DEMYEN

TWENTY MINUTES EARLIER

"Don't forget, you have a 10 A.M. tomorrow with Stevenson."

I don't bother tearing my gaze from the window. "Postpone it."

I was bored the moment I stepped into the town car, and I'm not going to pretend I'm interested in anything now. Certainly not meeting with Edwin fucking Stevenson, the most boring man in Las Vegas.

Bambi arches an elegant brow but doesn't look up from her tablet. It's her quietly respectful way of questioning my judgment.

"This will be the third time we've rescheduled, Demyen."

"Fine." I lean back in the leather seat with a sigh and a matching grimace. "Order a spread for brunch. I don't care as long as I can kick him out once my hangover outweighs my patience."

Her other brow joins the first. "Anticipating an exciting night? Or a rough one?"

Maybe it's more accurate to say that I'm not bored as much as I'm drained. Thoroughly and irrevocably drained. What I need is a drink, so I can scrub the day's events from memory.

Today was my older brother Tolya's scheduled appearance at the Court of Appeals to plead new developments in his case. New witnesses are willing to come forward and testify, and we're getting closer to tracking down the location of the false witness whose testimony condemned him to a life sentence. I hired the best legal defense team in the state of Nevada, a squad of fucking sharks with J.D.s, and we marched into that courtroom with a bulletproof case for appeal.

It was denied.

It seems the opinion of Judge Andrew Cartwell is that, without the retraction of the key eyewitness's testimony, my brother will spend the rest of his life behind bars for a murder he didn't commit.

Too bad the key eyewitness is nowhere to be found.

The hard part wasn't facing down the judge, or forcing myself to remain calm when the idiot banged the gavel against the blatantly obvious, or keeping my hands in my pockets so I didn't strangle every last one of those preening motherfuckers.

The hard part was watching Tolya get dragged away, yet again, bound in cuffs and reassuring me over his shoulder that it's okay. It's all going to be okay.

I was a helpless teenager all over again. Unable to protect my own brother. Unable to stand up for him.

I waited until I returned to my penthouse and stepped into the private gym, before I let the rage and despair loose. I didn't even bother changing out of the suit and into workout gear. I needed to punch things, to throw things. Feeling priceless seams rip only added to the rush.

Bambi offered to send in some "extra relief," but I turned her down. I don't believe in dipping one's pen inside the company's ink. And with the way I'm feeling, it's better for women to stay out of my way and out of my bed.

Now, I'm drained, and yet the night's just begun. I tried sleeping through the afternoon to get some of my energy back, but I just need something to jumpstart my willpower.

Nothing a few shots of bourbon and a successful night of burying myself in work can't fix.

The town car pulls to a stop in front of the casino. Even through the tinted windows, The Meridian's lights sparkle over my arm in a twinkling promise of guaranteed good fortune to come.

Well... good fortune for me, at least. Seeing as how I own the place.

"What's the headcount for tonight?"

She taps the screen of her tablet and puckers her lips as she runs through a few calculations. "Twenty-one escorts working the Main Floor, seven men and fourteen women. Although we do have a few from the new pool of recruits waiting in the wings.

Would you like me to⁠-"

"Just one. Add them to the Main Floor and make sure we incorporate more tomorrow. For tonight, I like the numbers as they are."

I tell the press I'm not a superstitious person, but that's a boldfaced lie.

I don't fuck with Lady Luck.

The giveaway is the elegant statue of the goddess herself carved over the archway of The Meridian, welcoming gamblers to my establishment. I prefer the high rollers. Nothing like a rich fool with money to lose. But I do take a certain sort of secret delight at seeing the average Joe rejoice in a win now and then.

Bambi's roster of escorts isn't simply an additional service we offer. It's also our way of keeping tabs. When you know what your big spenders like, it becomes very easy to tempt them into doing it on camera. And when they know that you know... well, safe to say their business will remain ours for as long as they live.

It's almost shocking how many powerful men have very particular tastes they'd never breathe to their closest friends or, heaven forbid, their innocent wives.

And not just corrupt politicians-athletes, too, and tech whizzes, and bad men with businesses almost as depraved as mine.

Also-federal judges.

Now, that was an unexpected surprise.

"Add a few more security personnel to the High Roller Lounge." I tap a finger on my chin as I think. "Make sure they're wired. And let's extend VIP hospitality to Mr. Cartwell. Keep him happy and keep him rolling. Just make sure every word he breathes is recorded and transcribed."

