CHAPTER ONE
Alessandra
Two weeks later
SITTING IN MY CAR in my parents’ driveway I strangle the steering wheel as I flick my eyes to the house. The one-story bungalow that has seen better days. Containing my stepmother, who I think is beginning to suffer from dementia. My father died on the job when I was fifteen, and nothing has been the same since.
Climbing out of my car with a long sigh I shut the car door with my hip and head up the steps and go inside. The door creaking and warning me it’s about to fall off the hinges if I don’t oil it.
The house is clouded with cigarette smoke, and the TV is blaring with the television show “Cops.” Using my hand, I waft the smoke out of my face and fish the remote out from Dad’s old recliner. Turning the TV off I look around for my deranged mother.
“Mom?”
“Oh thank goodness you’re home.” She pops her head around the corner, her hair pulled into an 80’s ponytail on the side of her head. “I’m almost out of smokes,” she coughs with a cigarette in her hand walking into the room. She has on a large Mickey Mouse sweater I’ve never seen before and skin tight rainbow pants. Where did she even find those?
I frown, my forehead wrinkling in confusion.
“Mom, you don’t smoke,” I shrug confused. I’ve never seen her smoke. Maybe she thinks she’s back in the 80’s. This is getting out of control.
Her eyes widen as she looks at the cigarette dangling from her fingertips, the wrong end of it lit. It’s smoking like crazy and reeks of nothing I’ve smelled before. A small cough wracks her small frame as her lost eyes find mine.
Groaning I take the cigarette from her and rinse it in the sink before tossing it in the trash.
“Mom, have you eaten anything today?” I question, looking at the clean sink and counter. Yesterday she ate Manwich right out of the can, then she was up sick all night.
I think I’m going to have to get someone to come in and watch her during the time I can’t be here. Maybe a live-in nurse or something. Dad’s insurance should cover it. I just can’t send her away to a nursing home. She’s all the family I have left.
She throws a hand at me and makes her way to Dad’s chair, flipping on the TV to resume her binge watching of “Cops.” She sits there most of her days, lost in the show. Yelling how they do everything wrong because nobody can compare to my father. When my father died, so did she.
“I’ll make us dinner,” I mutter under my breath.
A dog yelps and I jump where I stand clutching my chest. A little ball of fluff sits on the floor looking up at me with a wet nose. A German Shepard to be exact.
“Mom, whose dog is this?” I ask, poking my head around the corner.
“Oh, there’s a note on the table.” She throws her hand at me as she gets lost in her show.
Eyeing the dog, I pick up the folded card.
Alessandra-
This is from the very same bloodline as Pete571, the same line that your father owned. I was on a waitlist to have him but I can’t look at him and not think about how I failed your father as his partner. I wanted you to have him. He may not have been your real father, he did the right thing that day.
-K
Two emotions slam into my chest. Sadness and confusion. What does he mean he wasn’t my dad? He’s lying. He has to be. With my heart pounding in my chest like a sledgehammer, I barrel down the hallway to my parents’ room on a mission to find some answers.
Entering their room, it’s stuffy and dusty, the smell of musk strong as if the room hasn’t had a waft of fresh air in years. The bed is perfectly made like usual, and a picture of my stepmom and father of their wedding day sits the bedside table. Passing the bed, I jerk open the closet door and a worn robe swings in my face, the slight smell of my stepmom’s lotion swirling around me. Quickly I pull down the large box that sets atop of the closet, it has all of our family’s important information in it. My dad always put our stuff in here since I can remember. Report cards, pictures, diplomas, all of it went in here. He wasn’t much for filing things in the most efficient ways. Shuffling through the large amount of papers and folders, I pull out my worn birth certificate.
It doesn’t show anything questionable or to suggest any red flags. The box falls from my grip and pictures from my parents’ wedding fall freely to the thick tan carpet.
One of my grandma and dad smiling in a picture catching my attention amongst the mess. God, I miss them so much. My stomach knots as my eyes burn with emotion. Falling to the floor, tears pool in my eyes as I grab the picture, my fingerprints smudging across my dad’s face. They both have blonde hair, and blue eyes. They look identical. I realize I look nothing like them with my dark hair, and dark eyes. My bottom lip trembles with the thought he may really not be my dad. Betrayal from my own family slicing through my chest almost too much to handle. The idea he lied to me becoming a reality, a sob wracks my whole body.
