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The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now. | The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now.
The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now. | The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now.
The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now. | The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now.
I tug down the hem of my one-piece, zippered housekeeping uniform dress. The Pepto Bismol pink number comes to my upper thighs and fits like a glove, hugging my curves, showing off my cleavage. Clearly, the owners of the Bellissimo Hotel and Casino want their maids to look as hot as their cocktail girls. I went with it. I’m wearing a pair of platform-heeled wrap-arounds comfortable enough to clean rooms in, but sexy enough to show off the muscles in my legs, and I pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into two fluffy pigtails. When in Vegas, right? My feminist friends from grad school would have a fit with this. I push the not-so-little housekeeping cart down the hallway of the grand hotel portion of the casino. I spent all morning cleaning people’s messes. And let me tell you, the messes in Vegas are big. Drug paraphernalia. Semen. Condoms. Blood. And this is an expensive, high-class place. I’ve only worked here two weeks and I’ve already seen all that and more. I work fast. Some of the maids recommend taking your time so you don’t get overloaded, but I still hope to impress someone at the Bellissimo into giving me a better job. Hence dressing like the casino version of the French maid fantasy. Dolling myself up was probably prompted by what my cousin Corey dubs, The Voice of Wrong. I have the opposite of a sixth sense or voice of reason, especially when it comes to the male half of the population. Why else would I be broke and on the rebound from the two-timing party boy I left in Reno? I’m a smart woman. I have a master’s degree. I had a decent adjunct faculty position and a bright future. But when I realized all my suspicions about Tanner cheating on me were true, I packed the Subaru I shared with him and left for Vegas to stay with Corey, who promised to get me a job dealing cards with her here. But there aren’t any dealer jobs available at the moment—only housekeeping. So now I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, broke, single, and without a set of wheels because my car got totaled in a hit and run the day I arrived. Not that I plan to stay here long-term. I’m just testing the waters in Vegas. If I like it, I’ll apply for adjunct college teaching jobs. I’ve even considered substitute teaching high school once I have the wheels to get around. If I’m able to land a dealer job, though, I’ll take it because the money would be three times what I’d make in the public school system. Which is a tragedy to be discussed on another day. I head back into the main supply area which doubles as my boss’ office and load up my cart in the housekeeping cave, stacking towels and soap boxes in neat rows. “Oh for God’s sake.” Marissa, my supervisor, shoves her phone in the pocket of her housekeeping dress. A hot forty-two-year-old, she fills hers out in all the right places, making it look like a dress she chose to wear, rather than a uniform. “I have four people out sick today. Now I have to go do the bosses’ suites myself,” she groans. I perk up. I know—that’s The Voice of Wrong. I have a morbid fascination with everything mafioso. Like, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos and have memorized the script from The Godfather. “You mean the Tacones’ rooms? I’ll do them.” It’s stupid, but I want a glimpse of them. What do real mafia men look like? Al Pacino? James Gandolfini? Or are they just ordinary guys? Maybe I’ve already passed them while pushing my cart around. “I wish, but you can’t. It’s a special security clearance thing. And believe me—you don’t want to. They are super paranoid and picky as hell. You can’t look at the wrong thing without getting ripped a new one. They definitely wouldn’t want to see anyone new up there. I’d probably lose my job over it, as a matter of fact.” I should be daunted, but this news only adds to the mystique I created in my mind around these men. “Well, I’m willing and available, if you want me to. I already finished my hallway. Or I could go with you and help? Make it go faster?” I see my suggestion worming through her objections. Interest flits over her face, followed by more consternation. I adopt a hopeful-helpful expression. “Well, maybe that would be all right...I’d be supervising you, after all.” Yes! I’m dying of curiosity to see the mafia bosses up close. Foolish, I know, but I can’t help it. I want to text Corey to tell her the news, but there isn’t time. Corey knows all about my fascination, since I already pumped her for information. Marissa loads a few other things on my cart and we head off together for the special bank of elevators—the only ones that go all the way to the top of the building and require a keycard to access. “So, these guys are really touchy. Most times they’re not in their rooms, and then all you have to worry about is staying away from their office desks,” Marissa explains once we left the last public floor and it was just the two of us in the elevator. “Don’t open any drawers—don’t do anything that appears nosy. I’m serious—these guys are scary.” The doors swish open and I push the cart out, following her around the bend to the first door. The sound of loud, male voices comes from the room. Marissa winces. “Always knock,” she whispers before lifting her knuckles to rap on the door. They clearly don’t hear her, because the loud talking continues. She knocks again and the talking stops. “Yeah?” a deep masculine voice calls out. “Housekeeping.” We wait as silence greets her call. After a moment the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy with slightly graying hair. “Yeah, we were just leaving.” He pulls on what must be a thousand dollar suit jacket. A slight gut thickens his middle, but otherwise he’s extremely good-looking. Behind him stand three other men, all dressed in equally nice suits, none wearing their jackets. They ignore us as they push past, resuming their conversation in the hallway. “So I tell him…” The door closes behind them. “Whew,” Marissa breathes. “It’s way easier if they’re not here.” She glances up at the corners of the rooms. “Of course there are cameras everywhere, so it’s not like we aren’t being watched.” She points to a tiny red light shining from a little device mounted at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. I’ve already noticed them all over the casino. “But it’s less nerve-wracking if we’re not tiptoeing around them.” She jerks her head down the hall. “You take the bathroom and bedrooms, I’ll do the kitchen, office and living area.” “Got it.” I grab the supplies I need off the cart and head in the direction she indicated. The bedroom’s well-appointed in a nondescript way. I pull the sheets and bedspread up to make the bed. The sheets were probably 3,000 thread count, if there is such a thing. That may be an exaggeration but, really, they are amazing. Just for kicks, I rub one against my cheek. It’s so smooth and soft. