It was only natural that the news was all abuzz with the story of what happened at the strip club last night. Damn near thirty dead, including a major Las Vegas organized crime figure. If living this life had taught me anything, it was that once the mafia was so much as mentioned in passing, you were going to have cops and the feds swarming like flies on shit.

The fact that there were going to be federal agents snooping around was enough to make me nervous—no doubt they were already talking to Don Falcone himself about what happened to one of his top men at a club he owned. Which left open the very real possibility that they might come looking for Chrissy, if some staff member let it slip that she’d shown up there well past midnight, still wearing her outfit from the club and with a goddamn biker in tow.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Chrissy was already starting to make herself a problem. There hadn’t been a single moment since we’d arrived that I hadn’t seen her with a bottle of liquor in her hand, staring out the window. I could tell by the length of her gaze that whatever she was looking at was much further away than the cityscape itself—that the memory of what happened at Earthly Delights was haunting her every moment she was awake.

Maybe more than that. I hadn’t thought to ask how she’d slept.

Not your problem, I reminded myself, shaking my head as I sat down in front of the enormous flat-screen TV broadcasting the latest update on the “strip club massacre.”

“—body count has been released, indicating twenty-nine victims in last night’s shooting spree,” the news anchor said, voice cutting in as I unmuted the sound. “Investigators continue to determine who could be behind this horrific crime. According to law enforcement, all surveillance equipment on the premises had been damaged by the assailants, and a number of hard drives were stolen from the scene. Police are questioning several club employees who were not working last night, as well as looking into possible disgruntled ex-employees as suspects.”

I turned the volume down on the TV as they started rattling off a list of names. Chrissy didn’t need that shit right now, but there was something I needed to know.

I wasn’t shocked when they left out Tony Santorini’s name, but it did confirm a few of my suspicions. Either the cops were dying to keep the idea of an organized crime hit from leaking to the public, or they were waiting for the FBI to move in—after all, organized crime was their bag, and the feds loved to wave jurisdiction in the faces of the local PD.

The soft click of one of the bedroom door closing was enough to tear my attention away from the screen. It was well past noon and Chrissy hadn’t come out of her room since we’d turned in the night before. I had honestly started to worry she might have done something to herself—until I saw the intricate string bikini she was sporting.

Even after seeing her so scantily clad last night, I didn’t think I could possibly see any more of Chrissy than I already had—or that seeing more might make any difference. I mean, after you see a girl practically wearing lingerie you’d think a bikini wouldn’t even make your head turn—but you’d be wrong.

Chrissy’s curves were without a doubt some of the best I’d ever seen in my life—and I’d had more than my share of women. Somehow Chrissy put them all to shame, the way her body filled her suit just right, her hips swaying to a rhythm I could only wish to hear. I found my eyes lingering on her long, smooth legs as she made her way toward the balcony before halting for just a moment and turning her head my way.

“I’m going to be in the pool,” she said, catching me red-handed in my wide-eyed inspection of every inch of her exposed skin. I thought she might chastise me at first, use it as an excuse to really read me the riot act. But after a long, inscrutable look, she actually afforded me the hint of a smile. “Just let me know if you’re going to call downstairs for dinner.”

“It’s not even time for dinner yet,” I said. “You’re not going to be in there all day, are you?”

The TV chimed with the station’s “breaking news” music. Another news anchor—a woman in a neatly tailored suit—appeared on screen, her expression grave.

“We’ve just received reports that police are currently seeking a woman in relation to last night’s horrific shooting,” she said, those few words making my gut tighten as I awaited Chrissy’s picture being plastered all over the screen.

Great. Just fucking great. I’d been hoping it wouldn’t come to this, praying that her identity would stay a secret just a little while longer. But no, somehow the press had gotten wind of Don-fucking-Falcone’s daughter surviving the hit that was supposed to leave no witnesses.

This was gonna be a problem. I glanced at Chrissy’s face, watched as the blood drained from it. She gripped the back of the sofa, and on impulse, I reached for her hand.

Except it wasn’t Chrissy’s picture they showed.

The girl in question was bleach blonde, her hair tied up in a ponytail. She’d been blessed with a pair of brilliant blue eyes, and across her nose and cheeks was a scattershot of tawny freckles.

“Oh,” Chrissy breathed, low but hard enough to stir the hairs on my nape. “Fuck…”

“Roxine Moore, a waitress at the club, was clocked into the computerized attendance system at the time of the shooting. Ms. Moore has not been identified among the bodies, however, leaving both police and the public to speculate on her whereabouts. If anyone currently watching has any information regarding the location of Roxine Moore, please contact the number on screen. She is wanted for questioning as a possible witness to the massacre.”

I looked away from the TV and up into Chrissy’s face again. “Friend of yours?”

“I guess so,” she said. “I mean—yeah. I just…” She chewed her lip. “I forgot all about her.”

“So you’re saying that girl was there that night? That she was with you when—”

“No.” She shook her head, obscuring her face with one hand. “No, I was covering for Roxy last night—she was hungover and couldn’t miss another shift, so I came in and used her ID number to clock in.”

