Ace of Hearts (Vegas Underground 3)

Nico hates Junior’s visits to Vegas. The Bellissimo is Nico’s operation. Vegas is his town. When Junior comes, he throws his weight around and acts like a big man, but really, what Nico’s created here is a thousand times bigger, better and more legal than anything Junior has going in the windy city.

“No idea. Hopefully not until she starts playing again.”

“Fanculo,” Nico curses. “That would kill us all. How are ticket sales after the cancelled shows?”

“We’re working it out still. About half the holders took refunds, the rest rescheduled. I have the first nine shows when she starts playing again mostly sold. The publicity last night helped. I told Junior it would.”

“Good. And how’s her voice?”

I shrug. “She’s resting it.”

“Junior wants you to know Pepper Heart is insured for six mil—life insurance.”

My heart stops in my chest. When it stutters back to life, I’m ready and willing to tear Junior apart, limb from limb.

Nico holds out his hands. “I’m not behind any plan that involves using it, of course.”

“Junior better not say that shit to my face or I’ll fucking kill him.”

“I don’t think he was actually suggesting it. Probably just makes him feel better knowing there’s a fallback plan.”

I can only growl in response.

“So, Tony. I gotta ask. Is Pepper Team Tony now?”

I shrug. “Not exactly.”

“But you didn’t switch camps to hers?”

I lunge to my feet. “Fuck you.” I lean forward and get right in his grill. “I know you’re not questioning my loyalty.”

Nico stands, too. When he wants to be, he can be as big an asshole as Junior—or at least he can pretend to be. But he waves his hands in surrender. “Of course not. I was just making sure.”

I stride to the door because if I stay, I might say something I’ll regret.

“Tony, wait. Look, I know she’s under your skin. That’s why I’m checking in.”

I stop at the door and turn. “She’s not Team Tony,” I admit. “But I have it under control.”

“I trust you,” he says to my departing back, making me regret my temper.

Pepper

I refuse to hole up in my hotel room on the sheer grounds that Hugh ordered me to, and he’s no longer in charge of my life. I text Izzy and the band to meet me for lunch in one of the casino restaurants. Anton follows, but sits at the table beside us, instead of with us.

It’s been a long time since we hung out as a group. That sounds weird considering we’re together every single day, but that’s usually what makes us retreat from each other. It’s also a relief not to have Hugh around.

“So where’s the boss?” Brayden, my drummer, asks when he slides into the circular booth seat they gave us.

“She fired him,” Izzy supplies. I enjoy the note of smugness she gives the words.

“Oh yeah?” Brayden appears pretty happy, too. “Does that mean we get to leave? Or are we still stuck in Vegas paying for his crime?”

I force a laugh but my chest feels like a javelin’s hanging out of it. My whole band understood the dynamic of the situation better than I did.

“So how’d it go down?” Scott asks, then realizes I can’t speak. I search for my notepad and send the pen rolling off the table. “Text me!” He lunges for it.

“Can I text instead of talk, too?” Izzy asks.

“Oh my god, yes,” Farley, Scott’s twin, chortles, a lock of his shaggy blond hair falling in his face. “Let’s all take a vow of silence in solidarity with Pepper.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, “It’s like when basketball teams shave their heads because one of the players has cancer.” He mimics zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

I roll my eyes and toss a paper napkin at his face, but they all join in, pulling out their phones and starting a group text thread.

We all become the model millennials, eyes glued to our phone screens, thumbs dancing over the keys as we chuckle to ourselves over what we’re reading. The waitress is less than impressed with our antics when we order by showing her our choices on a text message, which only makes us giggle like errant students passing notes in school. By the time the food comes, my face hurts from smiling.

And of course, that’s when Hugh shows up. “Hey, guys.” He slides in beside Farley, like he was invited. “The Sores manager called this morning. They want permission to record Blue Demon. Said they’d donate all proceeds to a charity of your choice.”

My band members smirk as they all bend their heads and start texting.

Farley: Do you hear anyone talking?

Scott: How long do you think it will take him to figure out none of us will answer him?

Izzy: He’s trying to make you think you still need him.

Me: I wonder if The Sore’s manager is any good…