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in that bed. I wonder which of the guys slept in here. I make the bed with hospital corners, the way Marissa trained me to, dust and vacuum, then move on to the second bedroom and then the bathroom. When I finish, I find Marissa vacuuming in the living room. She switches it off and winds up the cord. “All done? Me too. Let’s go to the next one.” I push out the cart and she taps on the door of the suite down the hall. No answer. She keys us in. “It is way faster having you help,” she says gratefully. I flash her a smile. “I think it’s more fun to work as a team, too.” She smiles back. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think they would go for it as a regular thing, but it’s nice for a change.” “Same routine?” Chapter 2 “Unless you want to switch? This one only has one bedroom.” “Nah,” I say, “I like bed/bath.” Of course that’s because of my all-consuming curiosity. There are more personal effects in a bedroom and a bathroom, not that I saw anything of interest in the last place. I didn’t go poking around, of course. The cameras in every corner have me nervous. This place is the same as the last, as if they’d paid a decorator to furnish them and they were all identical. High luxury, but not much personality. Well, from what I understand, the Tacone family—at least the ones who run the Bellissimo—are all single men. What can I expect? I make the bed and move on to dusting. From the living room, I hear Marissa’s voice. “What?” I call out, but then I realize she’s talking on the phone. She comes in a moment later, breathless. “I have to go.” Her face has gone pale. “My kid’s been taken to the ER for a concussion.” “Oh shit. Go—I’ve got this. Do you want to give me the keycard for the last suite?” There are three suites on this top floor. She looks around distractedly. “No, I’d better not. Could you just finish this place up and head back downstairs? I’ll call Samuel to let him know what happened.” Samuel’s our boss, the head of housekeeping. “Don’t forget to stay away from the desk in the office.” “Sure thing. Get out of here.” I make a shooing motion. “Go be with your kid.” “Okay.” She digs her purse out from the cart and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “I hope he’s all right,” I say to her back as she leaves. She flings a weak smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. Bye.” I grab the vacuum and head back into the bedroom. When I finish, I hear male voices in the living room. “Hope you can get some sleep, Nico. How long’s it been?” one of the voices asked. “Forty-eight hours. Fucking insomnia.” “G’luck, see you later.” A door clicks shut. My heart immediately beats a little faster with excitement or nerves. Yes—I’m a fool. Later, I would realize my mistake in not marching right out and introducing myself, but Marissa has me nervous about the Tacones and I freeze up. The cart stands out in the living room, though. I decide to go into the bathroom and clean everything I can without getting fresh supplies. Finally, I give up, square my shoulders and head out. I arrive in the living room and pull out three folded towels, four hand towels and four washcloths. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the broad shoulders and back of another finely dressed man. He glances over then does a double-take. His dark eyes rake over me, lingering on my legs and traveling up to my breasts, then face. “Who the fuck are you?” I should’ve expected that response, but it startles me anyway. He sounds scary. Seriously scary, and he walks toward me like he means business. He’s beautiful, with dark wavy hair, a stubbled square jaw and thick-lashed eyes that bore a hole right through me. “Huh? Who. The fuck. Are you?” I panic. Instead of answering him, I turn and walk swiftly to the bathroom, as if putting fresh towels in his bathroom will fix everything. He stalks after me and follows me in. “What are you doing in here?” He knocks the towels out of my hands. Stunned, I stare down at them scattered on the floor. “I’m...housekeeping,” I offer lamely. Damn my idiotic fascination with the mafia. This is not the freaking Sopranos. This is a real-life, dangerous man wearing a gun in a holster under his armpit. I know, because I see it when he reaches for me. He grips my upper arms. “Bullshit. No one who looks like”—his eyes travel up and down the length of my body again—“you—works in housekeeping.” I blink, not sure what that means. I’m pretty, I know that, but there’s nothing special about me. I’m your girl-next-door blue-eyed blonde type, on the short and curvy side. Not like my cousin Corey, who is tall, slender, red-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, with the confidence to match. There’s something lewd in the way he looks at me that makes it sound like I’m standing there in nipple tassels and a G-string instead of my short, fitted maid’s dress. I play dumb. “I’m new. I’ve only been here a couple weeks.” He sports dark circles under his eyes, and I remember what he told the other man. He suffers from insomnia. Hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. “Are you bugging the place?” he demands. “Wha—” I can’t even answer. I just stare like an idiot. He starts frisking me for a weapon. “Is this a con? What do they think—I’m going to fuck you? Who sent you?” I attempt to answer, but his warm hands sliding all over me make me forget what I was going to say. Why is he talking about fucking me? He stands up and gives me a tiny shake. “Who. Sent. You?” His dark eyes mesmerize. He smells of the casino—of whiskey and cash, and beneath it, his own simmering essence. “No one...I mean, Marissa!” I exclaim her name like a secret password, but it only seems to irritate him further. He reaches out and runs his fingers swiftly along the collar of my housekeeping dress, as if checking for some hidden wiretap. I’m pretty sure the guy’s half out of his mind, maybe delirious with sleep deprivation. Maybe just nuts. I freeze, not wanting to set him off. To my shock, he yanks down the zipper on the front of my dress, all the way to my waist. If I were my cousin Corey, daughter of a mean FBI agent, I’d knee him in the balls, gun or not. But I was raised not to make waves. To be a nice girl and do what authority tells me to do. So, like a freaking idiot, I just stand there. A tiny mewl leaves my lips, but I don’t dare move, don’t protest. He yanks the form-fitting dress to my waist and jerks it down over my hips. I wrest my arms free from the fabric to wrap them around myself. Nico Tacone shoves me aside to get the dress out from under my feet. He picks it up and runs his hands all over it, still searching for the mythical wiretap while I shiver in my bra and panties. I fold my arms across my breasts. “Look, I’m not wearing a wire or bugging the place,” I breathe. “I was helping Marissa and then she got a call—” “Save it,” he barks. “You’re too fucking perfect. What’s the con? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say. He reaches for my bra. I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense. I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.” He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot. He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters. Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring. Then his brows slammed down as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick. That’s when things really go to shit. He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” I pee myself. Literally. God help me. I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thighs before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation. Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He stares at the dribble on the floor. I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction. He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation. Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check its temperature. My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm. He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.” Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off? Fuck it. I am a mess. I step in, panties and all. I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while, I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell is happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment. Keep it together, Sondra. Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat. Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry. I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff. The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it. Chapter 3 Nico Minchia. Shit. My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my head of HR why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom. I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me—making me paranoid and itchy. I need to get my little brother Stefano out here to help me run the place so I can sleep at least an hour a night. He’s the only one I trust. “Hey.” I make my voice softer. The girl’s standing under the spray of water, soaking her Harley Quinn pigtails and the pair of light blue satin panties she’s still wearing. Fuck if I don’t want to yank them right off her and see what’s underneath. I’m pretty sure she’s in shock, and who could blame her? I terrify my employees on my best days and that’s without tearing off their clothes and flashing a weapon. Her chest shudders as she lets out a silent sob and it gets under my skin, same way her sniffle did. Somehow, I don’t think undercover feds or any kind of professional would pee on my floor and cry in my shower. So yeah. I seriously fucked up here. I reach past her and shut off the water, soaking the entire arm of my suit jacket in the process. “Hey, don’t cry.” A better man might apologize, but until I’m one hundred percent sure there’s not something off here, I keep it in. I yank the shower curtain open, and pull her out to stand on the bath mat while I wrap one of the towels from the floor around her. Because she seems to still be in shock, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her wet panties and tug them down her trembling legs. I must not be as depraved as I think, because I somehow manage not to look at what she keeps under them when I lower to a squat and grip her ankle to help her step out of the dripping fabric. I toss them in the garbage can. Earlier, I threw a towel over the place where she peed, and her eyes dart there now. I know she’s gotta be completely humiliated by it, but the truth is, she’s not the first person I’ve made piss themselves. I guess she’s the first female. The only one I’m sorry for scaring. She’s trying to stifle her sobs, which, of course, only turns them into snorts and choked gasps. Now I really feel like a first-class asshole. “Aw, bambina.” I grab the two corners of the towel, and pull her against me. Her wet skin dampens my suit, but all I can think about is how soft her lush, naked form is against my body. The exhaustion in my limbs ebbs, cleared by the flames of white-hot desire. “Shh. You’re okay.” She trembles against me, but her sobs quiet. “Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head, her wet pigtails splattering a drop of water onto my cheek. Her gaze tracks to it. A loose section in the front flops over her eyes. I shift my grip on the towel to one hand and use the other to brush the hair back from her face. “You’re okay,” I repeat. She blinks up at me with long-lashed blue eyes. I love having her up close and captive where I can study her better. She’s as beautiful as I originally thought, with porcelain skin and high cheekbones. It’s not just beauty that makes her special. There’s some other quality that makes her seem so out of place here. A fresh-faced innocence. Yet she’s not overly naive or young. She’s not dumb, either. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t release her. I don’t want to. The heat of her body radiates through my damp clothes and crowds my mind with the dirtiest of thoughts. If I were a gentleman, I’d leave the room and let her get dressed, but I’m not. I’m an asshole with a hotel casino to run. And I still don’t know who the hell this girl is or how she ended up in my suite. And seriously, heads are going to roll for this. Even more because the girl suffered for it. Right. If my brain were working better, I might acknowledge I’m the only one who can take blame for that part, especially since I’m still holding her naked and captive. “It’s just a girl who looks like you doesn’t normally clean rooms in Vegas,” I offer as the lamest excuse ever. It’s true, though. I’m sure there are more girls like her out there. But I don’t see them around here. All I see are the fake-boobed hustlers trying to work some angle. The professionals. Women who use their bodies like weapons. And I have no problem with them. I’m happy to use their bodies, too. But this one—she’s different. Her full berry lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. I can’t keep my hands to myself. I run my thumb across her lower lip, trace it back and forth over the plump flesh. Her pupils dilate, giving me encouragement to keep touching. “A girl like you is usually on the stage—some kind of stage—even if it’s just a gentleman’s club.” Her eyes narrow but I don’t shut up. “Girl like you could make a shit ton selling herself.” Mary, Queen of Peace, I want to kiss the girl. I lower my lips but manage to stop above hers. A kiss would definitely not be welcome. I may be a scary prick, but I don’t force myself on women. “You know how much a guy like me would pay for a night with you?” This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together a moment before saying, “May I go?” I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt. She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy. “I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her, and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed. I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one. And that’s my strangest thought yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating. “I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing. Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.” I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women. And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation. “Who are you and why are you here?” She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin, Corey Simonson, works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss, and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars are out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck. I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk. She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.” I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?” “Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts. “That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes, I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her. I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for? She swallows and nods. “Yeah.” “You follow a guy here?” “No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.” I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off. “Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So”—she shrugs— “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totaled when I arrived.” “How is that your karma?” “Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.” I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?” “Mine.” “Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.” Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it. Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck, I need sleep. She blinks rapidly. “Because you won’t let me leave?” I was right. She’s smart. The corners of my mouth twitch. “Housekeeping is the only place I could get a job on short notice. I’d rather work as a dealer. Think you can hook me up?” Now she’s getting sassy. Funny, I don’t have the urge to take her down a peg the way I usually do with employees. Unless, of course, it involves her naked and at my mercy. Oh yeah. I already set that up. But the suggestion of her working as a dealer irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t know if it’s because she’d be ruined by Las Vegas in a month, or because I really want to keep her in my room. Cleaning my floors. Naked. “No.” She flinches because I say the word too hard. I’m definitely having a difficult time modulating my behavior. But she just shrugs. “Well, this is temporary, anyway. Just until I earn enough to get a new car and find a teaching job.” Okay, even not trusting my instincts, I think she’s who she says she is. Which means I have no good reason to keep her prisoner here. I step back and take another long perusal of her now that I know more about her. Seriously. I want to keep her. But considering the things I just did to her, she’ll probably quit the second she leaves my suite. I point to her crumpled dress and bra on the floor. “Get dressed.” Before I do or say anything else to traumatize the girl, I leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself. Chapter 4 Sondra Well. That was interesting. My knees wobble when I stand. What will he do now? Am I free to go? I pull on my clothes with shaking hands and zip my dress all the way up, even though he’s already seen my breasts. The wet panties are in the trash bin, so I go commando. I decide the best course of action is to hold my head high and march right out of there. Because there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to finish cleaning his suite after what just went down. I grab the doorknob and take a breath. Here goes nothing. He stands in the hallway in front of my cart, talking on his cell phone. Blocking my exit. Damn. I catch my breath again at how scary-sexy he looks—the delicious way he fills the expensive suit, his thick, dark hair that curled up at the edges, the penetrating dark eyes. He ends the call and drops his phone in his suit pocket. “Your story checked out, at least for now. I’ll be digging further.” His dark eyes glitter but the menace I sensed there before has vanished. I straighten my back, which draws his gaze down to my tits. “You won’t find anything.” The corners of his mouth curve faintly. He watches me like a lion watches prey. Hungry. Sure of himself. He shakes his head, almost ruefully. “Girl who looks like you…shouldn’t be cleaning rooms,” he mutters. I march past him, giving him a wide berth. “Yeah, you said that earlier.” The guy just totally violated me. Stripped me naked and watched me pee on his floor. I need to get the hell out of here and never come back. Forget working for the mafia. I have a life worth living…somewhere else. Somewhere far from Vegas. I push the cart, even though I never finished cleaning his bathroom. Just get the hell out, Sondra. “Hold up,” he barks. “Leave the cart. Tony will take you home.” A tap sounds at the door and a huge guy with a wire in his ear walks in. Judging by the bulge at his sides, he packs as much heat as Tacone. Fuckity fuck fuck. I step back, shaking my head. Oh hell, no. I’m not getting in a car with this guy so he can shoot me in the head and drop me off a pier. Okay, there are no piers in Las Vegas. The Hoover Dam, then. I’m not that stupid. “Relax.” Tacone must’ve seen the blood drain from my face. “You’ll get home safely. You have my word. Hold up just a minute.” He walks out of the living room and into his office. “I-I’ll just take a bus,” I call out after him and head toward the door, hoping to skirt past Tony. “That’s what I usually do.” Tony doesn’t budge from his position in front of the door. “You’re not taking the fucking bus.” Tacone sounds so scary I stop in my tracks. He returns holding an envelope, which he hands to Tony and murmurs something I didn’t hear. “Go with Tony.” It’s a command, not an option. Tony’s stood there stony-faced the whole time. Now, he lifts his chin at me. I walk to the door, trembling like a leaf. Tony opens it, ushers me through and shuts it again. I dart a glance up at the beefy man beside me. Tony drops a huge paw on my nape. “You’re okay.” Seriously? Does this guy care about my welfare? He ushers me forward into the elevator. “You hurt? Or just scared?” Every bit of my body trembles. “I’m okay.” I sound sullen. I position myself as far away from him as possible, folding my arms across my chest. Tony frowns at me. The elevator zooms down. “Boss isn’t himself. He didn’t—” The frown deepens. “Did he force you?” Okay, that’s kinda sweet. This guy really is checking up on me. But he works for Tacone, head of the crime family, so I’m not sure why he’s even asking. “What would you do if I said yes?” Dark fury comes over the guy’s face. He takes a step forward toward me. “Is that what happened?” Danger tinges the edges of his voice. I shake my head. “No. Not like you’re thinking.” I look away. “Not that. Something else.” I don’t look, but I can feel his glower still resting on me. “What would you have done if I said yes?” I ask again. I suppose my morbid curiosity about all things mafia prompts the repeated question. He presses his lips together and resumes a soldier-like stance. His signal that he’s not going to answer. When the elevator dings open, I dart forward, weaving into the throng of gamblers. Somehow, he stays right behind me. The meat-like hand drops on my nape again. “Slow down. I have orders to take you home.” “I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the bus—really.” He doesn’t remove his hand, but uses it to direct me through the crowd, which parts for his big frame and bigger presence. “I’m not gonna whack you, if that’s what you think.” I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re even having a conversation where whacking someone is involved. “Good to know.” It’s all I seem capable of saying. He takes me to another elevator—a private one he uses his keycard to get into. We arrive at the lowest floor, which appears to be the private parking area. He leads me to a limousine and opens the back door for me. “We’re going in this?” Maybe he really isn’t going to kill me. I look around at the other cars there. Limos, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. Row after row of luxury cars packed the floor. Wow. Tony smiles like he thinks I’m cute. “Yeah. Get in.” “You’re as bossy as your boss,” I mutter and he grins. I do as I’m told. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a death sentence or not, but I can breathe more steadily now. He doesn’t ask for my address but he drives straight to Corey’s place and pulls up along the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. A chill runs up my spine. Tacone had certainly checked up on me. Is this another way he throws his weight around? Showing me he knows where I live and how to find me? Or is this really a courtesy drop off? I push the door open the second the car stops. “Hold up.” Tony’s deep voice doesn’t have the same effect as Tacone’s. I don’t freeze. Instead, I run for the door. “I said, hold up,” he shouts, and I hear the slam of his door. “Mr. Tacone wanted me to give you something.” Hopefully not a bullet between the eyes. I fumble for my keys. No, I’m being stupid. He drove me home. The guy isn’t going to kill me. I turn around and watch him jog up the walk. He pulls the envelope Tacone handed him out of his jacket pocket and gives it to me. My name scrawls across the front in a thin, neat print. For some reason, I’m surprised at how beautiful Tacone’s handwriting is. I draw a shaky breath. “Is that it?” Tony’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, that’s it.” I swallow. “‘Kay. Thanks.” He smirks and turns away without another word. My hands shake as I work the key into the lock. It’s over. A bad day, nothing more. I never have to go back there again. Yes, they know where I live, but they took me home safe and sound. Nothing more will come of this. I had my little taste of the mafia, just like I wanted. Tomorrow I’ll start applying for a normal job. One that doesn’t involve shady underground characters with huge, hot hands and piercing dark eyes. One without guns, or the jingle of coins in slot machines. One without Tacone. Chapter 5 Sondra Dean, Corey’s boyfriend, sits on the couch watching TV. “Hey, Sondra.” He looks a little too happy to see me. My stomach clenches, awareness of my pantyless state increasing. The guy has a habit of leering at me, and I’m afraid he’ll somehow figure out there’s nothing under my very short dress. “Hey,” I mutter. He gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes, lingering way too long on my breasts. “What’s up?” There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about my crazy day. Corey, yes, but not him. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room—I crashed on their couch—so there was nowhere for me to hide. Earning enough to put the deposit on my own place is my first priority, even over getting a car that runs. I go to my suitcase in the corner and grab a change of clothes before locking myself in the bathroom. Only then do I realize I still clutch the envelope from Mr. Tacone. I stick my thumb under the flap and tear it open. Six crisp hundred-dollar bills slide out with a note of paper. I draw in my breath. For someone who has pretty much been broke, eating nothing but ramen noodles through college and grad school, it’s a lot of money. I had scholarships and assistantships in college, but that still put me below the poverty level. Adjunct teaching hasn’t exactly paid the bills, either. The note’s written in the same neat penmanship on the envelope. Sondra— Sorry for scaring you. Money doesn’t fix everything, but sometimes it helps. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. —Nico My heart skitters.Nico. He signed his first name? And apologized. Not in person, but still, it’s an apology. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. The image of his face leaning just inches from mine as he gripped the towel that bound me against him flashes through in my mind. My knees go weak. He wants me to return? He guessed correctly that I planned to quit and never set foot in the place again. I fan myself with the six hundred-dollar bills. Some people would take a high moral ground. Say they wouldn’t let him buy their silence or compliance or whatever. But not me. He’s right. Money does go a helluva long way to fixing things. Still, the asshole held a gun to my head. And stripped me naked. And I peed. It was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. But my sense of violation fades as I remember the way he also shoved me in the shower, toweled me off and murmured, you’re okay. I stare at the money. Six hundred dollars closer to moving off my cousin’s couch and into my own place. Six hundred dollars closer to getting another car. I can buy groceries and pay my cousin back for what she’s already spotted me. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to show up at work tomorrow. Yes, it had been utterly humiliating, but I’ll probably never see the guy again. It would save me the trouble of finding a new interim job while I figure my life out. I exhale slowly, trying to erase the vision of Tacone brushing my hair back from my face, his penetrating stare. I won’t have to see him again. And that’s a good thing. Definitely a good thing. I take a shower and exit the bathroom, unsurprised to find Dean lurking just outside it, ostensibly in the kitchen. I haven’t figured out how to tell Corey I think her boyfriend’s a lecherous, no-good cheating asshole. I don’t have any proof—just the way he looks at me, and seems way more interested in talking to me or hanging out when we’re alone. Considering I’m a magnet for cheating boyfriends, I know the vibe. I usually make it a habit not to be around when Dean is at the townhouse without Corey, but Tacone’s guy drove me home too quickly. I try to make the best of it. “Hey, Dean. You feel like driving me to the grocery store? I got paid today.” For getting strip searched. This time when the memory of Mr. Tacone’s—Nico’s—large hot hands roaming over my body flashed back, the fear is gone. A brief fantasy flickers in my mind—him peeling my panties down my legs for a different reason... "You know how much a guy like me would spend for a night with a girl like you?" Five thousand dollars! Stop thinking about him! I need to forget Nico Tacone is exactly the kind of man who makes my toes curl. Dark. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The ultimate bad boy. Yes, I’m in danger of falling to the dark side again. Big time. I need to stay strong. And stay away from this dangerous man. Nico's POV Sondra Simonson. It’s her real name. I asked security to pull everything they can find on her and bring me the file. Along with the video feed of our interaction. If she doesn’t quit, I definitely want her up in my room again. Naked. Preferably naked and willing this time, but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t like her a little scared. There was something so appealing about the way she both trembled and got turned on when I stripped her. Or had I imagined it? I’ll find out soon enough. Where is that damn video feed? I’m like a junkie waiting for his next hit. I can’t wait to watch the video of her. I’m going to be fucking my hand all night to the sight of her pouty lips and wide blue eyes decorating my screen. A knock sounds on the door. “It’s Tony.” The deep voice of my right-hand man echoes through the door. “Yeah?” “I dropped her off.” He steps in and gives me a careful look. I know he didn’t come in here just to tell me that. He came in to find out what the hell happened. Why I sent the maid home wet and scared. He’s worried about me. My mental state is starting to crumble with the inability to sleep. He’s too smart to come out and ask me what happened. He knows I’d tell