“So then she’s safe,” I said. “The cops will show up at her house eventually, but she won’t have anything to tell them…” That train of thought veered suddenly, and I didn’t like the place it went. “And then—”

“And then they’ll know about me,” she finished in my stead. “And in the meantime, whatever psychopaths shot up the club know that someone survived that night and they’ll think that it was Roxy. I’ve just painted a huge target on my friend’s back.”

I opened my mouth to offer some kind of reassurance, but I had none to give. Chrissy was right. The way this had all played out, Roxy was now enemy number one to whoever had carried out that hit. She was a loose end. We knew she hadn’t been there that night, but if those guys got to her before the cops did...

“I have to warn her,” Chrissy said, pulling away and striding to the bedroom. She left the door open behind her; I followed. “There are payphones down in the lobby. I can call her, and—”

“And then what?” I asked, leaning in the doorframe while she disappeared into her suite’s walk-in closet. “Your dad said not to leave the penthouse, Chrissy.”

She poked her head out. Her eyes locked onto mine. I could feel a pang deep in my gut—a kind of shame at trying to stand in her way. “Do I look like the kind of girl who gives a good goddamn what my father told me to do?”

I straightened then, coming up to my full height, which required me to cross the threshold and set foot in her room—the room I’d told myself I’d stay the hell out of.

Chrissy backed up a step, into the closet. Slowly, I followed. By the time I got there, she’d thrown on a sundress over her bikini. Somehow, it made her look even more vulnerable.

“Do I look like the kind of guy who fucks with Don Falcone?” I asked her. Coolly. Softly. She jutted her chin defiantly, but stepped back again when I moved further into her space. “Or the kind of guy who’d let a mafia princess get offed ‘cause she was worried about her bestie?”

The pulse in her neck fluttered as she answered, “I never asked for a bodyguard.”

“That’s too bad,” I told her. “‘Cause you’ve got one.”

She surged into my space suddenly, drawing her body up close to mine. The low, sweetheart neckline of her dress crinkled with her quickening breaths. The tops of her breasts, and the delicious hollow between them, flushed scarlet.

“When we met, you made it sound like you were some kind of badass,” she hissed, that angry flush working its way up her neck to her cheeks. “You made it sound like you didn’t answer to anybody. Like you were your own man. An outlaw biker, for God’s sakes.”

“I am,” I said, countering her heated stare with one of my own. “But I’m not without my loyalties.”

She recoiled, lip curled in disgust. “To my father?”

I chuckled. “No. To my club. And what’s good for Don Falcone is good for them, in the end. So, yeah. Maybe I’m taking orders from your dad. But it’s not about him. And it’s not about you.”

“Right,” she said, “the club. You guys are like family, aren’t you?” I shrugged. “What if it was someone you knew, someone you cared about? What if it was one of your brothers about to get hunted down by a bunch of hitmen, huh?”

“That’d be different,” I said.

Chrissy narrowed her eyes. “Why, because we’re girls?”

“No. Because you’re civilians.”

She threw up her hands. “So people who aren’t in your shitty gang or the goddamn mafia don’t matter?!”

That was a hard question to answer without making her angrier, because the truth, as I saw it, was a hard no. Outsiders could never matter as much as the people who had your back, the family you belonged to. We lived completely different lives from everyone else in the world, even the weekend warriors. Our bonds were sacred, and on a whole different level than the rest of the population.

Of course, I couldn’t expect Chrissy to understand that. She was an outsider herself. Not only when it came to the Hounds of Hell—she’d turned her back on her own family. And not just on the mob, but her actual father. And to do what, shake her ass at a club like Earthly Delights?

She knew nothing about loyalty. She only thought she did.

And sometimes, loyalty was about sacrifice.

“This whole mess is about more than just you and your friend, Chrissy,” I reminded her. “This is your father’s empire we’re talking about. This is your Uncle Tony. Twenty-nine people died that night, and—”

Chrissy shoved me, both hands on my chest. “Don’t you think I know that?! I was there! You weren’t! I saw… I saw twenty-nine people I knew, people I worked with—family—get gunned down, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it! All I could do was hide. There was no saving them. But Roxie…”

She trailed off, a fine tremor coursing through her hands as she pulled away from me and collapsed in on herself. “I could save her, Crush. And all it would take is a phone call. I know twenty-nine people died that night.” She swallowed what for all the world seemed like a sob. “Why’s it have to be thirty?”

I looked down at her, standing there with her fingers curled around her own arms, knuckles white. Survivor’s guilt, they called this—the powerful, irrational belief that you’d done something wrong by living when everyone around you died. That they deserve to be here more than you do. That you’re unworthy of life.

Chrissy didn’t need a bodyguard. She needed a shrink. I was hardly qualified for that job—I could barely figure out my own problems, let alone someone else’s, but… I could at least be kind. I could care. I could give her that much.

I scrubbed my face with my hand, sighing as I weighed my options. There was a payphone bank in the lobby. We wouldn’t be leaving the hotel grounds. I could have her down long enough to make the call, then back up here before anybody saw her. No harm. No foul. And nothing Falcone needed to know about.