I open the door and step out onto the plush crimson carpet of The Meridian's main entrance. It's a bit of an old Hollywood touch I wasn't sure about at first, but after seeing people stop and take selfies and follow it inside to try their luck at the slots, I decided to keep it. I did make sure the material wouldn't catch on any stiletto heels-the last thing I need is a personal injury lawsuit splashed all over the headlines.

Good thing, too, because I don't see the woman standing next to the car. The door nearly slams into her, but she manages to stumble backward without falling.

I ignore her. No harm, no foul, and not my fault or my problem.

But I do catch a glimpse of her in the corner of my eye. As I do, some faint spark of recognition ignites in the back of my mind.

"Is she one of ours?" I murmur to Bambi as I help her out of the car.

Bambi steals a quick glance and shakes her head. "Not on our roster." "Hm."

"Want me to look into it?" She loops her arm through mine and leans in close so it looks like we're sharing an intimate secret.

"Don't bother. Just thought I recognized her."

Bambi looks like she wants to press further, but she lets it go. Instead, she smiles cordially at the attendants as they open the glass doors for us and smooths a hand over her silk jumpsuit with a sigh. "Ready?"

I don't answer. I simply lead us into the Main Floor and let the cacophony of the casino envelop us.

Time to get to work.

DEMYEN

It's a busy night-as it should be, given that it's Friday. Payday for the rank-and-file means the slots are fuller and the money is flowing from their hands to the machines to my pocket. Just the way I like it.

"Mr. Zakrevsky."

"Good evening, Mr. Zakrevsky."

"Good evening, sir."

My name fills the air as I meander through the casino. My payroll is rife with people in every line of work imaginable. Not just escorts, but cocktail waitresses, bartenders, attendants, concierges, and the like. People who know better than to ask questions.

People who have nothing to do with the Zakrevsky Bratva.

"What can I start you off with tonight, Mr. Zakrevsky?" The bartender, Mike, flashes me a genuine smile and preps a tumbler with ice. He already knows what I'm about to order, but he always gives me the chance to surprise him.

I don't. "Bourbon. On the rocks. Make it a double."

The drink is already in my hand before I finish the sentence.

Bambi scrunches her freckled nose as I toss it back and savor the syrupy burn down my throat. "I'll take mine neat," she tells Mike. "Room temp. Like a normal person."

I chuckle and set the empty tumbler down. "Judge me all you want. We live in a fucking desert. Ice is a blessing."

As I wait for her to finish her drink, I take the moment to lean back and scan the room. I'm not looking for anything or anyone in particular. Sometimes, it's just nice to enjoy the sights and sounds of the empire I rule over.

The same empire that should have been my brother's.

We're about to leave the bar and head for the office suite when a woman's voice reaches my ears. "... No, thanks. Really."

It's the way her words tremble that pulls my attention.

"C'mon, baby." Some guy in a dark leather jacket with too much gel in his hair rubs her waist as she tries to slide off the stool. When she leans away, his fingers tighten. "I got a room upstairs. We can have a real nice time⁠-"

She musters a quivering smile and tries to maneuver from his grasp. "Really. It's okay. I'm good." "But I bought you that drink!"

"I didn't ask you to." There's fear in her eyes, but she's trying so hard to be polite.

The bartender starts to move in their direction, but I give him a subtle signal to back down.

I'll handle this.

Bambi sits back and orders another drink, this time something pink with a fancy straw. She knows how I operate. She's ready to enjoy the show.

"Good evening." I saunter up to the tangled pair, my most brilliant host's smile plastered on my face. "How are you two doing tonight?"

"We're fine, man. Everything's fine." The man waves me off with an irritated flick of his hand.

I loft a brow. "Is it?" My gaze slides to the woman. She looks shaken, but she forces a smile of her own.

"I was just leaving," she mumbles, grabbing her clutch.

"Please-stay." I gesture to her barstool but still give her wide enough berth to run if she feels the need. She doesn't know who I am, but her eyes do a quick once-over and something eases just a bit in her posture.

Before she does decide to run, I gesture for the bartender. "Mike."

He slides over, his face serious even as his eyes glint with mischief. We love this game. "Yeah, boss?" "What is this beautiful young lady drinking?"

Mike cocks his head at the empty glass on the countertop. "Well rum and coke."

I click my tongue in mock admonishment. "Oh, no, no, no. We can do better than that."

The gropey man huffs and holds a hand up to interrupt me, but I ignore it. Right now, he doesn't exist. And when I do decide to turn my attention to him, he'll long for the days when I didn't know him from a fucking hole in the ground.

