My bike rumbled with a low, gravelly purr as I pulled out of the parking lot and back out onto the street. I still couldn’t believe that of all the damn people this girl could be related to, it just so happened to be the biggest mobster in all of Vegas—and the man whose money I needed if I wanted to walk back into the Hounds of Hell’s clubhouse with my head held high. I knew then that I was going to have to be careful with how the rest of this went—and if she was telling the truth, then maybe it would all work out in my favor after all.

“Which way?” I asked, looking back over my shoulder at Chrissy as we sat idle at a stoplight. With how late it was, the streets were practically deserted, leaving my engine’s steady snarl to echo in the still night air.

“Turn left up here and then head north out of the city,” she answered, holding onto me tighter as the light turned green. “My dad lives pretty far out of town.”

“Your dad the famous mobster,” I muttered, still stuck on the idea that I’d been sitting across a table from a genuine mafia princess.

“Yeah,” she sneered, and I could practically feel her rolling her eyes. “That one.”

I accelerated into the intersection and turned left. I hadn’t been in Vegas long enough to really appreciate any of its charm, but as I made my way along its outskirts, my eyes couldn’t help but drift over toward the Strip in the distance. It really was something to see, all lit up like a handful of diamonds beneath the stars, and part of me wondered if I’d ever come back after everything was said and done.

“You don’t sound too happy about what your old man does,” I said when we stopped at the next traffic light. “And if your dad’s who you say he is, then what were you doing working in a place like that?”

“You mean a strip joint?” she asked, her rueful laugh rising from behind me. “My dad doesn’t get to decide where I work, or anything else about my life.”

I could hear the contempt infecting every word, and from the sound of it, this was an old wound for her. I probably shouldn’t have pressed, but I had to. Chrissy was just so surreal to me. This whole situation was. I wanted to wrap my brain around it, and that meant digging in.

“Is the fact that you work at a strip club why the two of you don’t talk?”

Fat lot of good it did me. Chrissy stayed silent until the light turned green again.

“Keep straight,” she said simply as I revved the engine and took off again down the street.

The rest of the ride out of town was completely devoid of conversation, our journey punctuated only once or twice by a few directions to guide me toward Nicky Falcone’s house. I had to wonder what the hell kind of place a man like that lived in. It was probably grander than anything I’d ever seen, let alone set foot in.

Images of opulent mansions and sprawling estates entered my mind, the kind of places you’d expect billionaires and rock stars to live—hell, people like Falcone were rock stars to the kind of people who lived on the wrong side of the law. People like my brothers in the Hounds of Hell. People like me.

Most people don’t know how cold the desert can be at night, and Vegas is smack dab in the middle of the Mojave. The wind whipped around Chrissy and I as we drove farther and farther from the glimmering lights of the Strip, each gale stinging our faces and cutting deep through our clothes. I was glad I’d given her my jacket, even if the thin fabric of my shirt wasn’t doing me any favors.

I must have shivered somewhere along the way, because she leaned in real close and held me to her. Her body heat sank in along my spine, and those fine hands on my chest and stomach ignited another kind of warmth I wasn’t wholly proud of. Last thing I needed was to make her night even more uncomfortable by getting a hard-on.

It was more than that, though. More than just her breasts pressed tight against me. More than her fingers cupping my muscles. It was knowing I had someone behind me, someone who literally had my back. Shit, I hadn’t been held like that since I was a teenager, back before I had a reputation. Back when I was no different from any other schmuck in high school. Girls could hang around me then without worrying they were involved with some kind of criminal. Hell, it was just the opposite—I’d ended up at the criminal justice academy, hadn’t I? Pretty sure that made me more Steve Rogers than Bucky Barnes.

Seemed like a lifetime ago. There’d been a girl then, Kaylee, whose parents took a summer cruise and left her unattended for a whole week. I’d spent most of that time at her house, in her bed, learning her the same way I’d learned how to ride a motorcycle. Leaning in. Minding the curves.

Damn, I hadn’t thought about that in a while—waking up from an afternoon nap to find I’d become the little spoon. I was tall even then, pretty well-built too, and it had just never occurred to me that I’d be in any other position besides the one doing the holding. Kaylee had felt so good against me, though. So soft. So comforting. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to move her. I’d just… indulged.

Kind of like I was doing now with Chrissy.

Slow down, Jackson, I chided myself. You remember how that all ended, don’t you?

Right. No messing around with uptown girls.

Especially ones with crime lords for fathers.

Buildings became fewer and farther between as we rode, businesses giving way to small, ranch-style homes with neatly manicured yards. It was like I’d crossed into a whole different city, but we’d only gone a few miles from the hustle and bustle of the main attraction. The fact that so many quiet houses were just a quick drive from the world’s most infamous collection of casinos made me chuckle—only a few miles of urban sprawl separated these people from pure sin.

But the longer we drove, the bigger the houses got, and the yards too. Two-story houses gave way to three, and before I knew it, Chrissy and I were driving down a whole row of homes that must have cost a million dollars at the very least.

“I don’t know how you gave this up,” I murmured as we came to a stop, giving a cursory glance both ways for traffic that I didn’t really expect to be there. “If your old man’s place is anything like these, you must have lived a damn good life.”

