Ace of Hearts (Vegas Underground 3)

The sweet little songbird’s in my cage now.

And fuck if I don’t wish she was the spoiled brat starlet drinking and partying her way through her tour. Because I don’t like to squeeze a woman.

I have a big fucking problem with it, actually.

It’s always been my sore spot.

The don warned his son Nico about me when he sent us off to Vegas together, years ago. When Nico decided to make a name for himself away from Chicago, Don Tacone said, “Trust Tony. He’ll be your most loyal soldier. Just don’t ever ask him to hurt a woman. And don’t you ever hurt a woman. Or else all bets will be off.”

The don knew. He turned a blind eye as I worked to right the wrongs of my childhood. Bloodied my hands and my soul, vigilante style.

So I hope to God Pepper’s shows sell out, we get her debt paid and send her out of here unscathed.

Because I don’t want her to know the kind of violence I’m capable of. What I’ve done since I sold my soul to the devil Don Tacone.

I stop one of the cocktail waitresses. “Deliver a bottle of our finest champagne to Ms. Heart’s dressing room with my compliments.”

It’s not because I feel guilty.

It’s just to smooth things over between us. A gesture of welcome, to show her she’ll be treated with respect, so long as she does as she’s told.

Definitely not because I give a shit what she thinks about me. Or because that sexy little glare she gave me when we were introduced got me harder than a rock.

I shouldn’t celebrate the fact that she’s not afraid.

Putting her at ease is definitely not part of this job.

Chapter 2

Pepper

I walk to my dressing room, wiping sweat with the small hand towel Izzy, our blue-haired, combat boot-wearing stage manager, hands me. She gives me a half-hearted pat on the shoulder, as if to say, Yeah, this sucks.

She’s the silent, brooding type, but lately I think I’m catching sympathetic vibes from her. Like she knows this ship’s going down.

Hugh made me go through every bit of choreography, even though we’ve done this sixty-four times in the last three months. Yes, I said choreography.

It’s humiliating and sad. I may have started as the emo alternative singer, but the producers long since shoved me into the role of pop star. Which means I have backup dancers. And I have to dance with them.

He doesn’t make me sing. That’s because I can’t. I mean, literally, if I tried to sing now, the laryngitis would leave me mute by the time the concert rolls around. And I still have to at least talk to my fans.

Because if I can’t do that, we can’t pull off the cringe-worthy lip sync act I’ve been forced to do the past three nights.

My gut twists with the shame of it.

If word gets out, it will be a career-ender.

We should’ve cancelled the rest of this tour three weeks ago when I got sick and collapsed coming off stage. But we can’t.

Not with Tony Brando breathing down our necks.

The show must go on.

I open my dressing room door and find a champagne bucket with a bottle of Moet on ice. The card beside it says, Compliments of Tony Brando.

I ball my fingers into fists. Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe I’ve hit my limit, but the gesture sends a shock of white hot anger through me. It’s one thing to force me to denigrate myself by playing in your damn casino. It’s another to gloat. Or pretend I’m an honored guest, when really I’m your fucking slave.

I pick up the bottle by the neck and march out, still in my sweat-soaked crop top and skin tight boy shorts. I hop off the front of the stage.

“Where you going, Pepper?” Farley, my eighteen-year-old guitarist calls out. His identical twin, Scott, comes to stand behind him. Hiring the home-schooled Wonder Twins a few years ago was one of Hugh’s better ideas. It was gimmicky plan, done solely for the purpose of milking press articles, but they’re actually great. Easy to work with, madly talented, and generally nice guys.

“Everything okay?” Izzy calls out.

“I’m going to have a discussion with management.” I stomp back through the empty theater and out the door.

“Excuse me? Can you tell me where to find Tony Brando?” I ask a security guy at the door.

His eyes pop out of his head, probably surprised to see me unescorted, and he fumbles with the earpiece in his ear. “Uh, yeah. I’ll take you to him, Ms. Heart. Right this way.”

He leads me through the casino.

And yeah. I should’ve stopped to change. Because I’m definitely not blending in. Everyone and her sister gawks at me as I pass by. The security guy does his best to block the sight of me with his body, which is sweet, really. We end up down a hallway of offices, where he knocks on a door, then pushes it open when a grunt comes from inside.