day, I cover my mouth with my hand. Whoever is out there is likely getting killed, and I have no idea bywhom.I suppose the possibilities are endless, considering that mafia families have many enemies. It could be rival mafia gangs. Or the cops engaged in a sting, or maybe even more men betraying Vincent from the inside, just like the one he claimed betrayed him at the theatre.

For the first time, I feel the very real possibility of my imminentdeath. I realize, too late, that the thrill and forbidden allure led me into deep trouble. Perhaps I should have gone with that police officer or informed Madame Durant at the gala of my imprisonment and desire to leave. It’s all too late now, though. I’m stuck inside a sealed room waiting to see who will open the door to let me out and hoping that whoever it is won’t kill me on the spot.

I sit in perfect silence, surrounded by the dark stillness, and wait.

Following gunfire, shouting, and fighting, a tense pause precedes, then the panic room door slowly opens. I can feel my heart beating at the base of my throat as I fear what might happen to me next. But then, I seeVincent. His silhouette is unmistakable, though details blur after minutes in dim light. He doesn’t speak; he just stands there in the open doorway, staring at me with visible relief to have found me alive. Instead of his usual full black suit, his jacket is off, and his white button-down shirt is soaked in blood. His shirt is partially untucked, his shirt from his black pants, the top few buttons undone, his sleeves pushed up to reveal arms full of intricate tattoos. Blood splatters Vincent’s face, covers his hands, and darkens his black pants where it has soaked through.

For a second, I wonder if he’s been hurt. Looking over his shoulder, I see bodies scattered around the floor. I understand that the blood on Vincent is from the men he killed to protect me. I reach for him, and he lifts me in his arms and carries me out of the panic room within his steady grasp.

Ignoring the metallic smell of the blood on his clothes, I bury my face against his chest, keeping one eye open to see the carnage all around us as we walk through the rest of the penthouse. All throughout the place, his men are already there, removing bodies and carrying pieces of broken furniture out the door. Marco’s among those hurt, yet most of Vincent’s crew remain alive. From Vincent’s embrace, I watch Alonzo and Luc work, oblivious to my presence.

“Take care of all of this,” Vincent says calmly to Luc, who gives him a silent nod in return.

“Who did this?” I whisper.

The look that Vincent gives me in response is a troubling one, one that implies he doesn’t know.

“I heard a woman scream,” I say, growing suddenly worried when I don’t see the body of the maid anywhere around. “Is Zara?—”

“She’s fine,” he interrupts. “She wasn’t in the building when this happened.”

He doesn’t put me down on my feet. Instead, he carries me down the hall toward the bathroom, where he turns on the shower and sets down a clean towel and robe.

I glance at myself in the mirror and can see the blood smeared across my cheek and arms from having held onto him.

“You should get cleaned up,” he says as he gets ready to leave. “I’ll be right outside this door waiting for you.”

“Wait,” I call out before he leaves. “You’re covered in blood. You should get cleaned up, too.”

I turn and reach for a second towel to set on the counter, and my eyes beckon for him to stay. To my surprise,he does.

Vincent turns back around and steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

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