Page 45 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)

Nineteen

ANDY

T he car purred to a stop in front of a building that screamed lavish louder than a diva at karaoke night.

Tyrone, all stoic muscle and silent efficiency, opened my door.

I stepped out, my shoes hitting the pavement with a satisfying click.

Across from me, Bruno played doorman for Matt, who exited with the kind of grace that made everyone else look like they were fumbling through life.

I was about to join Matt when Fin’s voice cut through the air like a well-aimed arrow.

“Andy!” He waved so enthusiastically that I feared his arm might fly off. Ethan followed behind him, both dressed to kill in immaculate suits courtesy of Matt’s wallet. Because let’s face it, you can’t show up to a billionaire’s bash dressed in thrift store chic.

“Hey, you two look like you stepped out of a GQ magazine,” I teased as they reached us.

Fin grinned, running a hand through his tousled pearl-blond hair. “Thanks to your sugar daddy.” He winked.

Ethan smiled, his ethereal appearance even more striking in formal wear. “Ready to face the lions?” he asked.

“Born ready,” I replied, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders as we headed inside.

Matt led the way with the confident stride of someone who owned the place—or at least acted like he did.

Bruno, Tyrone, Eddie, and a few more of Matt’s men flanked us like an armored convoy.

The lobby was opulent enough to make Versailles blush, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers.

Every eye turned our way as we walked through, whispers trailing behind us like curious ghosts.

Fin leaned in close. “Is it weird that this feels kind of cool?”

I chuckled softly. “Weird? Yes. Cool? Definitely.”

We reached the elevator, and before long, we were at the top floor—Tory’s penthouse.

Calling it grand felt like an understatement; this place was designed with such sleek Japanese minimalism it made Zen gardens look cluttered.

The front doors were guarded by men who looked like they could break bones just by glaring at them hard enough.

Tattoos peeked from under their collars—the kind you didn’t get from sticking your arm in a gumball machine—and I knew without asking: Yakuza.

They greeted Matt with a respect that had nothing to do with pleasantries and everything to do with power. Their Japanese rolled off their tongues smooth as silk, bowing slightly before ushering us inside.

Stepping into Tory’s penthouse was like wandering into a dream where modernity and classic Japanese aesthetics decided to go on a blind date and hit it off spectacularly.

Every corner held a piece that would have art thieves salivating: sculptures that seemed to defy gravity, paintings that whispered secrets of a world beyond ours, and vases so old, they probably remembered feudal Japan.

We were barely a few steps in when a serving staff, as impeccably dressed as the artwork was curated, offered us drinks on silver platters. I grabbed something that looked like it had been mixed by an alchemist rather than a bartender—a fusion of colors I couldn’t name if I tried.

Before we could even take a sip, there he was—Tory Masuda in all his sleek-suited glory.

The man could wear a burlap sack and still look runway-ready, but tonight he was all sharp lines and dark fabric that seemed to drink in the light.

His suit hugged him like it was tailored by the gods themselves, which it probably was.

As Matt and Tory exchanged pleasantries—probably discussing the sorts of things that would make Wall Street weep—I scanned the room.

That was when I caught Ethan, looking like he’d just been asked to defuse a bomb with chopsticks.

His hand shook so much I worried his drink might jump ship and seek asylum.

Fin caught my eye and leaned toward his brother with the subtlety of a marching band. “Dude, you gotta chill,” he whispered loudly enough for me to hear over the hum of mingling billionaires. “You can’t embarrass yourself in front of your crush.”

Ethan’s response was a hiss through clenched teeth. “Finley Collins, if you don’t zip it?—”

His threat hung in the air like an unfinished doodle as his face flushed to match his drink—a lovely shade of Oh God, everyone’s looking at me .

Tory’s gaze flicked to me then, a smile playing on his lips as if he were in on every joke ever told. “Matt’s little pet who causes all the trouble,” he said with amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

I chuckled because what else could I do? “Guilty as charged,” I admitted. “I’m more than just a handful—I’m the entire set.”

Tory laughed—a sound as rich as his surroundings—and turned to my friends.

“I hope you don’t mind me bringing along these strays,” I said.