him to mind his own fucking business. But he’s made a career out of standing around me silently, serving as my bodyguard, making himself available when I do feel like confiding. He’s not family. He’s not even Italian. He’s just a big, loyal guy from Cicero who decided I was the guy he was going to follow into the bowels of hell. I guess you could say he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. If a Tacone ever really has a friend. “She’s new. I thought she looked off, so I strip searched her.” A muscle in Tony’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. Tony is absolutely a defender of women. His ma was abused by his dad pretty bad and he’s still eager to even that score with any guy who manhandles a woman. Probably even, if it came down to it, me. But I don’t usually make a habit out of mistreating women. This one was a special case. I purse my lips and shrug. “I also may have pointed a gun at her head while I was questioning her.” I tell him in case there’s some mess we need to clean up from the fallout. Hopefully Sondra won’t kick up a fuss. I don’t think she will. And for some reason that bugs the hell out of me. I have terrible taste in men. Smart, well-educated, smoking hot little number like her shouldn’t be walking around with that fatal flaw that puts her in danger. Especially not in Vegas. Except it’s probably that terrible taste that turned her supple and pliant in my arms, too. Those incredible nipples pebbled up, that pussy turned wet for me. And I hadn’t even been coming on to her. I was rough-handling her like a deranged lunatic. Fuck. Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, Nico. The lack of sleep has you paranoid.” “I know.” I run my hand through my hair. “You need to take something. Have you tried the drugs?” I have a whole shelfful of pharmaceuticals that are supposed to help me sleep, but either they don’t work or I don’t like the way they make me feel afterward. Not that I like the delirium I’m under now. “Nah. I think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” “That’s what you said last night.” I look out the wall of windows that make up my penthouse suite. “So you got her home? Was she okay?” “She was skittish. You pay her off?” The words pay her off set my teeth on edge, even though that’s exactly what I did. Still, it sounds so sordid when associated with her. It’s the same reason I don’t want to see her dealing on my floor. She shouldn’t be sullied by all the shit that goes down at this hotel casino. She shouldn’t be sullied by me. Too bad I want to dirty her in every possible way. If I were a better man, I would make certain our paths never cross again. But I’m not. I’m not a good man. I put her right back in the lion’s den. “Call the head of housekeeping, ” I ordered, "And let him know-I want Sondra be the regular penthouse suite housekeeper."
A little caffeine fix on set today! ☕️🎬 I know the suit makes me look like I’m about to close a billion-dollar deal, but in reality, I’m just a guy who needs his coffee to survive the workday! 😉 I’ve been so blown away by all the love for the new projects lately. I want to take a break from the "script" and actually get to know the people who support me. ❤️ What’s your favorite role of mine so far? Tap the 'Send Message' button below and let me know! I’m heading into my inbox now to reply personally to as many of you as I can. Can’t wait to chat! ✨ #noahfearnley
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Renate laid her head on her desk. It was 3:07 pm on a Thursday. The air-con unit was humming. Her keyboard had slipped out from under her fingers two seconds earlier because her eyes had briefly shut. ======== She felt the cold lacquer of the desktop against her forehead. She smelt the coffee next to her screen, already cold. She heard the keyboard of a colleague at the next desk, who was still sixty-five but cheerfully went on typing accounting entries as if the afternoon were a perfectly ordinary time at which a human body could work. For Renate's body it hadn't been that for months. ======== Sixty years. A bookkeeper in a medium-sized company in Stuttgart. The earliest she could leave was half past five. She had two more hours ahead of her. She didn't know how she was going to get through them. ======== The afternoon slump wasn't a new phenomenon in her life. She'd known it for years. But over the last twelve months it had become a cliff she fell off every lunchtime. At half past one: a slice of Black Forest gateau from the café next door, because her colleague Marlene had her birthday. At 2:15: an espresso that did nothing. At 2:45: a second espresso. At 3:05: her forehead on the desk, jumper sticking to her neck, the letters on the screen flickering. It was like a little rollercoaster ride every day. Up, down. Up, down. Down most of all. ======== The Wednesday before, her manager had walked past her desk, set down a pile of receipts and briefly paused. "Mrs Wedel, are you all right? You look pale." Renate had said yes. She had smiled. She had set the pile aside and pretended she'd get on with it in a moment. In reality it had taken her seven minutes before the letters on her screen stopped swimming. ======== At half past three she reached into the drawer. In the drawer was a bar of chocolate. She knew it was a bad idea. She knew it would send her blood sugar up briefly and then drop it even lower again. She knew it. She really knew it. She ate the bar anyway. Like every other afternoon for the last three months. ======== On the way home she sat on the train and looked out of the window without seeing anything. She was sixty years old and watching herself live the same script every day. A script she hadn't written and that left her no break. At home Klaus, sitting in front of the telly. "How was it?" She said: "Same as always." He didn't ask further. He hadn't asked further for months. ======== Three weeks later the letter from her GP came. Routine check. HbA1c 6.2. Cholesterol: upper borderline range. Triglycerides: clearly elevated. "Mrs Wedel, at the next appointment in three months we'll talk about the therapy." Renate knew what therapy meant. She also knew that she wasn't ready to reach that point. ======== What she did that evening: she opened the laptop and typed in what she'd wanted to type for months. Not "miracle cure". Not "lose weight fast". But: "afternoon slump women 60 what helps". She read forum posts. She read Wechselweise articles. She read a woman from Hanover who wrote: "The afternoon slump isn't weakness. It's a blood sugar phenomenon. Once you understand that, you can take it quietly, without hating yourself for it." ======== Renate cried. She cried for the first time in a long while, not from exhaustion but from relief. It wasn't her character. It wasn't her discipline. It was her metabolism, which was working against her right now – and she had a tool she could start with. ======== She read on. Until two in the morning. She learned for the first time what Cinnamomum verum was, and why that matters compared to Cassia. She learned that cinnamon powder in a dry capsule is almost a waste, because the active compound is fat-soluble. She learned that many women her age report that a plant-based companion with a fat carrier – that is, Ceylon cinnamon with MCT oil – had, after six to eight weeks, quietly but consistently shifted something about the afternoon slump. ======== She placed her order the