The world came back to me in a blur of sounds and colors, birds chirping and sunlight streaming through a massive window that left me wondering where the fuck I was.

I sat bolt upright in the bed, one made up with silk sheets and a mattress softer than any I’d slept on in my life. My mind lit up in a panic, synapses firing at a frantic pace until the memories of the night before came flooding back to me.

I sat on the edge, taking deep breaths to quell my racing heart as I took in my surroundings. Everything seemed so different than it had that night--or maybe I’d just refused to pay as much attention as I was now, given how exhausted I had been. Aside from waking up to a minor anxiety attack, I didn’t think I’d ever gotten a better night’s sleep in my life.

Even with the nightmares of dead patrons and dancers strewn all over the floor of Earthly Delights.

Shit, I thought, scrubbing my face with my palms. I should check on Chrissy.

But wouldn’t she be just fine here? Given the show of force we’d seen last night, whoever went after her uncle would have to be an idiot to try and assault a place like this. I’d spotted at least one semi-automatic rifle on one of those guards as we were led inside.

And then I remembered we weren’t staying here.

Don Falcone had said we were going to be put up in one of his hotels on the Strip, living it up in a penthouse on the top floor. I shook my head, wondering what the boys back home would think of me sitting pretty up at the top of the world like that. It was enough to bring a brief smile to my face—right up until I heard banging on the door.

“Open up,” Caputo grunted from the other side. He didn’t sound overly pleased. Then again, I wasn’t overly pleased at the idea of seeing him, either. Judging by what I’d seen of him so far, he was a grade-A horse’s ass.

“Something wrong?” I asked, opening the door only a short way to hide my mostly nude body from view.

“Don Falcone wants you out in the driveway in ten minutes,” he said, putting on a dutiful tone. He couldn’t have looked more bored with me if he’d tried. “There’s a car waiting to take you and Miss Falcone to the hotel. The don and I will ride along in separate cars.”

I snorted. “And what the hell am I supposed to do about my bike?” No way was I leaving it here. That bike was like a limb to me. I wasn’t doing jack shit without it.

“Your bike will be brought to the hotel and stored in the parking garage beneath the building,” Caputo sneered at me through the crack in the door. “You have ten minutes to get your ass downstairs. You do not want to keep Don Falcone waiting.”

I closed the door with a snap and turned back toward the room. Stuck-up sack of shit, I thought as I got around to picking up my clothes from the floor. I hated not having a fresh set to change into, but I was pretty sure the don wouldn’t have anything in my size.

It dawned on me that I hadn’t even bothered to check in with the clubhouse back home. By now the news about Earthly Delights would have made the national circuit, and I didn’t doubt that the president would probably think I was dead by now.

I scrounged around in my jeans for my phone and called the prez’s private number, running my fingers through my hair as I fought through the grogginess that was still trying to convince me to catch just a few more minutes of sleep. Old Bill Bailey had stepped up to the task of heading up the Hounds of Hell after we’d finally run down Jackal’s ass, our former prez and one hell of a problem. Dude had thought preying on minors was A-OK, so we did to him what needed to be done, and then once I’d stepped down to VP, we’d gone for the most senior and experienced member we had.

Bill was a good guy. Hell of a prez. But he was also an ornery son-of-a-bitch and a total type-A, which was why the phone only rang once before I heard the deep rumble of my fearless leader on the other line.

“You’d better be calling from beyond the goddamn grave,” he growled, obviously not pleased with me. “Especially if your dumb ass forgot to let me know you weren’t riddled full of fucking holes.”

“Yeah, man, I’m sorry,” I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “I’m all right. I got locked out of the club when the shit hit the fan, and when I managed to bust back in, I found Santorini dead and this waitress losing her damn mind.”

“Yeah? And then did you thumbs fall off?” he asked, his voice rising. “Because I’m seeing very few excuses as to why you didn’t give me a fucking call. Me and the boys’ve been worried sick about you, ya idiot.”

“I know, I know,” I sighed, sitting down on the bed and pulling my pants on. “But, there’s good news—kind of. The deal’s still on with Falcone.”

“And how the fuck did you manage that? Santorini was our only contact with Falcone.”

“You remember that waitress I mentioned?” I asked, chuckling ruefully. “Well, she just so happens to be Don Falcone’s one and only child. So he’s agreed to give us the funds in exchange for me playing babysitter for this chick while she lays low. Now I’ve just gotta sit back and make sure she stays in her penthouse until Daddy can handle her problems for her.”

Bill snorted. “I hope it works out that way, Crush. I don’t need to end this deal owing another mob boss a debt. One’s enough, and just getting a conversation with one of Falcone’s men’s already put us deeper in the hole. Don’t fuck this up… and while I’m thinking about it, don’t fuck her, either.”