My dad told me my mother left when I was a baby searching to find herself, that she would be back one day. He told me she was a blonde bombshell that was too good for him, that he was lucky to have her in his life at all. I would always make a Mother’s Day card for her, hoping one day she would come back. Hell, I still believed to this day she would.
Looking at the pictures of my dad’s side stare back at me. Blonde, tall, pale smiles haunting me.
The proof is sitting right in front of me, yet I refuse to believe it. A sudden loneliness creeps up my spine, and bitterness fills my chest.
“Alessandra, you make your dad so proud, have I told you that?” Dad smiled down at me, wrinkles around his eyes as he sipped his coffee. The smell of his aftershave and coffee on his breath was soothing, and comforting in a way. It was my dad. I got an A on my spelling test and was nominated for the school’s spelling competition and my dad is beaming with excitement, however, I could care less.
“Does that mean I can ride along with you this weekend?” I asked with hope. I loved riding in my dad’s cop car watching all the crazy people try and get past my father was entertaining.
“What about the spelling bee?” he chuckles.
“Nah, that’s for sissies. You think I can shoot someone?” I asked with hopeful eyes, and my dad chuckled, pulling me into his side. I could care less about winning a medal or making it to the top of my class. I was different than other kids and I knew that. They always wanted to make their parents proud of their academics, and I always wanted to do something athletic or violent. I was a freak.
“Now how would I explain to the chief that my daughter is a better shot than me when you take down the perp?”
The dog whimpers, coming into the room, taking me out of the memory. He slides into my lap like were long lost friends. Tears slipping down my face, I clutch his chin and force him to look up at me. I remember my dad’s dog very well, he was my best friend. They called him something stupid and I called him Rufus. Dad always told me to not treat him as a pet but as an officer, but it never stopped me from rubbing his belly and giving him the food I didn’t want.
“They all lied,” I sob, dropping the photo to the floor. Tears slip between my lips as I remember my dad’s dog. I always felt like this was home, a place of safety and comfort but now it all feels wrong. Sniffling I stand, the note from Dad’s partner crumpled in my sweaty palm as I stumble my way to my stepmom, the puppy following closely behind me.
Stepping in front of the TV, the card in my hand, I stare down at my stepmother. One I always saw as my mother as she has been there since I was able to ride a bike. Her and my dad were my parents, they cared for me and wanted me to succeed in life. There has to be an explanation other than my dad isn’t really my dad.
“Was Dad really my dad?” I blurt with emotion, and her eyes pop to mine in a look of terror.
“What?”
“You heard me. What is this card about? Was Brock my real father?” I repeat with a louder tone.
“Why would you ask that?” she sneers as if I’m being ridiculous.
“Well, according to this note, either I’m adopted or I was stolen, so which is it?” I question, my eyes starting to sting. My heart aches at the memories of a man that may not even be my father.
She sighs heavily, sitting forward in Dad’s worn-out chair. “Your father was going to tell you when the time was right he said. But he passed before that time, and I just couldn’t do it. I already lost your dad and I was afraid I’d lose you too,” she admits, tears filling her eyes to the rim.
My mouth drops, the sound escaping my mouth a cross between a cry and a scream. How could he not tell me the truth, we were so close? Not hearing it from him but hearing it from a weak ass note from a coward partner makes this ten times worse. It makes me question a lot of things now. Why had he hid that from me? What else is he hiding from me? They say my father was shot in the head by a drunk man who turned the gun on himself, but reading this card has me second guessing that too.
“When he died, did he really get shot by a suicidal suspect or was there more to that too?” Emotion thick in my voice. My dad was the best shot I’d ever seen, he bought me my first gun even. So some unstable man shooting my dad and killing him was something I’ve always thought was too unbelievable. He was a beast behind that badge and handled any criminal with ease, and a man who wasn’t at peace with himself was the one to break my daddy? I don’t think so.