My gut said I was getting soft. But just looking at Chrissy, I knew somebody had to do something for her, or she was gonna fall to pieces. And the only person with any power over her right now was me.

“C’mon,” I said, taking her by the wrist. Her skin was soft and warm. Her pulse beat a quivering tattoo against my palm. “But we’ve gotta be quick about this.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and for a second, I thought it was too little too late, because the words rushed out of her so hard all the breath left her lungs. She twisted in my grasp, just enough to grab onto my arm to steady herself. “Thank you.”

I nodded to her. And resisted the urge to pull her close, to wrap her in an embrace that might make her feel safe for a while.

Because the truth was she wasn’t safe at all. Not unless I could keep her from harm. And I couldn’t do that if I got too close. The money I needed, and her life, both depended on my ability to keep a professional distance.

We took the elevator to the lobby. The ride was a silent one, but that was all right with me, and it seemed to be all right with Chrissy too. Neither of us were the type for small-talk, and anyway, she’d drifted into that far-off place again—the place nothing could reach her except her memories.

I hoped this little phone call gave her back some of her power. I hoped it made her feel like less of a coward. In my opinion, she’d done the smart thing by staying alive. But if it was me in her shoes? I’d have felt like a traitor to my brothers. Maybe that was the thought that made me feel like this was a good idea.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Chrissy promised when we hit the lobby and made it to the phone bank. She ducked behind the wall, and I waited on the other side of it, watching the men and women throwing away their hard-earned cash on games of chance.

Guess that’s some kind of metaphor for their lives, I mused, never allowing my gaze to linger too long on any of the faces surrounding me. When you’re going nowhere fast, what have you got to lose?

My eyes trailed over the sea of bodies, making quick assessments about who they were, what the hell they were doing here, and finding no threats. Just tourists and a few locals so bored with what they had even the thought of losing it was a thrill.

But then I spotted someone I never expected to see again. Someone I didn’t even really remember until that moment.

It was the guy I’d bumped into on my way out of the club that night.

At first I was sure I was mistaken. I blinked a couple times as I looked him over, trying to pick out some kind of difference that would separate him from the man in my memory. But no matter how hard I tried, he was still there, standing just inside the lobby, doing his own scan of the guests gathered there. Looking for something just as much as I was.

Or someone.

For a split second, our eyes met. He blanched, jaw loosening as he recognized me too.

I stood a little straighter, moving off the wall—but he’d already turned around and was walking out of the hotel as fast as he could. As fast as he’d hustled out of the strip club the night before.

Every cell in my body was screaming for me to go after him. To chase the fucker down and find out what the hell he knew about that night, and what the hell he was doing anywhere near Chrissy Falcone now.

But that would mean leaving her here, unattended, while I pursued what might be a damn coincidence. A dead end. Grinding my teeth, I tried to tell myself that’s probably exactly what it was—just some tourist who wandered into two dens of sin at the wrong damn time. Twice in a row.

Yeah. That seemed a stretch. And it left me feeling uneasy.

But no way in hell was I leaving her on her own, especially if she was being watched.

“Are you done yet?” I asked, leaning past the wall to look at her. She was still on the phone, her hand cupped around the receiver. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but when her eyes met mine, they were red-rimmed. It was obvious she’d been crying.

My mouth went dry all at once, and that urge returned—the monumentally stupid one that tempted me to walk over there, put my arms around this girl, and keep her as close as it took to get her feeling something other than pain and grief again.

When I get back to the Hounds of Hell, I thought, I’m gonna have to make a real effort to drink this bone out of my brain.

Her vulnerability didn’t last long. She waved me off with a glare, then returned to her conversation, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her palm. I turned back to the lobby, then ducked behind the wall as one of the security officers rounded the corner. Maybe he wasn’t one of the don’s guys, but he was on the payroll, and I wasn’t too keen on anybody finding out we’d left the penthouse. It was anyone’s guess how many eyes and ears Falcone had around the place, any or all of them only too eager to make mention of the fact that his daughter’s biker escort had already fucked up the very simple task he’d been given.

You had one job, I could hear him muttering in my mind. All your dumb ass had to do was stay put.

“All right,” Chrissy said suddenly from behind me. It took a real effort on my part not to jump. “Let’s get back upstairs before anyone figures out we were gone.”

“Just a minute,” I said, peering past the edge of the wall to ensure the coast was clear. “Is your friend okay?”

She blinked at me. “What?”

“Your friend,” I repeated, “is she all right? No one tried to hurt her or anything?”

“No,” Chrissy said at length. “But the cops have been calling her friends all day. She was just about to talk to them before I called.”

I nodded. “I guess it’s a good thing you caught her, then. Otherwise, the cops would have been looking for you next.”

Again, she regarded me during a long pause. Finally, she said, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

I regarded her too. I’d been expecting more of a brag. I’d just admitted she’d done the right thing, after all. But Chrissy only shrugged.

“Let’s get back to the room. I don’t like being out in the open like this.”

“Me either,” I admitted, glancing out into the lobby one last time before reaching for her once again. Just like last time, my fingers wreathed easily around her delicate wrist. “Let’s go.”

Just like last time, she didn’t fight me on it.