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.

Fact: Michael Little was fatally shot inside a warehouse.

Fact: That warehouse, unfortunately, was owned by the Zakrevsky Corporation.

Fact: The key witness was there.

Fact: Tolya was nowhere near the warehouse when it all went down.

Today's failed appeal was to establish that last fact to an undeniable level. No fewer than eight witnesses prepared written and notarized testimonies to having either seen or been with Tolya that night, clear across the city and far away from the warehouse five miles east outside Vegas.

But Judge Cartwell simply stated that the little girl who "saw it all" held more validity than all those witnesses combined.

My fists clench. I need to get to my office before I punch something and start a scene we don't want splashed all over social media.

So I quicken my pace, Bambi close behind, her nose buried in whatever stats are rolling across her tablet screen.

My own stats are rolling in my head, alongside the list of facts that won't let me sleep. The number of innocent men incarcerated in the state of Nevada. The number of innocent men who never get exonerated.

The odds of me ever finding that witness.

I step out of the pit and turn toward the wall where the elevator to my office is hidden behind a camouflage panel. I make a mental note to check on the Medusa's Wrath slot machines⁠-

And then, suddenly, I'm doused in coffee and champagne.

5

CLARA

I very, very slowly lower my victory fists.

The avenging angel flicks champagne off his arms as he stares at me. It's not quite a glare, but he's not laughing, either. Droplets cling to the perfectly manicured, just-this-side-of-shadow beard, and the way the light hits him makes them sparkle.

I should be apologizing, but I can't stop staring at how tragically beautiful he truly is.

I should really be apologizing.

"I-I am... so sorry!" I frantically glance around for napkins and only find a used wad of them on the machine next to mine. Ew, no. "Really, I⁠-"

"Have no consideration for your surroundings?"

If I thought his face was gorgeous, his deep timbre has officially made my insides melt.

It takes me a moment to register the actual words he said. When they do, they hit deep and I flinch.

I muster an embarrassed little smile. Broken glass crunches under his feet when he steps to the side, and I flinch again.

He towers over me, a good head and a half taller at the very least. Even stained with bubbly, his expensive tuxedo screams "powerful," and the contours of the body beneath it underscore that word times a hundred. Dark hair falls into his eyes when he looks back at me again, and I suck in a breath at the way his smoky gray eyes seem to glow in the casino's lighting.

Those eyes flick to the paper clenched in my lowered fist. His brow arches as realization dawns on him. "Jackpot win?"

That vacuum on my lungs threatens to start up again as I slowly nod. "Yeah," comes out more like a squeak than an actual word. "Congratulations." He chuckles. "Now, you can afford a new tux for me."

I blanch.

"Breathe. I'm kidding." He accepts a cloth napkin that a stunning woman with dark curls hands him and pats himself down. I instantly recognize her from the town car when I first came in.

Oh, good Lord. I've doused her husband in alcohol.

She's doing her absolute best to hold back the laughter as she nods to someone in the pit and helps my splash zone victim dab off the remaining liquid from his sleeve. I'm actually envious of her. I volunteer myself to be the one to feel his biceps through the fabric.

I give myself a subtle little shake. Focus, Clara.

"Really, is there anything I can do?" I ask. "I feel terrible."

He waves me off. "Don't worry about it. Just enjoy the rest of your evening, and try to aim your bubbly next time." His face grows suddenly serious. "Any more champagne showers in here, and I'll have to call Security."

I almost gasp-but then he winks at me.

Then he saunters off, gorgeous wife/girlfriend/escort/whoever trailing close behind him.

She suddenly stops. Turns around. And stares at me.

Her eyes flick to the flashing graphics on the slot machine I'm standing in front of. She glances down at a tablet tucked on her arm, then back up at me.

She looks shocked.

And then the most impish grin I've ever seen on a human being spreads across her face.

She wiggles her fingers at me in a playful "goodbye," and in a strange move, also blows me a kiss. Then she spins on her elegant stilettos and sashays away, albeit not exactly in the same direction as the Champagne Angel. Odd, but who am I to judge couples in Vegas?

Lord knows I've got my own relationship problems.

I uncrumple the paper from my death-grip and read the jackpot total again.

And again. And again.

I may have a truckload of problems in my life right now, but money is no longer one of them.

I nearly trip over my own heels in my mad dash for the cashier's counter. A few curious people follow me with their eyes and I realize I need to be as minimally conspicuous as possible until I get out of this building. Hell, until I get it all deposited in the bank and take Willow far, far away from this place.

"I'd like to cash out, please." I smile at the middle-aged cashier wearing the casino's signature gold referee uniform and a matching gold chain on her reading glasses. She seems nice, trustworthy. She returns my smile warmly.

That smile immediately plummets into a look of pure shock when she scans the ticket. "I-ah... Are you sure?" she asks with a small, nervous laugh.

"I'm very sure." My fingers clutch my bag until my knuckles turn white.

She clicks a few things on her keyboard, glancing at me every five seconds. It's difficult to tell what she's thinking. Her face keeps switching between different expressions depending on what she's looking at-the computer screen, the ticket, or me.

"Okay, I'll just need to see your driver's license, and..." She turns and dips for something under the counter, then sets a stack of papers in front of me. "I'll need you to fill these forms out. Top to bottom, please. If you have any questions, just ask."

I try to not look or feel as overwhelmed as I suddenly feel. "All this?"

She snorts, but it's all in good nature. "All this for all that. You will also need to make sure you file a W2-G when tax season rolls around, and be aware that all winnings are typically subject to a twenty-five percent tax rate-⁠"