Page 6

A fter dinner, we file into the waiting limos and head straight for Club Lux.

It’s one of Sin City’s most infamous spots, once an old mob-run den of vice and secrets. The kind of place where whispers carried weight, where deals were sealed with blood and bourbon.

Not anymore.

A while back, this place was taken over and placed under new management.

Our management.

Volkov Industries owns it, though a subsidiary handles its day-to-day affairs.

It still has that underground legend status— a favorite haunt of rock stars, royalty, and the rich and shameless.

A place where money means nothing, and power means everything.

But we don’t wait in line.

We never wait in line.

We move straight to the front, where the head of security gives me a sharp nod. I return it, watching as he whispers into his mic, sending the message down the chain.

He works for Sigma International, Uncle Josef’s company.

I’ve done my time there, offering classes on martial arts and cybersecurity.

Sigma handles security for hundreds of places just like this one.

Now that I’m back home, I have some work coming up for Sigma again. I’ve got my finger in lots of pies, and this is easy for me, slipping seamlessly into the life I left behind.

I know how these things operate.

The flow.

The power dynamics.

The real purpose of security.

There are six teams working round the clock to keep this club free from disaster, bad press, and the kind of violence that follows power like a shadow.

Because this place is owned and secured by the family, it’s one of the few spots on the approved list whenever the girls want to fly in for a celebration.

But right now?

I wish we were anywhere else.

Too many people.

Too many eyes.

And every single one of them is on Aella’s gorgeous ass as she moves on the dance floor.

That fucking red dress clings to her like sin, the hem riding high with every twist of her hips, every reckless sway of her body.

I swear if I see another flash of the bottom of her ass cheek, I’m going to freak the fuck out.

I grip my drink too tight, jaw clenched so hard my teeth might crack.

I should look away.

I should.

But I don’t.

And I’m not the only one who notices.

“Yo, can you stop staring at my cousin? Bro, it’s fucking disturbing.”

Junior slides up next to me, serious, but not pissed.

And I get it.

Because I’ve seen his eyes stray to my little cousin, Leanna, enough times to recognize the hypocrisy in his words.

She’s not due to arrive until tomorrow, stuck at school for finals.

She’s younger than Aella. And if anyone else looked at her the way I look at Aella, I’d want to fucking hurt them.

So how can I be mad at him when I feel the way I do about his little cousin?

I lift my drink, taking a slow sip before muttering, “Mind your business.”

“I wish I could,” he shoots back, dry and unimpressed, “but you’re eye-fucking her from across the room, and I’m gonna puke.”

I don’t answer.

Because I can’t.

I’m too fucking amped, too tightly wound to play nice.

As if sensing the shift in my mood, Junior wisely shuts his mouth and sips his drink instead.

The girls are at the bar now, Clementine, Michaela, and Shelly sitting with their husbands standing close behind them.

The rest are standing, chatting, dancing, sipping their drinks. They form this circle that subconsciously lets others know what they are— untouchable, untouchable, untouchable.

Because we trained them well.

Because they know.

We’ve schooled them in how to protect themselves, how to navigate crowded places filled with sharks.

So logically?

I know I’m on edge for no damn reason.

But logic doesn’t change facts.

And the fact is—the world is a dangerous place.

No matter how many precautions you take.

No matter how much money you have.

No matter how many men you put in place to watch over the people you love.

You’re never safe.

So yeah. I’m extra vigilant.

Me, Junior, and Balor stand close guard, eyes sharp, watching.

Sigma men patrol from a distance, strategically placed, unseen but present.

Even so, Las Vegas is a loud, colorful beast, one that thrives on distraction and indulgence.

And mistakes get made in places like this.

So I watch.

I wait.

I drink.

And I try like hell to keep my eyes off the one thing I can’t have.

But it’s like there’s this magnetic pull that forces my gaze to land on her and only her.

Why fight it?

I take in my pretty little Pixie, wrapped in red silk and temptation, and for a moment—just a moment—I forget how to breathe.

She’s a goddamn knockout.

That soft smile of hers? The kind that inspires poets and painters.

I’m neither of those things. I break things for a living.

I put men in the ground. My hands are calloused, stained, built for war.

But still—I want her.

She’s sipping something pink and frothy, the rim of her glass dusted in pink sugar.

A watermelon margarita.

I know she only likes them made with fresh watermelon puree.