“Some things aren’t worth the price you have to pay for them,” she replied before gently nudging my arm. “Next left up here, and then it’s the last house on the street—you can’t miss it.”

That might have been the biggest understatement I’d ever heard.

As I followed Chrissy’s instructions, I realized that Don Falcone’s house didn’t just reside at the end of the street—it took up the two other plots beside it as well, dominating the cul-de-sac. Shit, this wasn’t so much a house as it was a walled compound, a palatial estate complete with armed guards.

“Jesus,” I muttered as we rounded the intricate planter that took up the very center of the dead-end, a feature that gave the tiny neighborhood that much more class. I couldn’t help myself but feel a little bit of envy toward Chrissy—if I’d grown up in a place like this, I probably would have never left.

“The guards are new,” she said as we came to a halt in front of an impressive metal gate. Immediately thereafter, two men in tight black shirts stepped out of a small walking gate set just beside the main one, their hands at their hips, ready to pull their weapons on us at the slightest provocation.

“State your business,” one of the guards said. He was a short man, but all muscle, and with a cleanly shaven head that I could have sworn was actually waxed—there was moonlight glinting off of that cue-ball that almost blinded me when he swiveled his head to just the right angle. “This is a private residence.”

Before I could say anything, I felt Chrissy climbing off of the back of the bike, pulling the helmet off. I turned my head to tell her to stay put, but it was too late. I heard the soft click of holsters being unbuttoned and safeties turning off.

“I’m here to see my father,” she said, more confidence in her voice than I’d heard the entire night. Just like that, she’d gone from shell-shocked massacre witness to a royal family member with no time for any of this bullshit. I was a little impressed. “Tell Don Falcone that his daughter is here.”

“We don’t have clearance to let anyone in without authorization,” the bald one said again. “And Mr. Falcone never said anything about a daughter coming to visit.”

“Chrissy,” I said trying to seem as non-threatening as I could, “maybe we should just get out of here.”

“No,” she said, staring the cue-ball down like the entitled brat I’d have expected to have been raised in a place like that. “I’m not leaving until I talk to my father. I don’t give a damn who you have to talk to or what you have to do, but I am getting into this house and I will talk to Don Falcone personally.”

There was a long pause, the tension between the four of us growing as the guards never once turned their gaze away from one another. Not until the whirring of the massive gate’s machinery began to sound, and a small gap formed between it and the ten-foot high brick wall.

A man in a sharply tailored suit filled the gap almost immediately, his expression one of equal parts surprise and annoyance.

“Stand down, Mr. Domerick,” he coolly ordered. “You don’t want to shoot your employer’s only child.”

It was like a switch had been flipped, and suddenly every single guard moved to leave the area around the front gate with military levels of hustle. It wouldn’t surprise me if every single one of them was ex-army or Marine Corps—that was the kind of man you hired for work like this.

“That sure took you long enough,” Chrissy said, eyeing the man and taking a step back toward me and the bike. Despite seeming as though she knew him, she was sure happy to put some distance between them. “I want to see my father.”

“So I’ve heard,” the man replied, running his tongue along his teeth behind his thin, pale lips. “I’m sure he’ll be just thrilled to know his prodigal daughter has returned.” Then he turned his gaze to me, gesturing with a jut of his chin. “And who’s this biker trash you’ve brought along for the ride?”

I flipped up the windshield on my helmet to look him in the eye. “Crush,” I said. “I’m with the Hounds of Hell.”

His brows lifted. “Carliogne’s pets?” he asked, giving a short, barking laugh before shaking his head. “What the hell are you doing riding around with Don Falcone’s little girl?”

“That’s not important right now,” Chrissy said with a wave of her hand. “I need to see him. Now, Uncle Lonnie.” When she swallowed, it seemed like she was trying to push down some bile. “Please.”

“He’s still mad at you,” Lonnie said with a shrug. “You hurt him pretty bad when you left. Might be in you and your friend’s best interests not to go asking any favors.”

A crackling voice erupted from a walkie-talkie at Lonnie’s waist.

“Caputo! What the fuck is going on out there? It’s three in the fucking morning!”

Lonnie grimaced. He waited for a single, petulant beat before answering—and Chrissy took her shot.

“Tell him I’m here,” she said, a smirk tilting her cracked lips. “Or I’ll take that thing and tell him myself.”

Rolling his eyes, Lonnie Caputo clicked the button on the side of the walkie and spoke into the receiver.

“It’s your kid, boss,” he said, barely putting in an effort to mask his annoyance. “Chrissy’s at the front gate to see you.”

Silence.

Both Chrissy and Caputo stared at one another, each waiting for an answer. I tried not to insert myself too far into the drama. No need to get invested when my errand was almost done.

For just a second, though, Chrissy’s eyes darted in search of mine. I straightened and gave her a slight nod of encouragement. Her shoulders relaxed. She almost smiled, and I kind of found myself curious as to what that might look like.

“Send her in,” Falcone growled at last.

Her almost-smile faded at his tone.

Guess I’ll have to keep wondering, I thought.

“Right this way, Miss Falcone,” Caputo said, the sarcasm in his tone not at all lost on either of us, despite the grating of the gate swinging open to welcome us. “Your father’s in his study.”

Chrissy turned to me. Then she jerked her head toward the looming manse.

“Come on,” she said. “Walk a girl to her door.”