I lean against the counter and focus my attention on the woman. "What's your poison? Anything under the sun. Name it and it's yours."

"Listen, buddy-" The man grabs my arm. And then he yelps when he's immediately ripped away by my security.

I stay focused on the woman. She blushes and settles back onto the stool. She is pretty, I'll give her that. Definitely a tourist, and given the tan line on her ring finger, I'd guess a recent divorcee.

"Um, I don't know..." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The ends are frayed and her roots haven't been touched in months. It doesn't take long for me to piece together the story of someone scrimping by just to survive an ordeal. This is probably her one chance at a break before she's back to cold, hard reality. "Vodka? Maybe?"

My smile broadens. "Have you ever tasted Russo-Baltique vodka?"

The man stiffens behind me. He instantly stops struggling with my guards when he hears my native accent slip out.

She blushes more and shakes her head. "Hell no. That stuff is... No, safe to say I have never, ever tried million-dollar vodka. As you can tell, my luck here hasn't been that great."

I nod to Mike, who is already pouring a shot glass from the diamond-encrusted bottle we keep in the refrigerated safe under the bar.

"Are... are you serious?" she balks.

I nod. "On the house."

Mike slides me another shot glass, and I hold it up for her to clink. "To new beginnings."

Again, her eyes widen, but she tosses it back at the same time I do. We both hiss at the afterburn. It's like drinking glacier water.

I glance over to Bambi. She's wearing her amused smile. "Let's get our beautiful guest set up with some VIP treatment, hm?"

"On it." Bambi taps a few things on her phone, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Want me to include The Celestial?"

"Absolutely."

"Done."

It's not even a full minute before one of our concierges appears at the woman's elbow. He offers her a warm smile and a slight bow. "If you'll come with me, madam?"

She glances between the three of us, then settles her perplexed stare on me. "What's going on?"

I set my shot glass back on the counter. "I'm guessing your luck hasn't been great for a while. That's why you came out here, isn't it?"

Her eyes dart down and away. She nods mutely.

"Well, then, time for a change." I straighten my jacket, give her one final nod, then turn to deal with the other loose end.

Behind me, the concierge escorts the woman down a nearby side hall toward the spa. When she's out of sight, I signal for security to bring the man along.

He and I are going in a slightly different direction.

DEMYEN

The poor bastard tries to drag his feet on the carpet like he's hoping the earth will swallow him whole before we reach the private security room tucked behind the glass elevator. But my men are stronger than him, and they hoist him up so only his toes skate over the plush fibers.

I hear him mutter pleas, stammer promises to leave and never come back, but I ignore him.

It's too late for that.

Bambi bids us adieu at the door; she's never had much taste or patience for what comes next. It's just as well-she needs to go check in with all our escorts in the pit.

The man is firmly seated into one of the metal chairs. Two of my men keep a hand on each of his shoulders to make sure he doesn't think running is a good idea. The others lean in the corners, every bit the silent, violent sentinels they're trained to be.

Even before I speak, the message is clear.

And it's dripping down the man's face in rivulets.

"Listen, man," he stutters, "I meant you no disrespect⁠-"

I hold up a hand and he falls silent. "Of course not." I flash him a charming smile, but my eyes are full of venom. "You came into my house, drank my liquor, and harassed my guests. But you meant no disrespect to me specifically."

His mouth snaps shut.

"Here's the thing..." I check the message from Bambi on my smartwatch. "... Mr. Nichols. Mr. Josh Nichols. From Los Angeles as well-how lovely. We're practically neighbors."

I meet his terrified gaze, my smile still perfectly in place. His throat bobs with a terrified swallow.

"Here's the thing," I repeat. "This is a business. This is my business. And what people do under my roof is my business. So when someone like you comes in here and threatens my guests, you threaten my business."

He gulps again. It's audible in the silent room.

"And I simply can't have you threatening my business, Mr. Nichols." "I-I s-s-swear, man, I'll never⁠-"

He grimaces in pain when both men bracing his shoulders squeeze tight. Any more pressure and they'll snap his collarbone.

"I swear, Mr. Zakrevsky! I'm out! I'll never come back!"

I steal a glance to the guard on my right, who immediately hands me the man's now-unlocked phone. I skim through the texts. Most of them are hookup requests and uncouth responses to various rejections on one dating app after another.

The truth is, this guy is hardly worth the time I'm giving him right now. The only reason why I'm even bothering is because reputation precedes performance, and the public currently milling around the Main Floor need to see the House keeps things safe and clean.