Before Tory could respond, Fin jumped in with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. “Your place is amazing! Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Thanks,” Tory replied. “If you have a thing for antiques, you should definitely visit the gallery.”

“I don’t,” Fin replied bluntly, his tone making it clear he had no interest in anything beyond the immediate gratification. “I’m here for the food.”

Tory burst into laughter, then said, “In that case, you’re in for a treat.” His gaze then shifted to Ethan, who looked even more dazed now, his cheeks flaming hot. “I’m glad you could make it,” he said softly.

Ethan mumbled something incoherent but managed a nod.

At that moment, more guests started pouring in through the entrance. Tory excused himself with a graceful bow. “Make yourselves at home,” he told us before moving off to greet the newcomers.

The inner sanctum of Tory’s penthouse was a circus of wealth, each guest more bedazzled than the last, their outfits a competition of threads and jewels.

Matt detached himself from our little trio, slipping into the crowd with the ease of a shark in open water.

His suit, sharp enough to cut glass, seemed to command attention and respect with each thread.

I watched as heads turned in his wake, people gravitating toward him like moths to a flame.

There was something about the way Matt carried himself—like power was his first language and he was fluent in it—that sent a shiver down my spine.

He was in his element here, and I couldn’t deny that watching him be admired by everyone else was lighting a fire in me that had nothing to do with the room’s ambient temperature.

With Matt off charming the upper echelons of society, Fin, Ethan, and I set our sights on what really mattered at any gathering worth its salt—the food.

And oh, what a spread it was! The tables were an artful chaos of Japanese cuisine: delicate slices of sashimi laid out like vibrant petals, sushi that boasted seafood so fresh I could almost hear the ocean whispering apologies for losing them, and tempura so light it could have been crafted by culinary angels.

Fin dove into the offerings like a man possessed, chopsticks dancing between fingers with an enthusiasm that bordered on reverent.

“This tuna,” he gushed between bites, “you can’t get it this fresh anywhere.

Not even in Vegas’ high-end restaurants.

” He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes scanning the spread before him.

“And this sushi… it’s like eating clouds made by Zeus himself. ”

I laughed as I piled my own plate high with what promised to be a transcendent experience for my taste buds.

Meanwhile, Ethan’s attention fluttered between his food and Tory like a nervous butterfly caught in an updraft.

Every few seconds he’d sneak a glance across the room where Tory floated among his guests, dispensing charm as effortlessly as we were dispensing with decorum at the buffet.

“Quit gluing your eyes to Tory,” Fin scolded without looking up from his plate. “Focus on this culinary masterpiece before I eat it all.”

Ethan said nothing—his silence as loud as any retort.

“There’s plenty of food,” I chimed in with a chuckle. “Heard they’re preparing more in the kitchen as we speak.”

That snagged Fin’s interest faster than an online sale on designer shoes. He perked up like a meerkat sensing danger—or opportunity—and declared with conviction that he was going to investigate what other delicacies awaited us.

Ethan muttered something about needing to use the restroom before slipping away into the throng of people.

Alone now, I took another sushi roll for good measure and sauntered out onto the balcony.

I sank into one of the cushy chairs, savoring the cool breeze that carried a hint of desert night.

The sky unfurled above me, stars peeking through the velvet darkness like shy spectators.

Below, Vegas sprawled in all its neon glory—an array of light and sound that never truly slept.

I popped another piece of sushi into my mouth, the taste of the sea mingling with the crispness of the night air. Bliss. With a contented sigh, I leaned back, letting the ambiance wrap around me like a comforting blanket.

I was mid-chew when I sensed a presence—a hulking figure that blocked some of the ambient light. A man, tall and muscular, leaned his broad frame against the wall nearby, eyes fixed on me. He had that same aura Matt carried—like he could command a room with a mere glance.

“Hello,” I ventured, knowing full well he had to be one of those millionaires or billionaires. After all, this wasn’t exactly a charity event for paupers.

He flashed a smile that could have melted glaciers. “Nice choker you’ve got there.”

I touched the gold choker around my neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Thanks,” I said, my voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.

“Your man has good taste,” he remarked, his eyes twinkling with interest.

“He really does,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks warm up.