Never artificial. Never from a mix.

I’ve never had one before, but suddenly, I wonder how it tastes.

Not the drink.

Her.

Bam.

Just like that, my dick is hard, and I can’t stop staring at her mouth—at the way her lips part slightly as she sips, the way her tongue flicks out to catch a stray drop.

Fuck.

“Dude?”

Junior’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Shut up,” I growl, finally tearing my gaze away. “You got problems of your own.”

I notice exactly when he does—the early arrival of my little cousin, Leanna.

Lee-Lee.

Junior’s reaction is immediate.

The growl rumbles from his chest, low and warning, and for the briefest second, I almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

Then I remember the shit he just gave me about Aella, and any sympathy I had? Gone.

Because Lee-Lee is decked out in skintight black pants and a tiny tank top, the kind that leaves little to the imagination.

And judging by the way Junior’s fists clench at his sides—she’s definitely not wearing a bra.

Shit.

I glance at him again, his expression dark, his possessiveness undeniable, his growl drawing eyes.

“Quit it,” I mutter.

“What?” he snaps, not even looking at me.

“Now who’s doing the eye-fucking?”

His head whips toward me, his glare promising violence.

“I’m not eye-fucking her,” he bites out.

“Dude, I’m surprised she ain’t pregnant from over here,” I reply, grinning because fuck it—I’m enjoying this.

“Fuck you, man,” he grunts, dragging a hand over his face.

I should let it drop. Should just drink my whiskey and suffer in silence like I’ve been doing all night.

But then he says, “Look, Uncle Angel’s gonna be pissed for sure. And the only reason I don’t kick your ass already is because I know you, Sammy. You’re a good man. So why don’t you just fucking tell Aella already?”

The words hit harder than they should.

“Tell her what?” I scoff. “That I’m too old for her? That I’m unworthy? My hands are too fucking dirty to touch her.”

And just like that, I hate myself.

Because my voice— it gives me away.

Something raw, something vulnerable slips through, and Junior hears it.

He shakes his head. “No, bro. Just tell her you love her. Because I’m pretty fucking sure you do.”

“Shit.”

I exhale sharply, looking away.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

I drag a hand through my hair, feeling exposed. “Because I don’t deserve her.”

Junior falls silent for a beat.

Then, quietly, he says, “Do any of us?”

And I don’t know if he means me or him.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s right.

I glance back at Aella, trying to push the whole conversation from my mind, but then I notice something.

Someone—or two someones, rather.

Two greasy-haired motherfuckers slithering up to Aella and Leanna at the bar.

Frowning, I track the way one of them leans too close to Aella, his body angling to block her in.

Then I see it .

The flash of movement. The way his hand hovers too close to her drink, something small slipping into the glass, dissolving almost instantly.

My blood goes cold.

My vision tunnels.

“Fuck,” I growl, already moving.

“I saw it,” Junior mutters, his tone sharp, clipped, controlled—the voice of a man who knows how to handle a threat.

He’s already talking into his comm.

But I don’t wait.

Because the bastard is lifting the glass to her mouth—smiling, coaxing, trying to get her to drink it.

Aella frowns, turns her head, shakes it off.

But the guy persists.

Then he gets angry.

His expression changes, the easy charm slipping, his grip tightening around the glass like he’s about to force her.

He never gets the chance.

I’m there in an instant, my hand fisting the back of his collar, ripping him from her space.

Then— slam .

His face meets the bar, hard enough to make the glasses rattle and to draw eyes, but I don’t fucking care.

Aella gasps.

The girls squeal.

But I’m already turning to her, my focus narrowed on only her even as I squeeze this prick’s neck harder.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice rough, guttural.

She’s wiping her cheek and neck, where the bastard spilled the drugged drink, her hands slightly unsteady, but she nods.

Still, her eyes—wide, glassy, shaken.

I feel the rage coil inside me, darker, heavier than ever.

And in that moment I—I am rage. I am anger.

Angrier than I’ve ever felt in my entire goddamn life.

“Don’t fucking drink that.” My tone is sharp, absolute. Then I bark, “Andrea! You got her?”

“Yeah, I got her.”

Nico Jr. is already hauling the second guy toward the side door, and our security team has arrived, but I don’t care.

Because this one?

This one is mine.

And these assholes need to be taught a lesson about what happens when you fuck with mine.