“Mom! Answer me! Was Dad’s death a cover-up?”
She begins to cry, her body wracking with emotion.
“I don’t know, to be honest. I really don’t,” she whispers so quietly I almost didn’t hear her. Slowly she raises her head, her cries softening and a look of confusion crossing her sun-kissed face.
“Have you seen my smokes?” she asks, looking around her. Her moment of clarity gone.
“You don’t smoke,” I mumble, biting my bottom lip in thought.
I wonder who my real parents are? I wonder if they are good people or bad? Why did they give me up? Actually, I don’t want to know. My dad is Brock, and always will be.
He taught me to lead with my gut, and then follow my heart in everything I do.
My gut tells me there is something more to everything around me, and my heart is breaking at the thought of what it all means.
One lonely tear slips from the corner of my eye as I drop the card on the table. Hesitantly I look over my shoulder at the pup who is laying on the floor like a good boy.
My father was the K-9 unit for the department, and when he was killed his dog was too. His partner Kelly went nuts and quit, never to be seen again. Stress of the job, and my dad’s death too much for him to handle. But now, I think more than what was let on lead to Kelly’s breakdown and my father’s death.
My dad helped those who needed help on the streets, and that often made him more dirty than he intended. There’s more to how he died, and I think it was covered up. The only people that could possibly know that is the Sin City Outlaws. Even if they killed him and covered it up, I need to know.
Felix
Sitting at the poker table that has seen better days, I lay down my royal flush, and get groans from Machete and Mac, who slap down their shitty hands. Gatz chuckles as he nurses a beer beside me. His eyes smiling behind the rim of the beer bottle. He never plays against me because he knows I’ll win.
Laughing, I stub my cigarette out in the ashtray and exhale a cloud of dancing smoke.
“Sir, we have a problem outside.” Looking over my shoulder, I find our newest prospect, Bud, standing beside me, his arms behind his back like a fucking gentleman or some shit. His dark hair is slicked back, and his green shirt untucked from his torn jeans.
Pushing myself away from the table, Machete, Mac, and Gatz stand and follow.
Making our way through the casino, Bud explains to me how a couple of hang-arounds were giving some girls a hard time near the club across the street. It’s Saturday night and the club is filled with biker enthusiasts and girls running around half naked in leather.
“It’s always something,” I mutter, pulling my gun from my holster.
Pushing through the double doors of the casino I find a man pulling a girl around by the hair, calling her a bitch. It unnerves me, and the grip on my gun tightens. I may have been raised by a bunch of criminals, but even I know to treat a woman with respect. At least a little.
“Do you know who I am?!” A familiar sassy voice echoes through the building as she swings at the man.
“A fucking pig that arrested my brother-in-law!” Flame sneers, jerking the woman around by her brown hair. She elbows him, her other arm hooking around his neck in one swift move. It’s not street fighting, it’s trained. That’s when it hits me.
It’s Alessandra. Jillian’s friend. The cop. She’s got to be an idiot to come around here without Jillian in tow. Even with Zeek fucking a law enforcement, they’re not wanted around here. Jillian is the only exception, and that is because Zeek is her damn armor.
Shoving my way through the crowd of muscle and leather, I nearly throw them on their ass to get to her. Last thing we need is someone seeing someone hassle a cop around our club.
“Let her go!” I shout, pushing Flame out of the way. He glares at me, his grip on her strong. His hard eyes flare with a silent challenge. Taking my gun, I shove it under his chin, accepting his challenge. “You have a fucking problem with my order?” I snarl, pressing the barrel into his neck. After a few long seconds, he reluctantly drops Alessandra to her knees and holds his hands up that are scarred. Rumor has it he was torturing a rival enemy with a blowtorch and it blew up in his hands.
Placing my gun back in its place I bend down to inspect her for injuries as she lifts herself onto her hands. Chocolate hair falls into her soft brown eyes. Her fingers dig into the gum-spotted concrete with rage. Her lip is split in the corner, and she appears out of breath. Slowly her angry eyes meet mine, clouding like the hostile clouds right before a dangerous storm. One that wipes out everyone and everything in its path without a morsel of mercy.
