Staying in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 1)

“I’m glad you already know that,” he responds, easily. “I wish you had already known that when you said you were going to do it and I tried my damnedest to talk you out of it, but I’m glad you know it now.”

I slide him a dry look, but he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s watching the waitress who ignored us the whole time we were here. We don’t ordinarily come to Carmichael’s club and I haven’t been in my position long, but we’re not used to being ignored. Sin draws his wallet out. I don’t realize what he’s doing until he crosses in front of me and pecks her on the shoulder.

The girl turns back, brushing a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear. Poor thing looks frazzled. Then baffled, as Sin holds out a twenty dollar bill.

“What’s this for?” she asks him.

“The incredible service,” he states, dryly.

She blinks, unsure whether or not she’s just been insulted.

Sin doesn’t wait for her to figure it out. He hands her the twenty and leaves her standing there, confused as all hell, while an annoyed customer waits for her attention back.

I can’t hold back a smirk as we head out the door. “You’re such a dick.”

“She’s a terrible waitress,” he states. “She needs to find a new line of work. Or at least study up on who the fuck she should pay attention to in this town.”

That part is true.

“Should we get some dinner?” I ask him.

Sin checks his watch. “Can it wait an hour? I have a couple errands to run.”

“Sure. I’m gonna head home, just come over when you’re done and we’ll head out.”

4

Rafe

Sin is early. I’m not surprised; he usually is when he’s just paying me a visit. Occasionally he’s late on purpose to meet other people—a reminder that he’s a man you wait for, and if he wants to be late, he damn well will—but despite his occasional tendency toward solitary darkness, Sin is always a courteous professional to his superiors.

Not that I’m sure he thinks of me as a superior yet, but he will. They all will. Most of them do already. My transition to power hasn’t been too rough—a few bumps in the road, a few men caught under the wheels—but with the rightful heir to our family’s Vegas throne tucked away in Connecticut of all fucking places, no one had a better opportunity to reach for the throne than me. I was well-positioned, made myself some powerful friends in case I needed to call in temporary reinforcements to replace men I had to eliminate, but it has actually gone much more smoothly than I expected.

It’s almost anti-climactic.

Sin’s not convinced it’s over. He thinks I should’ve killed my cousin, Vince—the one whose father ran this town before he was killed. It’s not that Sin’s wrong, it’s more that I was really enjoying fucking Vince’s sister-in-law when she was in town, and killing Vince probably would’ve thrown a wrench in my fun. Plus, Vince isn’t a threat. His bloodline says he should be, but the kid wants nothing to do with this business. He’s not cut out for it. He settled down with a wife and bought a house in Connecticut, for fuck’s sake. That’s what giving up looks like.

At any rate, Vince isn’t a problem. If he ever decides to be, I’ll know. His little spy wife will tell Mateo, who will tell me, and then I’ll kill Vince and make both of us happy.

Well, not his wife. She actually likes the little bastard. Go figure.

Mateo’s a hell of a planner, I’ll give him that.

I pull open the door with the expectation of seeing Sin on the other side, but I can feel my forehead crease with confusion when I see the wrong person.

Cassandra Carmichael.

Confusion drifts to displeasure, but I pull my face into a cool smile and cock my head. “Strange. I didn’t order a whore today.”

Cassandra grins, her blue eyes sparkling with delight as she looks me over slowly, so I don’t miss it. “Nice to see you too, handsome.”

She waits in my doorway for me to return the favor, for my gaze to wander over her lithe form, currently wrapped up in a beige trench coat. She’s probably expecting my gaze to linger on her full lips, perfectly coated with her favorite shade—a classic red she pretends is effortless, but I know she undoubtedly dumped thousands of dollars on disappointing tubes until she found just the right shade. Her blonde hair is styled to perfection, as always, her blue eyes popping with all the artfully applied eye make-up.

Everything about Cassandra Carmichael is deliberately perfect, and she expects attention as payment for her efforts.

So I don’t look. My gaze doesn’t drift from her eyes. “You need to go,” I tell her, coolly. “I’m waiting for Sin, and if he shows up and sees you here, he might accidentally stab you.”

“Accidentally,” she says, rolling her eyes lightly. “Right.”