His Queen of Clubs (Vegas Underground 6)

Twenty-three seconds and we’re out of there.

Mission accomplished. I now have all the leverage I will need against the Tacone pricks.

Chapter 2

Alessia

I feel like heaving. As light filters under my lids, I remember being captured. The sharp jab of a needle. The thick, strong arms banded around me. Tattooed knuckles pressing over my mouth. The heavy Russian accent. Hot breath at my ear—not unpleasing, even though it terrified me.

I’m so fucked.

I try to blink my eyes open, but they won’t obey. I’m shaky and black swims over my vision. My heart’s racing but I can’t wake up. Cold sweat makes my dress cling to me. I don’t know if it’s whatever he injected me with dragging at me, or if I’m heading toward a diabetic coma. Either way, I’m screwed.

I force my mouth to move, to ask for help.

If I can’t wake up now, I may never wake up again.

Vlad

The girl should be awake by now. I’m not on expert on narcotics, but I’ve seen this concoction used before. I researched how much to give her, and I doubt I guessed far off on her weight.

I have her bound on the bed in the upstairs loft of my rented townhouse. Mika stands in the doorway, kicking a hacky sack back and forth while I check Alessia’s pulse. It feels weak and erratic. I grip her face and turn it from side to side, trying to make sure she’s not faking it. The way her head lolls tells me she’s not. Her lids flutter open, but all I see are the whites of her eyes, like they’re rolled back in her head.

A shot of pure alarm makes my heart pound.

“Alessia. Wake up, printsessa.” I lightly tap her face. “Wake up.”

Her lips move but I can’t hear what she’s saying.

“What’s that?”

“Insulin.” She flops her hand at me and that’s when I see the medical bracelet. It’s rose gold and expensive-looking so I didn’t notice the symbol at first.

Fuck.

I flip it over to read what it says.

Diabetic.

Double fuck.

With my phone, I Google what to do in the case of an emergency with a diabetic.

Fuck. According to the screen, she needs emergency medical care, and I’m not about to surrender her to the local hospital. If the girl dies, she’s absolutely no use to me. And I don’t want her death on my conscience. I already have far too many.

I disposed of her purse in case they could track her by her phone, but now I’m kicking myself. I shout to Mika to bring me a can of Coke from the kitchen.

When he brings it, I tell him in terse Russian, “I need you to drive back to the casino and get her purse. I threw it in the trash can outside the elevators and in front of the door where you picked me up. It’s very important—could mean her life. But don’t get caught. Understand?”

He’s frightened by my tone, but he nods quickly.

“You can do this, Mika. Call me if you can’t find it.”

“I’ll find it,” he says, throwing a frightened glance at the girl tied up on the bed.

“And don’t bring her phone with you! Leave it in the trash. Just the purse and the rest of the contents, okay? Go quickly, now.”

Mika agrees and dashes off.

I crack the can and scoop under the girl’s shoulders to prop her against my body. “Drink, zaika.” I attempt to dribble Coke from a can into the mafia princess’s mouth.

Diabetic.

I never saw that one coming.

The Tacones are so perfect, so wealthy. The girl is so beautiful; it’s like I didn’t think something like illness or ill-fate would touch them.

But of course, sickness is immune to wealth or power or even beauty.

Fuck. For some reason, her handicap makes it much harder for me to hate her. And I was struggling as it was. It’s hard to hate the beautiful. It’s like someone not liking a puppy or kitten.

It’s almost hard to believe how perfect her face is. Full, bow-shaped lips, thick, slightly-arched brows, long lashes. Her olive skin is flawless and smooth.

Alessia’s lids flutter and her lips move against the can. She swallows. “Yes,” she murmurs, acknowledging what I’m trying to do.

“Good girl.”

I keep at it for an agonizingly long time. Waking her from her faint, trying to get the sugary substance down her throat to bring her blood sugar levels back up.

“Mika’s picking up your insulin, printsessa,” I murmur as I dribble more Coke down her throat. “You’re not dying today.”

She makes a sound as she swallows. She understands me. Knows what’s going on here. Her attempts to open her lids are getting more successful. Her eyes track my face, brows dip.

“Why?” she rasps.

“Why kidnap you?” I don’t know why I’m inclined to make conversation with her. She doesn’t deserve any politeness or special handling from me. But it’s like it’s impossible not to answer. “Your brother killed my cell.”