next morning. But she ordered slowly. She looked at the vendors carefully. She checked the imprint. She rang the service number, simply to hear whether anyone would pick up. Someone picked up. A friendly voice in English. "Wedel, Stuttgart. I just wanted to test that you're reachable." The voice laughed. "We're here, Mrs Wedel." ======== The parcel came four days later. A small box, discreetly packaged, with thirty softgels. Alongside it, the coumarin lab certificate, printed, with batch number. She took her first capsule on a Monday morning, with a glass of water, next to her muesli. She said to herself: eight weeks. Whatever happens. I'm giving it eight weeks. ======== The first two weeks, nothing happened. She had expected that. The vendor had communicated it that way too – "first noticeable changes typically after six to eight weeks, those who stop earlier probably won't feel anything". She had appreciated it as a disclaimer, not as an advertising promise. ======== In week three something small came. On a Tuesday at 3:00 pm she didn't lay her head on her desk. She got up, walked to the tea kitchen, fetched herself a glass of water, came back, carried on. It wasn't a miracle. It was simply – this was it: simply – a normal reaction. She wrote it in the margin of her desk calendar. "3:00 pm – steady." ======== In week five, on a Friday, as she was doing the washing-up in the kitchen at home, she noticed: she didn't have a chocolate bar in her desk drawer any more. She'd brought one in but it was still there, in its wrapper. She'd forgotten it. Forgotten. The chocolate bar. She, who was sixty years old and had reached for that bar every day at half past three for three months as if it were a lifebelt. ======== One Saturday morning, in the middle of that fifth week, she picked her granddaughter up from the sports club. She went with her to the ice-cream parlour afterwards. She had two scoops of pistachio. She tasted every spoonful. She knew the feeling: getting the ice cream, not needing the ice cream. The difference between desire and necessity. She hadn't felt it in years. ======== In week seven her husband started ringing her in the afternoon at her desk. "How are you?" She said: "Good. Why are you asking?" He said: "For the first time in months I'm talking to you in the afternoon without you sounding like you have to hang up at any second." She was quiet for a long time. Then she said: "You're right. It's – it's different." ======== In week eight she went for a blood test. A week later the letter was in the letterbox. HbA1c 5.8. Cholesterol in the normal range. Triglycerides clearly better. Next to it, handwritten by her GP: "Mrs Wedel, that's a pleasing movement. Please carry on, see you in six months." ======== She laid the letter on the kitchen table and stood in front of it for a moment. She didn't think: I've done it. She thought: I have my afternoon back. I have my concentration back. I have my work back. I have my husband back on the afternoon phone. That was it. That was the whole balance. And it was much bigger than the letter let on. ======== She knows today that not all of it traces back to a little softgel. She has, in these eight weeks, also dropped the chocolate bar, gone with Klaus for twenty minutes round the block every day after dinner, stopped leaving the canteen at half past one with the sweetest dessert. But she also knows that these small changes wouldn't have happened without the first lever. The first lever was: that she found a plant-based companion that changed her afternoon, and that this changed afternoon gave her the energy to tackle all the other screws. ======== When she sometimes sees other women in their mid-fifties or early sixties on the train these days, looking out of the window with the same vacant gaze she herself had six months ago, she wants to put her hand briefly on their arm. She'd like to tell them: it isn't your character. It isn't your discipline. It isn't your age that has you by the back. It's a blood sugar phenomenon that shifts in this stage of life, and it's – sometimes, in some, not in all – something that can be gently accompanied with the right small tools. ======== But she doesn't say it. She just looks across briefly, kindly, and looks out of the window again. Every woman has to find her own Thursday afternoon when she stops hating herself for her slump and starts understanding it instead. ======== Sometimes she thinks of the old Renate who lay with her forehead on the desk. She no longer feels ashamed of that woman. She stopped feeling ashamed of her in the week when she understood that that woman was simply tired – not weak in character, not weak in will, simply tired from a blood sugar system that, in this stage of life, had gone out of step. She would have liked to put her hand on the old Renate's back once more. "You haven't done anything wrong," she would have quietly told her. "You just didn't know yet." ======== That evening Renate sits at the kitchen table, writes on a note what she would have liked to tell herself eight weeks earlier. "You aren't weak. You're tired. Tiredness has a reason. The reason is tangible. Stop judging yourself. Start looking." She folds the note and lays it in the top compartment of her desk drawer at the office. Where, until eight weeks ago, the chocolate bar had lain every day. ======== That, she thinks, is perhaps the most honest form of self-care: not curing yourself – you can't do that with this sort of little capsule – but simply: looking yourself in the eye again, and saying: I've heard you. I've understood. We'll take this slowly together now. More than that, an afternoon sometimes doesn't need.
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I tug down the hem of my one-piece, zippered housekeeping uniform dress. The Pepto Bismol pink number comes to my upper thighs and fits like a glove, hugging my curves, showing off my cleavage. Clearly, the owners of the Bellissimo Hotel and Casino want their maids to look as hot as their cocktail girls. I went with it. I’m wearing a pair of platform-heeled wrap-arounds comfortable enough to clean rooms in, but sexy enough to show off the muscles in my legs, and I pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into two fluffy pigtails. When in Vegas, right? My feminist friends from grad school would have a fit with this. I push the not-so-little housekeeping cart down the hallway of the grand hotel portion of the casino. I spent all morning cleaning people’s messes. And let me tell you, the messes in Vegas are big. Drug paraphernalia. Semen. Condoms. Blood. And this is an expensive, high-class place. I’ve only worked here two weeks and I’ve already seen all that and more. I work fast. Some of the maids recommend taking your time so you don’t get overloaded, but I still hope to impress someone at the Bellissimo into giving me a better job. Hence dressing like the casino version of the French maid fantasy. Dolling myself up was probably prompted by what my cousin Corey dubs, The Voice of Wrong. I have the opposite of a sixth sense or voice of reason, especially when it comes to the male half of the population. Why else would I be broke and on the rebound from the two-timing party boy I left in Reno? I’m a smart woman. I have a master’s degree. I had a decent adjunct faculty position and a bright future. But when I realized all my suspicions about Tanner cheating on me were true, I packed the