Page 4 of Her Cruel Empire
It’s our usual ritual, the thing I’ve said to each of them since they were small. She smiles and shuffles back toward her room, and I finish getting ready with tears threatening at the corners of my eyes.
I dab them away carefully, trying not to disturb my mascara. Rent’s due in five days and we’re already three weeks behind. So I better make tonight a good one if I want to keep my family together.
Murphy’s Bar squats between a pawn shop and a check-cashing place, its neon sign flickering erratically in the night. The parking lot is full of pickup trucks and beat-up sedans, and I take a deep breath before pushing through the heavy wooden door.
Inside, the bar is exactly what you’d expect—dim lighting, sticky floors, and the kind of atmosphere that makes everything feel slightly desperate. The jukebox plays classic rock at a volume just loud enough to make conversation pointless, and the air is thick with smoke despite the supposed ban.
“Shirley!” Logan waves from behind the bar, his familiar grin making me feel marginally better about being here. Twenty-four years old and openly gay, Logan is the closest thing I have to a best friend. He’s got bright blue hair that he styles with more product than I use in a month and a sharp tongue that he uses to deflect anything that might actually hurt. He always keeps an eye out for me, calling over the bouncer if any of our customers get too handsy.
He calls me “Shirley” because he says I’m as innocent as Shirley Temple. He’s not entirely wrong—he’s a lot more street-smart than I am, although I’ve learned a lot in a short time working at Murphy’s. But there are some days, like today, when I feel I’ve lived a hundred lives already, trying to be all things for all people.
“Hey, gorgeous.” I stow my purse behind the bar. “Busy night?”
“The usual suspects.” He glances toward the pool table where a group of construction workers are arguing over a shot. “Plus some new faces.”
He gives a subtle nod and I glance toward the corner booth, immediately wishing I hadn’t. The man sitting alone there is probably in his fifties, with the kind of predatory stare that makes my skin crawl. He raises his beer bottle in a mock toast when he catches me looking.
“Great.” I paste on my customer service smile. “Another charmer. Hope he tips well.”
Time to get to work. I tug my top down a little so my boobs pop to their best advantage, and remind myself why I’m doing this.
For Adrian. For Alicia. For Dane and Maisie.
For my family. They’re more important than anything else in the world.
Including my dignity.
Chapter 2
Eva
I’ve always thought that the Golden Sands Casino is an affront to the senses. Stuffed full of gaudy gold trim and crystal chandeliers that scream nouveau riche desperation, the air is thick with cigar smoke and the noise from the slot machines is deafening, even in the foyer. I move through this circus with Leon’s solid presence at my right shoulder, and a cluster of bodyguards around me, while the weaselly Markov, my chief finance officer, scurries beside me.
“The boardroom is this way, Ms. Novak,” the hostess simpers, her false eyelashes batting. I don’t acknowledge her existence—acknowledgment implies she matters, and she doesn’t—but I follow her as she leads me to a private elevator, and up to the usual boardroom.
The hostess pushes open the doors for me, and there she is. Brie Colombo lounges in her chair in a sharp white pantsuit and gold-threaded shirt, platinum hair swept back from unusually green eyes. She’s beautiful in that calculated American way, with her gleaming teeth and smooth, tan skin.
But it’s the woman standing behind her that my eyes stray to first.
Dominika Kusek. My former wannabe-protégé. The ungrateful bitch who spat on my offer of glory in the Novak Consortium, and chose a Vegas amateur over a legacy that has been centuries in the making.
She doesn’t flinch when our eyes meet. I’ll give her that. Most people look away when I fix them with my full attention. Dominika—Nik, she insists on, so I like to call her by her full name to annoy her—holds my gaze with eyes that are steady and unrepentant.
“Eva!” Brie could be greeting an old friend as she rises with a smile. “How lovely to see you again.”
I take her proffered hand. “Mrs. Colombo.”
“Please, it’s Brie.”
It’s been a year since I’ve been here, and my irritation at Brie Colombo stealing away Dominika is still strong. “Brie,” I say coolly. “It’s wonderful to be back in Vegas.”
She gives a little laugh. “I hope things will be much less exciting during your visit this time.”
The negotiations begin, and within minutes I know this is going to be a waste of my time. Brie wants military-grade equipment at bargain basement prices, citing “better offers” and claiming she doesn’t “need a tank to squash a fly.”
“Cheap arms attract federal attention,” I point out, my voice arctic. “The Colombo Family is not in a position to make demands from the Novak Consortium.” I play it the way I alwayshave: nothing personal. We aren’t bargaining as ourselves, but as the entities we represent.
“A year is a long time.” Brie leans back, supremely unbothered. “I’ve made a lot of inroads since you were here last, Eva. I have a lot more friends, for one thing.”
