His Queen of Clubs (Vegas Underground 6)

To keep her in the style she’s accustomed to, of course.

Not that I don’t have plenty of money already.

No, this is business. I’m marking my territory in the cruelest way possible. Making that link I was trying to forge before—between American mafia and Russian.

And claiming the most spectacular trophy possible in the process.

Alessia Tacone, my bride.

“Come.”

Alessia

The Russian beckons me over.

I want to refuse, but I’m afraid of what will happen. The guy seems sane enough, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. Especially if he has a beef with my family. I don’t doubt what he told me.

That my brother—I don’t even know which one, but it doesn’t matter—it could’ve been any of them—killed everyone in his cell.

That’s not something I would ever want to know my brothers did, but the truth is, I know we’re mafia. I know violence happens. Probably way more than I want to think.

So I’d probably be wise to cooperate a little with this guy until my brothers get me out of here.

I walk to him, not missing the way his gaze skims over my body. I’m in a dress that clings to my curves in a color that lights up my face. Taking advantage of his veiled appreciation, I thrust out my bound hands. “Alessia Tacone. And you are?”

“Vlad,” he says easily.

The fact that he’s unafraid to share it with me sends warning tingles up my spine. Either I’m not getting out of this alive, or he has no idea that Sicilians don’t rest until they’ve taken vengeance.

Of course, I’m his vengeance on them.

He wraps his tattooed fingers around my upper arm and leads me to the door. “Move, zaika.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the kitchen. For food.”

I walk down the stairs of what is actually a beautiful townhouse. Light-filled and airy, the living room has a lofted ceiling and a state-of-the-art television on the wall.

I’m surprised to see a boy in desperate need of a haircut perched on the back of the expensive leather couch with his feet on the cushions watching Disney Channel with his head cocked to the side. He turns to look at me, his expression guarded.

The teacher in me is horrified to find a child in this situation. He’s witnessing a felony kidnapping, becoming acclimated to violence and crime. The worst part of it is that he doesn’t even seem frightened or disturbed by it.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t his first rodeo?” I mutter, more to myself than to Vlad.

“It’s not.”

Vlad leads me through the living area to a small but finely appointed kitchen, where he pushes me into a chair at the table and ties my ankles to it.

“Is he your son?”

Okay, now that I’ve seen the boy, I’m less certain of Vlad’s sanity. Who, in their right mind, involves a kid in an abduction? Why isn’t the boy in school? What in the hell is going on? My passion for children surges, and the need to interfere rises to the surface.

“No.”

The boy looks over, like he’s listening, and he and Vlad meet eyes briefly, before the boy drops his.

“Mika is an orphan, thanks to your brother.”

I draw in a sharp breath, my ribs constricting painfully. I know I hid my head in the sand all along about family business—that was what was expected of me. But this is definitely not something I wanted to hear. Ever.

I blink back hot tears.

Vlad stares at me, the intensity of his gaze searing through me.

“I’m sorry.” I meet his eyes evenly to show him I mean it. The tears brim but don’t fall.

A muscle ticks in his tight jaw. “I believe you.” His voice is gruff. He turns on the oven and pulls a frozen pizza out of the freezer.

I know I’m a prisoner here, but he wants me alive, so I speak up. “Vlad, I can’t eat that.”

He looks at the pizza, then back at me. “Why not? The diabetes?”

I nod, not wanting to mention the kidney stuff. I try not to think about it. “I love pizza and pasta and bread, but I have to stick to low carb foods like meat and vegetables.”

He tosses the pizza onto the counter and opens a cabinet. He pulls out a can of sardines. “Low carbs. Okay.” He cracks open the can and gets a fork.

“What do you know about your brothers’ business?” He unwraps the pizza and puts it in the oven without waiting for it to pre-heat.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” he repeats back in his thick accent. It sounds more like nothingk. “The Sicilians keep their women out of the business, no?”

“Yes,” I admit softly.

He opens the refrigerator and produces a bag of baby carrots. Like a lion approaching trapped prey, he saunters over to me and holds a carrot to my lips.

I meet his ice blue gaze, surprised.

He shrugs. “I’m not untying you. If you want to eat, it will be by my hand, so you’d better learn to be sweet.”