Filthy Desire (The Dirty Kings of Vegas)

Chapter One

Liam

Jack O’Leary finally returns my call, at long fucking last.

I’m in the VIP bar of the Kingpin Vegas Casino. The top bar in our best casino and the casino is named for me. I am the kingpin of Las Vegas. You’d think I had it all.

I have money and power. I own property, planes, boats, cars, jewels, guns. I’ve a small army I can call on, not to mention a family of ruthless men, ready to do whatever I decree at the snap of my fingers. Anything.

We rule in Vegas. Even the Morettis keep off our turf. For now, at least.

You could say that I have everything. My children are happily married, and all on the way to raising children of their own. The family’s future is secure. After me, my three sons are more than capable of taking charge.

But I’m not ready to sit back.

The only thing better than a big empire is a bigger one.

Clara, our very best bartender, asks me playfully, “Liam, are you ever going to answer your phone?” My phone flashes on the bar. The ringtone that I set for Jack trills. She gives me one of her foxy smiles.

“More to the point, will you have another shot of the Jameson’s Bow Street?” Attentive service is one of the many privileges of owning the casino.

Having Clara pander to my whims is another. The glint in her eye conjures inappropriate images in my mind. Thrilling as those bad thoughts are, I would follow up on them.

Good staff are too hard to find. Besides, she’s too young and lovely to get dragged in the muck and ruined by a dirty old dog like me.

“Clara, you’re a treasure.” I nod to my crystal tumbler. That flash in her eye could get her into a lot of trouble. But that’s not my business. Not unless she’s indiscreet with a customer.

The screen tells me Jack is requesting a video call. I fucking hate video calls, unless there’s a giggling grandchild of mine on the screen.

I push the screen to accept the call, but I leave the phone on the bar top. I can see Jack’s face bobbing about. The little image in the corner shows me that all he can see is the starlights in the ceiling of the VIP bar.

“Liam I can’t see you.”

“Jack O’Leary, why the fuck would I ever want to look at your ugly mug, just so that I can listen to you lying to me, you jackass?”

Did you know that it’s easier to tell when someone is lying to you by hearing their voice on the phone than in the same conversation face to face? Something to do with how we get distracted by eyes and faces.

Or maybe it’s just because we believe people when they look us in the eye.

An interrogator told me, if someone goes out of their way to hold eye contact while they tell you something, if they do it more than it’s natural, then they’re probably lying.

That’s just one of a million reasons I hate video calls.

Then, behind Jack, a girl in a silky black dress, walks into the room. A girl I don’t recognize. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s carrying a tray like a servant. What the fuck, Jack? Jack O’Leary, late of the spit and sawdust of the highly undistinguished Boston Shamrock Tavern, since when did you start having fucking servants?

His voice drawls like he’s coming up off a long yawn. “Well, I saw that you called, Liam,” He blinks and grins. “What can I do for you?”

“You can return my fucking calls in less than a day and a half for a start.”

“Okay, sorry, Liam.” His tone is breezy. It’s like he’s forgotten who he’s talking to. He says, “I’ve been a bit, you know…” He’s evasive. What’s wrong with this picture?

“You’ll be totally fucking ‘you know’ if you don’t remember it’s a piece of my business you’re running out there.”

He stiffens for a moment. “Sure, Liam. But you don’t usually call.”

The girl’s curves move, twisting, rolling under the dress. The shimmer gets under my skin and into my pants.

I tell him, “And I don’t usually hear rumbles from two an a half thousand fucking miles away. Only when the whole thing is going to shit, and you’re nowhere to be fucking found.”

I take the phone to a booth and drop it on the table so the sly fucker still doesn’t get a look at me. Clara brings my whiskey. She leaves the bottle and an ice-bucket and a sparkling smile.

“Liam, calm down.”

I’m glad all he can see is the fucking ceiling. Fucking gobshite, telling me to fucking calm down. And he’s grinning like a shiny kid with a big ice-cream. He tells me, “There’s nothing to worry about. Takings are down but it’s just a blip.” Then, “I’ll bump your taste this week, out of my own take.”