But there are far greater threats than Mr. Nichols out there. Truth is, this sad excuse for a man doesn't even register. So I do the next best thing and cut him some slack.

Notice I didn't say that I cut him loose.

"Sasha."

The guard to my left steps forward. He's intimidating with broad shoulders, a deep chest, and bald head tattooed with tribal flames near his ears. The very picture of Do not fuck with me.

"Da, pakhan?" he grunts in Russian.

I smirk. He knows the game well.

"Keep Mr. Nichols company while we decide what to do with him. And see what you can do about these dating profiles; they're atrocious."

Sasha nods and calmly sits in the chair opposite Nichols, taking the phone once I set it on the table. Nichols slumps in his chair, clearly on the verge of sobbing. He doesn't know what's about to happen to him. He doesn't know how Sasha is going to "keep him company." All his mind can do is run through the worst possible scenarios, and they're obviously terrible.

If he were anyone who mattered, they probably would be.

But I don't need the blood on my furniture, and besides-the nightmares he can conjure himself are worse than anything Sasha's brass knuckles could ever do to him. My men will make him shit his pants for an hour, then rough him up a bit, throw him into the back alley, and let him scurry back to whatever rat hole he calls home.

I give a curt nod. The rest of the men file behind each other and we exit the room together, leaving Josh Nichols to the worst hour of his life.

The curious gazes that skirt our way as we stride to the pit are exactly why I have this little protocol in place. No one knows what's going on in that room-only that Demyen Zakrevsky personally manhandled a serial sleaze who dared come into this House.

Bambi matches my smirk when she hands me her tablet at the edge of the pit. "Right on schedule."

The screen is lit with selfies and captions posted by the now-elated VIP guest as she tours her luxury suite and tries on the silk complimentary robes. Comments and likes continue to pour in as friends and family push the posts through the social media algorithms.

"And the bookings?" I accept a tumbler from a passing server and take a sip.

"Up by fifteen percent since it went viral. We'll have a busy weekend next week."

"Perfect."

Bambi flips the cover shut and tucks the tablet under her arm. "Tolya would be proud of you, you know."

The thought comes as a hard punch to my gut. My mood suddenly sours, and I resist shooting her a glare. I know she means it as a compliment. I hate how it feels more like a reminder that his empire fell into my lap through Fate's cruelest twist.

It doesn't matter that even Tolya insists I stole nothing from him. It still feels like I did.

"He'd have it twice as successful than it is now," I grumble. "With half as many idiots poisoning the bar."

Bambi rolls her eyes and makes no effort at all to hide it. "When are you going to take credit for your own success?"

I toss back the rest of the tumbler's contents and slam the glass down on a nearby table. "When I find that fucking 'key witness' and thank them myself for the opportunity." Because that's what this all boils down to.

I have everything around me, this glittering empire of dreams and diamond dust, because some snot-nosed kid lied on the stand fifteen years ago.

I shake my head before I can sink into the usual storm of rage and angst over how it's been so long and I still haven't found her. "Give me the report," I order.

Bambi sighs and pulls out her tablet and flips to a screen where the Main Floor layout is outlined in blue. Every machine is labeled according to its placement, with a running tracker of wins and losses indicating whether it's "hot" or "cold" by the second. If a machine stays hot for too long, we're alerted of a glitch so we can pull it, fix it, and minimize our losses. And if it's cold for too long...

"What's our coldest?" I peer at the screen.

Bambi taps on a section next to the pit, and an enlarged window zeroes in on the machines. "Looks like Medusa's Wrath. Only two payouts in the last hour. This one on the end has been cold for..." She frowns. "Six hours. That's odd. Want me to call in tech support?"

I shake my head. "Not yet. Funnel the wins to that machine and we'll pull later. No one's gonna touch something that icy."

Bambi nods her agreement and makes the necessary adjustments. She funnels additional funds to the glitched-up machine.

With that settled, I start another circuit of the casino floor. I'm only vaguely aware of Bambi rattling off a To-Do list as we wander. Bambi's intended praise still swirls in my head.

Tolya would be proud.

Would he, though? I have no idea how Tolya would have run things. He never got the chance to even try. Our old man was still around calling the shots and ruling with an iron fist when Tolya was arrested for a murder he never committed.

Everything hinged on the testimony of an eight-year-old little girl who swore she saw my brother gun down LVPD Detective Michael Little. To this day I can't shake the feeling that someone, somehow, skewed the facts so my brother would never see the light of day. But I can't put my finger on which one.