She spits blood and stands on her unsteady feet. I notice she’s out of uniform, wearing a white shirt tied at the hip and skintight jeans that hug her ass perfectly. I’m not surprised one of the men took notice of her. She looks like a fresh piece of ass.
Lifting her chin confidently, she cuts a menacing look at one man in particular, Flame. Like a gun went off at the Kentucky Derby she suddenly rushes at him like a wildcat. She’s either really stupid, or that badge has her kidding herself.
Thinking fast I slide my arm out and hook it around her waist, hoisting her to the side and out of reach of Flame.
“Whoa, Blue Bird.” My hands cup her silky arms as I try to contain her. She’s so soft and creamy I can’t help but wonder if she smells like honey or coconut. Taking the opportunity, I smell her nearness. Hints of coconut and spice matching her personality perfectly. She’s a dangerous, beautiful package. My imagination paints the perfect fantasy of her lips wrapped tightly around my cock. A glare passes my face at the thought, not liking where my dick is going. She’s a fucking pig after all. A rat that doesn’t know loyalty if it slapped her in the face.
“I’m going to burn that pretty face, bitch!” Flame points at her, snapping me from mind fucking the enemy.
My head snaps in his direction. “Go. Now!” Warning in my tone. Flicking a cigarette at Alessandra him and the gathered crowd dissipate back to the club.
She tears from my grip roughly, and I can’t help but want to choke the life out of her for being so goddamn stubborn.
“Why are you here?” I grunt.
“Are you fucking kidding me? That is what comes to your mind when one of your men attack me?” Alessandra shakes her head in disbelief.
“It’s just a question,” I growl. Testy bitch.
Throwing her hands out to the side she looks down, her eyes clenched shut like she can’t believe what she’s about to say. She seems conflicted, lost.
“I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking,” her voice wavers with emotion. I don’t like it. I’ve seen sluts cry, and club whores sob but watching Alessandra become emotional it unnerves me. “Maybe I thought I’d see if you had a party going.” She shrugs, and I know she’s fucking lying. No law enforcement comes around here unless they’re in our pocket. They’re terrified of us or scared to be around us because of our enemies. Blue Bird intrigues me, she’s not like any woman I’ve ever known, nor law enforcement.
I can’t stand cops, but more than anything, I won’t tolerate a man that hits a woman.
Rubbing my chin, I look over my shoulder finding Flame within yelling distance.
“Did he hit you?” I question through clenched teeth.
“I can take care of myself,” she rolls her eyes, rubbing her scratched up palms on her jeans. That sound in her voice gut checking me.
“From the looks of that lip, I’d second guess that, Blue Bird,” I raise a brow at her bleeding lip and she flips me off. I want to strangle this bitch, but I need to make an example or I’m going to have members slapping women and that is not okay with me. I’m sure Zeek would fucking agree.
“Flame!” I summon him, and like the dog that he is - he appears. “Say you’re sorry,” I demand. His scarred brows narrow at me as if I’m joking. Tilting my head to the side I convey how serious I am.
“She fell. We were just helping her up,” Flame suggests. He’s lying, and I won’t stand for it. Zeek wouldn’t stand for the disrespect either.
Using my elbow, I slam it into Flame’s gut making him hunch over in a horrible groan. Fisting his stupid fucking Mohawk I drive my knee right into his skull. His eyes roll into the back of his head as he sways for balance.
Leaning over I get in his line of sight. “This woman is off limits, got it?” The words leaving my mouth confuse me. I hate her, she hates me. She’s the fucking enemy and nothing more. Maybe I’m protecting her because of Jillian. Zeek would kill me if I upset his princess.
“Okay man, I didn’t know,” he groans. Flame shakes his head, trying to will the pain away. I shove him back on his ass. His fall slow and dramatic, like tipping a cow over on its side.
“Now you know,” I mutter under my breath.
Standing straight, I find Alessandra looking at me with hard eyes. Her swollen mouth curved in anger.
“Why did you do that?” she asks ungratefully.
“Because I can,” I answer matter of fact.
Flame is hauled off to the club to have our doctor tend to his injuries and I take a step closer to Alessandra. The alley walls secluding us from the public eye.
