CHAPTER THREE
“And trust me, I’m the nice one.”
I WAKE UP TO the smell of bacon and rumbling male voices.
Rolling over in bed, I growl low in my throat. This chick is starting to get on my last nerve. Rule number one of living together: no men at the apartment. Ever. Homegirl knows this is a hard line for me. She knows this will piss me off.
For the last few months, she’s been testing me, irritating the hell out of me.
I toss off the duvet and swing my legs off the bed, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms. Having slept in nothing but a pair of lace boy shorts, I grab my kimono from where it’s hanging off the broken closet door and shrug it on, tying the strings.
Slinging the bedroom door open, I stomp down the short hall, ready to tell whatever loser she brought home to get the hell out. But I stumble to an abrupt halt when I find not one but three men inside the tiny apartment.
One of them is dressed impeccably in a fitted black suit, seated on the worn, ugly green couch with one leg propped up on the other as he flips through a Vegas magazine. Early thirties, maybe. Blindingly good-looking, with that whole inky black hair, razor-sharp jawline and olive skin thing going on.
The other two, in the kitchen, are semi-casual in suit jackets and slacks. One is at the stove making eggs and bacon, the other sipping coffee from my Betty Boop mug.
The most alarming of all, however, is that Ellie is nowhere to be seen. Fear settles in the pit of my stomach like a jagged rock. We’re in trouble.
“Ah, she’s up,” The Suit says. His voice is disconcertingly sexy, like flaming sambuca. He slaps the magazine shut and tosses it on the rickety coffee table, then gestures to the small, two-seater eating table that separates the kitchen from the living room. “Sit. Have some breakfast.”
When I don’t move, he smiles, but it’s as lethal as a pulled hand grenade. “Sit. Now.”
On shaky legs, I walk over to the table and sit down.
Man One sets a plate of eggs and bacon in front of me. “Eat.”
I look down at the food then up at Man One. He’s so big his neck is almost nonexistent. “D-did you put something in it?”
He picks up a piece of bacon from the plate and pops it in his mouth.
Point taken. But still… “I’m vegan,” I lie.
“In that case, that’s vegan bacon and free-range eggs,” he replies. “Eat.”
A lie for a lie.
If the food isn’t poisoned, why are they so insistent on me eating? Who eats when they’re terrified to the point of shitting their pants?
The Suit straightens up from the couch and strides over to the table, taking the seat across from me. He crosses his legs as if he hasn’t a care in the world. It’s clear he’s the boss, the one to be careful with.
Tentatively, I pick up the fork and poke at the eggs, then nervously shovel some in my mouth.
From his jacket pocket, The Suit pulls out his phone, taps something on the screen, then flips it around so I can see. It shows a video feed of an empty room with a cot. Curled up on the cot with her knees to her chest is a woman. The camera angle is from above so I’m unable to see her face, but I know it’s Ellie because the dress she’s wearing is mine, plus I recognize her purse and shoes on the floor.
“Do you know her?” he asks me.
I stare at the screen, contemplating if I should lie and get the hell out of dodge. But as much of a pain in my ass Ellie has become, I can’t do that to her.
“She said she works for you,” he goes on when I take too long to answer. “That you sent her to steal from my business.”
Whoa, what the hell? Way to throw me under the bus, Ellie.
I force out a scoff. “Look at me. Look at where I am. Do I look like anyone’s boss?” I make a show of eyeing him up and down. “You are what a boss looks like.”
He sniffs and sets the phone facedown. “You do not remember me, Lexi Flores. But I remember you. I have you in our system. Twice you were thrown out of BLACK GOLD some years ago, and ultimately banned.”
“Yours and every other casino in Vegas. That doesn’t mean I’m anyone’s boss. I’m broke as fuck and borderline homeless.”
“That makes you desperate.” He rubs his jaw. “And desperate people make stupid and fatal errors. Like trying to steal from me.”
“I didn’t—”
“Shut up.” The words are said so deceptively gently that they induce more fear in me than a roaring shout with a slammed fist to the table would have.
I have no idea who these men are, but their lack of overt intimidation and weapon brandishing scares me far more than if they’d put a gun to my head. Their cool confidence and casual ease tell me they aren’t just a bunch of gutter goons. No, this man in front of me is someone important. And I’m in deep, deep shit.
“Your girl tried to cheat us forty-six thousand last night,” he tells me. “You are not new to this, so I am sure you know how this works. You are to bring me double that in forty-eight hours. You pay, you get her back. You do not pay, and I put her in a crate and ship her off on a boat.”
I hiccup. Holy freaking shit. That’s almost one hundred thousand dollars. “I-I’m not—I-I don’t have that kind of money.”
He looks around the shitty apartment and nods slowly. “I believe you, but I trust you will get it. Because now you are twice as desperate than you were before. As my mama used to say, ‘when trouble hits you, even a newborn’s shoe will fit you.’” He straightens and produces a card from his jacket pocket. “Call me when you are ready to make the exchange.”
He nods at the other two and starts to leave, then stops and, without turning to look at me, says, “It goes without saying, no cops. Not only will they not be able to help you, but if you get them involved you will have someone else to deal with. And trust me, I’m the nice one.”
I’m left staring at the door long after they’re gone, my emotions running amok, from dread, to disbelief, to worry, to anger.
Anger lingers the longest.
Anger at Ellie.
For not listening to me. The stupid bitch never listens!
We had a plan. We had a goddamn plan. Small wins. Big losses. Keep our heads down. Stay under the radar. What part of that was so damn hard for her to understand?
We were barely surviving, and now I’m supposed to come up with almost a hundred thousand dollars to save her dumb ass?
Where…? How…?
Wired with anxiety, I glance down at the card in my hand. It’s a plain white rectangle with nothing more than a name in small black print. Stefano Castello. I flip it over to check for a phone number or address but there’s none. Instead, are the words “Just ask.”
What kind of card is this? How am I supposed to reach him without a number?
Feeling like my head is about to explode, I set the card down, take a deep breath, then slowly release it on a count of ten.
I pick up the fork and continue eating.
It makes sense now why they wanted to feed me. They knew I’d have to come to terms with the fact that I had to come up with ninety-two thousand dollars in forty-eight hours, and that’s not a feat a broke bitch can pull off on an empty stomach.
How thoughtful.