“You sound just like her dad,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Me and him already had that conversation. I get to keep my hands so long as I keep them off of her during this little gig.”

“I mean it, Crush, don’t fuck this up,” he sighed. “And I’m glad you’re all right. Last thing I would have needed was to be plannin’ a goddamn funeral.”

I hung up the phone, finished getting dressed, and went downstairs, catching sight of Chrissy for the first time since last night. She looked like a whole different person out of that uniform they’d made her wear at the club. She was wearing a billowy white top with loose sleeves and a pair of pants the came down to her mid-calf, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail that kept the strands away from her face—which I thought only made her look more striking.

She was a vision, and I wasn’t the kind of man to wax poetic often, even when the mood did strike me. She was the kind of girl I’d stumbled over myself for in high school, the kind of natural beauty that you see in all of those sappy teen romances. I stopped mid-stride as she turned to meet my gaze, just as a black limousine pulled up behind her.

I would have probably stood there staring at her for much, much longer if it weren’t for Nicky Falcone catching me in the act. He glared at me, his expression a stern warning. A reminder of his words the night before.

If you so much as look wrong at my daughter, you won’t see a damned cent of the money you came for. If you’re lucky, and I mean if you’re very lucky, I might let you leave here with just your hand missing—a little reminder not to go around touching what isn’t yours.

I swallowed as he narrowed his eyes before turning to regard the limo again. It was like the warmth of the room came flooding back the moment he looked away. But the chilling effect still lingered, and I knew that no matter how pretty I thought Chrissy was, this arrangement was all business and nothing more.

I stepped out of from the front gate and out into the desert sun as it beat down on the cul-de-sac beyond. A uniformed driver came hopping out of the front seat and jogged to open up the back door to admit Chrissy and I, standing beside it at attention as Don Falcone spoke.

“He’ll take you to the hotel, and once we’re there, we’ll get you settled in. Lonnie’s gonna get there before us and he’ll handle security. You’re gonna be in good hands, sweetie.”

“Don’t call me that,” Chrissy said, averting her eyes. “I may need your help, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you.” She climbed into the back of the limo and disappeared into its dark interior, leaving Don Falcone and I alone.

I saw it then—a little flicker in his stony expression. A crack in the marble of his jaw. When he swallowed, the line of his throat tightened around a distinct lump of emotion. The corners of his eyes thinned and pinched, his crow’s feet deepening into melancholic ravines.

He might’ve been a cold-blooded killer, but family meant something to him. Possibly everything. That was the way it went with a lot of mob guys, and it was something I could understand. Brotherhood meant just as much to bikers.

When Falcone caught my glance, he scowled and jerked his head toward the limo. “Get in.”

Another car was pulling up, probably his or Lonnie’s ride. I followed Chrissy’s lead and slid across the leather seat, the don slamming the door shut behind me.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the low lighting. The limo’s tinted windows barely allowed even a scrap of sunlight through, making the interior a lot cooler than I was expecting. I bristled. Cars in general weren’t really my thing, but one as narrow and dark as this made me feel like I was in a glorified cage.

Chrissy must not have approved too much, either. She was already raiding the bar.

I raised my brows at her. “It’s a little early, don’t you think?” Undeterred, she pulled out a bottle of vodka from the cooler. I pretended to check a watch I wasn’t wearing. “It’s not even eleven o'clock yet.”

She shot me a glare, then a defiant display of her middle finger as she grabbed a glass from a built-in storage compartment. I watched as she made herself a Bloody Mary, then tipped her head back to pour a long draught down her throat. She didn’t say a word until she’d drained it halfway.

“I’ll drink as much as I want,” she muttered, looking at me over the rim of her glass. “I think I deserve that much after what happened yesterday.”

I shrugged. She had me there. But that didn’t mean there weren’t complications she was overlooking in her quest to numb the pain.

“Just thought maybe you could save the day-drinking until we get to the hotel,” I said breezily. “Girl falling all over herself walking through the lobby is bound to draw attention we don’t need.”

“Whatever,” she sighed, taking another sip of her vodka. “I’ll only have the one until we get there.”

I shook my head and focused my attention on the window, watching as we started to head back into the city proper. Everything had a much different look to it in the light of day, even Chrissy. What had happened to the sweet, but tough girl I’d met last night? How had she suddenly become a brat?

Maybe I was being unfair. She’d been through a lot. Or maybe she just wasn’t a morning person. But it seemed to me ever since we’d gotten her dad involved, she’d reverted to the role of rebellious teenager or Sin City starlet without a cause.

I could feel the heat of her gaze on me as she said, “You never did tell me why you’re called Crush.” She leaned back against her seat, crossing one long leg over the other. If she’d been wearing a skirt, I might not have been able to resist taking a peek—which made me pretty damn thankful she was in pants.

