His Queen of Clubs (Vegas Underground 6)

I learned how to hack. How to launder. I learned to speak English, German and French. That’s how I won control of all of the bratva’s money. How I amassed a fortune. How I survived countless attacks against me. If the shit with the treacherous Sabina hadn’t gone down, I’d still be on top there instead of lying low in America.

I make a mental note of every weapon-bulge in the room—at least twenty-four. Every man there is carrying a piece—even the grooms. Instead of fear, the familiar buzz of adrenaline sets my skin tingling.

A surreptitious scan of the room and I find the mafia princess. The one I will use to bring every Tacone to his knees.

The one who will learn a little humility at my hands.

I should hate my enemy’s sister—should consider her an enemy too, but it’s hard to hate any creature so beautiful. And it’s not her fault she was born into a ruthless family.

The Italians keep their females pure. The women never participate in business. Never see blood or death.

Hell, the girl may even still be a virgin. Blyat, now my dick’s hard. Now is not the time to get a stiffie over the woman I plan to drug and tie up. Except I’m a sick motherfucker, because that thought only gets me harder.

She’s wearing a hot pink halter dress that frames and presents her youthful breasts in the most mouthwatering way. The matching pink shoes and purse probably cost a grand alone.

Fortune’s smiling on me, because Alessia breaks from the group and heads for the door, like she’s going to the restroom.

I move swiftly, pushing my cart into the hallway behind her, palming the syringe. I remove the false top of the cart, revealing the empty bottom, which is actually one of the Bellissimo’s rolling laundry carts.

I wait until she emerges from the restroom—alone, thank fuck—and jump her from behind. If she were a man, I would just knock her out with my fist, like I did the waiter downstairs. But I can’t bring myself to hit a woman, no matter how easy and effective that might be.

I catch her vanilla and roses scent as I cover her mouth and jab the hypodermic needle into her neck. She struggles against me as the drug moves through her veins. It will take at least a minute to take effect.

“Shh, printsessa,” I murmur in her ear, keeping my grip across her arms and over her mouth, iron-tight. “Relax and you won’t get hurt.” My accent sounds thicker than usual. Probably because my cock just got thicker at the feel of her soft ass wriggling against it. “Easy, zaika. Go to sleep.”

Her intoxicating floral aroma fills my nostrils as I breathe into her neck, waiting. Finally, she goes limp, her supple body sagging in my arms.

I swoop an arm under her knees and drop her into the cart, then put the top back on, arranging the tablecloth over everything. Twenty-nine seconds later I’m in the elevator. One of the Tacones’ men gets on with me. I keep my face blank, but formal.

The guy doesn’t look at me. I palm the knife in my pocket, ready to use it if I have to.

Finally, the guy gets off on a lower floor and a few other people get on—tourists. Nobodies. I hit the door close button and continue downstairs to the lower level.

I text Mika, On my way. I try to use English with him, so he’ll learn to read and write it.

In position, he texts back in Russian. I shouldn’t involve the kid in this shit. Hell, I shouldn’t have even brought him here from Chicago. But what else was I do with him? I came back from my mother’s funeral in Moscow to find six of the brotherhood dead and everyone else gone. Everyone except Mika.

He’d been living alone in the apartment building we occupied, somehow surviving. Probably a greater kindness would’ve been to give him to the American social care system. But I couldn’t do it. He may be an annoyance, but he’s one of ours, and we take care of our own. And he’s working hard to prove himself useful.

In the lower level corridor, I strip off the waiter suit and put on a maintenance staff button down shirt, pull the catering top off the cart and roll it out, like I’m taking out dirty laundry. I wipe my prints from her purse and toss it in the trash.

Mika pulls around to the door and stops with a jerk. Yes, I let a twelve-year-old drive my car. I didn’t even have to teach him—he already knew how. And he’s damn good at it.

“Open the trunk,” I mutter to him in Russian and he complies as I push the cart right up to the back of my black Jetta. I pick up the drugged Tacone princess and drop her into the trunk, then slam it shut.