Page 42 of Forbidden Confessions, Volume 2 (The Forbidden Volumes #1)

Las Vegas

Ridge

T his Saturday night in Vegas is shaping up to be anything but the usual. Sure, the casino is hopping. People happily toss their money on the tables, hoping Lady Luck will smile on them. I scoff. As if mobster Marco Donzelli would ever let the house lose its ass.

But the big boss is up to something. Shit is going down. I feel it. So it’s a fucking bad time for this call.

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?” I hiss into the phone, locking myself in the john so no one can hear my business.

Ryan, my old pal doing me a big favor back in Big D, sighs. “That redhead you’ve had me watching? She ran a few errands this morning, came back to her apartment, then headed out a while later, rolling a suitcase.”

“What?” Kristi Knolls had nothing important on her calendar today. I should know. I hacked into her phone and started tracking it—and her—months ago.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m coming for her. I have plans. Soon.

No way she’s escaping me.

“Yeah. She was rolling a suitcase, then she climbed into an Uber. I followed her to the airport, but I lost her at security.”

Because Ryan wasn’t getting on a plane, and she was.

Shit.

“Any idea where she was heading?”

“Dude, it’s DFW. She could be flying anywhere. The only thing I know is, the terminal where the driver dropped her isn’t usually one used for international flights.”

That’s not super helpful. But Kristi’s sudden itch to travel is only one of my problems tonight. “Thanks. Keep your eyes open.”

“Sure. Anything else you want me to do from here?”

“Hang by the phone.” If I can’t get a bead on Kristi in the next few hours, I’ll have Ryan break into her place and search it for clues.

“You got it. Talk to you soon.”

I hang up, swear, then flush the toilet and wash my hands for the sound effects. Donzelli, along with a couple of his capos, Sal and Rudy, are hanging out in his suite overlooking the casino floor, eyes peeled like they’re waiting for something to happen.

I’ve got a bad feeling…

Dragging in a steadying breath, I let myself out of the can.

“Everything come out okay, Rafael?” Sal snickers.

I hate answering to that name almost as much as I hate Sal Barone. I shoot him a withering glare, wishing I could dust the son of a bitch. But Donzelli would see that as a personal affront since the old-timer has worked for him—and the organization—for a few decades.

Instead, I sneer. “You asking because you need help these days, old man?”

Sal loathes me, and it shows on his face. Not that I have a fuck to spare him.

“Marco, your new consigliere needs to learn a little respect.” Sal punches his fist into his palm, demonstrating how he’d like to teach me.

His usually silent sidekick, Rudy Pomelli, nods like the hulking, brainless yes-man he is.

It takes effort not to laugh. “You’ve never shown me any respect, asshole.”

“Because you didn’t earn your position. You had it handed to you by your late uncle, who was a good man, God rest him. You’re just a shit stain trying to live up to his reputation.”

Before I can tell Sal that he doesn’t have a bite hard enough or a dick big enough to pull off the shit I do, Donzelli steps in. “Are you questioning my judgement, Sal?”

The old-timer finally has the brains to look nervous. “No. I wouldn’t do that, boss. I’m just saying I think his uncle Luca oversold him.”

And Sal thinks Donzelli elevated me from capo to consigliere out of guilt. He’s probably right, but whatever. It works to my advantage.

“Shut the fuck up. Too bad the feds didn’t use you for target practice instead of him.” I take a swipe at Sal, more because it’s expected than because I think it will shut him up.

“Gentlemen…” Donzelli warns, rising from his leather throne, wearing another one of his custom suits.

Since he dropped five grand on it, I’m not shocked he looks way more distinguished than the average CEO.

Probably why he gets a lot of ass. Well, his suit and intimidation.

He’s damn good at that, along with his old-fashioned mobster shtick.

His slicked-back hair with equally greasy manners annoy me.

I’m half expecting he’ll call the next cocktail waitress who offers him a refill dame .

“I’m zipping it,” I tell him.

“Ass kisser,” Sal sneers.

He’s a fine one to talk, but I don’t say a word, just raise a brow. The asshole’s day is coming. He deserves a bullet in his brain, and I hope I’m the guy pulling the trigger.

“That’s enough,” Donzelli growls loudly enough to convince Sal that he’s been as lenient as he intends to be.

“Sorry, boss.”

Marco gives him an absent nod, then makes his way across the darkened room to the decked-out wet bar below the mirrored wall. He plucks up a glass and turns to me. “Scotch?”