In my periphery, I could see her tilting her head this way and that, studying me in an exaggerated fashion. Dim sunlight sparkled off her glass as she raised it to her lips again and sipped.

“I’m thinking they call you that because of all the beer cans you can smash on your head. Or because of how much you like orange soda.”

“¿Por que no los dos?” I replied. It was just about the only phrase I knew in Spanish.

She snorted. “Oh, come on. It can’t be both. It can’t be that easy.”

“I told you, I’m not telling.”

“Because it’s personal?”

“That’s right.”

“So personal you’ll use it as a nickname?” she asked, brows raised. I afforded her a glance, which she regarded with smug triumph. “Right. I get it. I saw a lot of this at the club.”

I tried to remain unaffected. “Did you?”

“Mmhm,” she hummed around a mouthful of vodka and tomato juice. I shifted slightly, eyes darting to the long, elegant span of her throat, the slow spasm of her swallow. Then I shifted again, this time to accommodate a heavy twitch between my thighs. Now was not the time to be thinking about how this girl swallowed.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said to fill the silence. “What’d you see?”

“Girls who wanted to be someone else,” she said. “A fantasy. Made the job easier. Let them divorce themselves from their stage personas. You either don’t like your real name, or you don’t think it fits with the image you’re trying to project—like a pseudonym. A nom de plume. You know, like how Vin Diesel’s real name is Mark Sinclair, but that doesn’t sound quite as tough.”

Chrissy leaned forward now, elbows on her knees, her almost-empty glass suspended between us. “So. Which is it?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “The name I was born with doesn’t matter. Crush is what I go by now. It’s what I chose.”

“So you just put ‘Crush’ down on all your paperwork?” she asked. “Like Madonna?”

I looked out the window again. Her eyes were getting to me. “No.”

“So then it does matter.”

“Chrissy, you’re a lot of things,” I said, “but the government, you ain’t.”

“It must be something really embarrassing,” she mused. “I bet it’s Horton. Or Eugene.”

I clenched my jaw until I could feel my pulse in my teeth. “It’s not either of those.”

She looked thoughtful. “What about Gaylord? That’s a classic.”

“Look,” I gritted, “this was supposed to be a business transaction for me and my club. Your Uncle Tony was supposed to give us some money and send my happy ass back home. That was it. Nice and simple. But now shit’s complicated. I’m stuck babysitting some Mafioso’s kid, who’s got a chip on her shoulder because Daddy wouldn’t let her fulfill her lifelong dream of working a pole, and I don’t see how telling you my given name is going to make this easier on either of us. In fact, seems to me everything would be a lot less complicated if we didn’t go mixing business with pleasure. We all know how that turned out for me the first time around.”

When I turned her way, Chrissy was glaring at me. Her eyes were lit up by some spark I couldn’t place, but the pale draw of her lips made me think I’d taken shit too far.

And maybe I had. She was clutching her glass of vodka so hard I swore I could hear it cracking in her grasp. But goddammit, this wasn’t a weekend getaway for either of us. This was a job for me, and a life-or-death situation for her. I needed to keep my head in the game if I was going to protect her and get my money, and she needed to realize just how much danger she was in.

Still… invoking her dead friends? It took a lot for me to hold back a wince. Too soon.

Without breaking eye contact Chrissy downed the rest of her drink and slammed her glass into the cup holder. She was pissed. Well, good. That was just going to make Don Falcone’s ultimatum easier to follow.

If only she didn’t look so damn cute when she was angry.

Neither of us spoke for the rest of the ride, which wasn’t terribly long. The limousine soon pulled out of traffic and into a curving drive, then stopped beneath an overhang in front of a set of sliding glass doors, over which was painted in Greco-Roman lettering, The Bacchanal Hotel and Casino.

I knew Vegas mobsters had their hands in the gambling game, but seeing just a mafia don’s casino—knowing that I was going to be staying in his personal penthouse—was utterly surreal. How was I going to explain this shit to the boys without sounding like I was completely full of it?

I went to open the car door on instinct, but apparently, that wasn’t how rich folk did shit around here. The driver beat me to the punch, pulling the handle out of my grasp and letting the blinding mid-day sunlight stream right into my face. Blinking, I climbed out first, scanning the sidewalk for anything unusual.

Then I turned, reaching in for Chrissy’s hand.

But the driver wasn’t the only one who got the drop on me.

She slid off the seat herself, shoulder-checking me on her way up and over the curb. By the time I’d pivoted to follow her, she was already strutting through the doors.

I sighed. I knew right then and there this job wasn’t going to be the usual security gig. This chick was gonna be a real handful.