“So, you came here to what, let loose?” I ask suggestively, lust hanging from the tip of my tongue.
She looks up through hooded eyes, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.
Taking a small step, I invade her space. Using my finger, I tuck it firmly under her chin making her look me in the eyes. God, she’s so fucking soft to touch, my hands itch to take advantage of her body and soul. That’s what I do, I devour innocent women, and scar their souls to the point they’re damaged goods.
“Were you going to fuck one of my men tonight, Alessandra?” I ask hastily.
Her throat bobs as she swallows, fire igniting her eyes as she pulls away. She’s a pistol and not the kind you love and shine every day with care. More like the kind you’re scared to use because it may backfire on you at any minute.
“So what if I was? Why do you care?” She raises a challenging brow, her voice sharp. A burning sensation combusts in my chest thinking about her riding one of my guy’s dicks.
“I forbid you to open your legs to any of my brothers, do you understand?” My rash decision comes from an unknown place. An insatiable hunger beading at the tip of my dick.
Her jaw drops, and her hands curl into fists.
“Who do you think you are to dictate who I screw?” she scowls.
My temples pound with annoyance and anger, done with this back and forth.
Leaning down my lips a hair’s length away from her face, I intimidate her to the point she looks away and purses her lips.
“Maybe you didn’t get the memo, Blue Bird, but now that Zeek is playing daddy… I run this fucking city. Therefore, I say who you fuck, and don’t fuck.”
Her chocolate eyes snap to mine, and I know I have her full attention. Which I want, I want her to look at me, to really see me. All of me.
They don’t call me Felix the Cat for nothing. I will eat Blue Bird with a fucking smile on my face.
“We’ll see about that,” she sasses, turning her head so fast I swear I hear it snap.
“Next time I’m putting a bullet in your guy’s ass if he so much as looks at me wrong,” she threatens. Little does she know, I may put a bullet in her ass if she shows back up here without her bestie Jillian in tow.
Watching her climb into her black BMW, the tires squeal and she races off.
Fucking bitch.
The familiar sound of Zeek’s motorcycle pulls up to the club and I walk over to him.
“So why are you here instead of home?” I ask, crossing my arms. Since Jillian spit out two kids, Zeek has changed. He’s hardly here, and focused isn’t even in his vocabulary.
Zeek’s jaw clenches, as he rubs the back of his neck anxiously. Something is wrong.
“We got a problem.”
Heading into the casino I follow Zeek, his shoulders are tense and the tick in jaw has me on edge.
“You going to tell me what’s up?” I throw my hands out, tired of him acting fucking vague. He doesn’t answer, just a jerk in his shoulder blade conveying he heard me but doesn’t give two shits.
He steps into the elevator that our Uncle Frank used to go to his office at the top. I never go up there since we killed him and his henchmen Cross, went missing.
I always feel like Cross is watching, makes me paranoid.
The elevator doors ding and open and we head inside the familiar office. It’s just like I remember. Big mahogany desk, lots of windows, a wet bar in the corner, and leather couches. I notice the chair is facing backward, and two men stand on each side of the desk. They look like twins with their hair buzzed and rifles in their hands. A pressed black suit fitting their built frames. Their faces long, and foreheads large.
Suddenly the chair turns, and a beefy man with splintering eyes pins me where I stand. A chill runs up my back stiffening my limbs. He has curly black hair. His face clean-shaven, and an unlit cigar sticking out of this mouth.
“‘Bout time you show up,” he snaps with an accent.
“Who the fuck is that?” I ask, my shoulders puffing out in defense. I’ve been handling everything here for two weeks and haven’t seen anyone from the mafia till now.
“The fucking problem,” Zeek informs.
The man chuckles before steepling his hands on top of the desk.
“You mudda fucka’s kill the boss’s main supplier and think what? They’re just going to sit back and let it ‘appen?” He shoots me a look that has me swallowing hard, my hand itching to grab my pistol. “I see ya kid, and these boys will pump lead into ya skulls. Got it?”
My chest rises with rage, my nostrils flaring by his tone. I flex my fingers ready to fucking do this. I’m blood thirsty and seeking violence like the night devours the light. Zeek gently grabs my forearm, silently asking me to stand down.