“Thanks.” I’ll nurse it, but I need to keep a clear head. Not only does Sal look like he’s planning revenge, I don’t like Donzelli’s vibe.

Whatever’s going down, Donzelli is behind it.

He pours me three fingers of the really expensive stuff, then turns to me, eyes bright with speculation. “You know, Rafael, the product we move through our trusted network is the nuts and bolts of our operation. It keeps the cash flowing and the lights on.”

He means the drugs they cook up and package in labs and safe houses in the seedier parts of town where they own the cops. “Sure. I’ve been getting familiar with that since I came on board. I’ve got a good handle on it now.”

“So I hear. Your dear, departed uncle… We were good friends.” Donzelli claps me on the back and smiles my way with the perfect hint of sympathy in his eyes.

“So he always said.”

“Just like he told me you had a real head for business. With a Harvard MBA, you should.”

I just smile. Where the fuck is he going with this? “I’m doing my best to be an asset. It’s what Uncle Luca would have wanted.”

“True. I think it’s time you and I chat about our growing side hustle. After all, this organization may be yours someday. Eventually.”

The only person standing between me and the top is Paul Carboni, Marco’s underboss—a fucking fat slob of a minion. What Paulie lacks in brains, he makes up for in ruthlessness.

“I appreciate that. If there’s a way I can help grow the business, fill me in. I’ll make it happen.”

Marco holds up his glass in toast and smiles. “You always do. Salute! ”

I lift mine in kind, but my heart is fucking rattling against my ribs.

Is he finally —after three fucking long years—going to cough up some useful information?

I’ve been trying to pry shit out of the secretive bastard since I walked through the door.

Of course, I know the basics of his growing secondary income—not that he has any clue.

But the details of this hush-hush operation?

No. And I need that info, like, yesterday.

“Walk with me,” he invites, setting his empty glass aside.

I leave mine untouched. “Sure.”

Sal looks ready to spit nails. I’ll definitely need to watch my back.

Donzelli leads me to his personal elevator and punches in a security code. Instead of heading up to his penthouse or down to his personal garage, we descend even farther, to the bowels of the hotel.

As the car plunges deeper into his concrete kingdom than I’ve ever gone, I shift into high alert and mentally catalog the weapons I’m carrying. Mobsters are a dangerous bunch, and there’s always a chance Donzelli has seen through me and lured me down to dust me.

Finally we reach a third-level basement. I’ve studied the schematics of the hotel, so I know the boilers and such are located on this level. But what else?

“You look surprised,” he observes as the doors whoosh open and he steps out into a shadowy, hot-as-balls area of utility and humidity.

“Yeah.”

His thin mouth lifts in a superior smile. He loves having the upper hand, so I let him enjoy it—for now.

“A few years ago, some overseas businessmen visited the property. They requested specific…escorts. They had cash and a lot of it, so I happily found exactly what they sought on the casino floor and ensured they enjoyed their evening to the fullest.”

I play dumb. “So you got them hookers?”

His laugh drips condescension. “No. Something far more coveted. Follow me. I’ll show you.”

Marco leads, and I stay on his ass. “Like what? If they paid you to provide sex partners?—”

“Companions,” he corrects. “Temporary companions.”

Sure. That’s why girls disappear from this place all the time and are never seen or heard from again .

“Understood.”

He continues down a narrow hallway, past a video camera, to a door with a numbered combination. On the other side of the portal, the air is slightly cooler. But it’s still dark, and the smell of sweat and fear is so thick it’s palpable.

“Those businessmen went home and told their like-minded friends that they could find whatever diversion they desire here. As new guests arrived, we accommodated their requests. Of course, some have been more complicated than others, but we have yet to fail at providing a VIP with sublime satisfaction.”

That’s one way to describe abducting unsuspecting women and selling them to strangers for sexual pleasure .

“So now it’s a healthy line of business?”

“Thriving. I have nearly a dozen such guests arriving here tonight. I’ve already heard from one or two who would prefer to work off his jet lag in a more…active way.”

Rape must get the old blood pumping .

What fucking assholes. But I keep my opinion to myself and play nice. “How much does this sort of…entertainment cost? And what happens to the companion at the end of the arrangement?”

I’m curious how he’ll make murder sound banal.

“The price varies, but our level of service is distinguished. Some wish to end the connection at the end of a single evening. Others…well, they’re not ready to say goodbye yet, so their new acquaintance travels with them.”