Exhaling a deep breath, I pull my hand away from my weapon and eye the man at the desk. Who is this asshole and why is he here acting like he’s in charge?
“We killed one of their suppliers, and Cross is missing. You don’t happen to know where he is, do you?” Zeek tilts his head to the side. After hearing that Cross was actually Zeek’s dad and not the man that raised Zeek… I’m sure there are some unspoken words that need to be said between the two. The man sitting before us silently laughs, looking down at his desk. I can’t tell if he knows of Cross’s whereabouts or not.
“Sit,” the man suggests with an unfriendly tone, ignoring Zeek’s question.
“I’ll stand,” I grunt. The man bites at the cigar, his brows pinching together at my defiance.
“I’m Salvatore, and I’ll be taking over the reins of Vegas. It’s up to you boys whether or not you’re a part of that endeavor.”
“Pass,” I clip, gaining a pissed off look from Zeek. He gets final decision on everything, or we take a club vote. But just looking at this snake I feel he’s in the same snake hole as Cross and Frank.
Salvatore runs his hands down his face as if he’s annoyed. Did he really think we would just roll over and let him take over?
“Why would we do that?” Zeek questions, coming off calmer than I obviously am.
“Someone needs to run Vegas—”
“We are! I thought that was the plan, one of my men would run this casino same as Frank did.”
“Why in the hell would the bosses just hand it over to you cop fucking idiots? Do you know nothing about trust?” Salvatore holds his cigar out as if he holds the meaning of trust in his fingertips.
He’s right, Zeek being with Jillian goes against not just club code, but the code of an outlaw.
“Tell me more about this endeavor,” Zeek asks, taking a seat.
Salvatore grins like the Joker, thinking he has Zeek by the leather.
“I run this casino, and I run you and your men. You’re my muscle in all dealings and transactions I might need,” he explains, and with every word, I hear a hammer nailing our coffin shut.
“Why do you need us to be your muscle exactly?” I ask with a raised brow, and his eyes cut to mine.
“Because you know this city better than anyone,” he responds dryly.
“My men are mine, simple as that,” Zeek inputs.
“Wrong, they’re mine and they will be at my disposal.” Salvatore shakes his head, wiping his desk with a swipe of his hand. You can tell this man knows nothing about the bond of brotherhood, which is the foundation of every club. It’s what Zeek and I are trying to achieve here, and if we accept this deal, we’ll be back where we were when Frank was running shit. You won’t know who has your back, and who is ready to stab you in the back to make it to the top.
“I’ve heard enough,” Zeek informs, irritated.
Salvatore stands quickly, too quickly and I pull my gun out. It’s my job to protect Zeek and I will kill this motherfucker and his guards whether or not I stand a chance.
“If you walk out those doors without agreeing to my terms your protection from the Mafia is deceased immediately,” Salvatore threatens.
Zeek stomps to a stop, his head turning to the side.
“What the fuck do you mean protection?” I sneer, nobody is watching over our backs. We have our backs. Always have.
“You think everyone is just letting you run your drugs and guns, and looking the other way because of some biker trash intimidation? You think you knocking up a goddamn sheriff is just going to go unnoticed by your suppliers?” Salvatore chuckles.
“No, son, you fuckers are stamped with the motherfucking Italian mafia on your baby asses. You turn down our deal, you defend your own territory and answer for your transgression with crossing enemy lines.” He points at us. I cut Zeek a concerned look, not aware we were being protected and by the look on his face, he didn’t know either.
“Go fuck yourself. The Sin City Outlaws run this fucking city because we emit control and respect. You step on that and retaliation is the remedy for that transgression. Remember that,” Zeek points at him. I smile. There is the cousin I know and love.
“You just signed your death certificate,” Salvatore seethes.
“Don’t threaten us with a good time.” I wink before pointing the barrel of my gun at him. The two men standing guard instantly aim in my direction and my heart beats a little faster. My finger heavy on the trigger. A sly grin crosses Salvatore’s face, but he doesn’t order the kill shot. He’s either surprised by the size of our balls, or we just asked for a fucking turf war.