Subaru I shared with him and left for Vegas to stay with Corey, who promised to get me a job dealing cards with her here. But there aren’t any dealer jobs available at the moment—only housekeeping. So now I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, broke, single, and without a set of wheels because my car got totaled in a hit and run the day I arrived. Not that I plan to stay here long-term. I’m just testing the waters in Vegas. If I like it, I’ll apply for adjunct college teaching jobs. I’ve even considered substitute teaching high school once I have the wheels to get around. If I’m able to land a dealer job, though, I’ll take it because the money would be three times what I’d make in the public school system. Which is a tragedy to be discussed on another day. I head back into the main supply area which doubles as my boss’ office and load up my cart in the housekeeping cave, stacking towels and soap boxes in neat rows. “Oh for God’s sake.” Marissa, my supervisor, shoves her phone in the pocket of her housekeeping dress. A hot forty-two-year-old, she fills hers out in all the right places, making it look like a dress she chose to wear, rather than a uniform. “I have four people out sick today. Now I have to go do the bosses’ suites myself,” she groans. I perk up. I know—that’s The Voice of Wrong. I have a morbid fascination with everything mafioso. Like, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos and have memorized the script from The Godfather. “You mean the Tacones’ rooms? I’ll do them.” It’s stupid, but I want a glimpse of them. What do real mafia men look like? Al Pacino? James Gandolfini? Or are they just ordinary guys? Maybe I’ve already passed them while pushing my cart around. “I wish, but you can’t. It’s a special security clearance thing. And believe me—you don’t want to. They are super paranoid and picky as hell. You can’t look at the wrong thing without getting ripped a new one. They definitely wouldn’t want to see anyone new up there. I’d probably lose my job over it, as a matter of fact.” I should be daunted, but this news only adds to the mystique I created in my mind around these men. “Well, I’m willing and available, if you want me to. I already finished my hallway. Or I could go with you and help? Make it go faster?” I see my suggestion worming through her objections. Interest flits over her face, followed by more consternation. I adopt a hopeful-helpful expression. “Well, maybe that would be all right...I’d be supervising you, after all.” Yes! I’m dying of curiosity to see the mafia bosses up close. Foolish, I know, but I can’t help it. I want to text Corey to tell her the news, but there isn’t time. Corey knows all about my fascination, since I already pumped her for information. Marissa loads a few other things on my cart and we head off together for the special bank of elevators—the only ones that go all the way to the top of the building and require a keycard to access. “So, these guys are really touchy. Most times they’re not in their rooms, and then all you have to worry about is staying away from their office desks,” Marissa explains once we left the last public floor and it was just the two of us in the elevator. “Don’t open any drawers—don’t do anything that appears nosy. I’m serious—these guys are scary.” The doors swish open and I push the cart out, following her around the bend to the first door. The sound of loud, male voices comes from the room. Marissa winces. “Always knock,” she whispers before lifting her knuckles to rap on the door. They clearly don’t hear her, because the loud talking continues. She knocks again and the talking stops. “Yeah?” a deep masculine voice calls out. “Housekeeping.” We wait as silence greets her call. After a moment the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy with slightly graying hair. “Yeah, we were just leaving.” He pulls on what must be a thousand dollar suit jacket. A slight gut thickens his middle, but otherwise he’s extremely good-looking. Behind him stand three other men, all dressed in equally nice suits, none wearing their jackets. They ignore us as they push past, resuming their conversation in the hallway. “So I tell him…” The door closes behind them. “Whew,” Marissa breathes. “It’s way easier if they’re not here.” She glances up at the corners of the rooms. “Of course there are cameras everywhere, so it’s not like we aren’t being watched.” She points to a tiny red light shining from a little device mounted at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. I’ve already noticed them all over the casino. “But it’s less nerve-wracking if we’re not tiptoeing around them.” She jerks her head down the hall. “You take the bathroom and bedrooms, I’ll do the kitchen, office and living area.” “Got it.” I grab the supplies I need off the cart and head in the direction she indicated. The bedroom’s well-appointed in a nondescript way. I pull the sheets and bedspread up to make the bed. The sheets were probably 3,000 thread count, if there is such a thing. That may be an exaggeration but, really, they are amazing. Just for kicks, I rub one against my cheek. It’s so smooth and soft. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in that bed. I wonder which of the guys slept in here. I make the bed with hospital corners, the way Marissa trained me to, dust and vacuum, then move on to the second bedroom and then the bathroom. When I finish, I find Marissa vacuuming in the living room. She switches it off and winds up the cord. “All done? Me too. Let’s go to the next one.” I push out the cart and she taps on the door of the suite down the hall. No answer. She keys us in. “It is way faster having you help,” she says gratefully. I flash her a smile. “I think it’s more fun to work as a team, too.” She smiles back. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think they would go for it as a regular thing, but it’s nice for a change.” “Same routine?” Chapter 2 “Unless you want to switch? This one only has one bedroom.” “Nah,” I say, “I like bed/bath.” Of course that’s because of my all-consuming curiosity. There are more personal effects in a bedroom and a bathroom, not that I saw anything of interest in the last place. I didn’t go poking around, of course. The cameras in every corner have me nervous. This place is the same as the last, as if they’d paid a decorator to furnish them and they were all identical. High luxury, but not much personality. Well, from what I understand, the Tacone family—at least the ones who run the Bellissimo—are all single men. What can I expect? I make the bed and move on to dusting. From the living room, I hear Marissa’s voice. “What?” I call out, but then I realize she’s talking on the phone. She comes in a moment later, breathless. “I have to go.” Her face has gone pale. “My kid’s been taken to the ER for a concussion.” “Oh shit. Go—I’ve got this. Do you want to give me the keycard for the last suite?” There are three suites on this top floor. She looks around distractedly. “No, I’d better not. Could you just finish this place up and head back downstairs? I’ll call Samuel to let him know what happened.” Samuel’s our boss, the head of housekeeping. “Don’t forget to stay away from the desk in the office.” “Sure thing. Get out of here.” I make a shooing motion. “Go be with your kid.” “Okay.” She digs her purse out from the cart and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “I hope he’s all right,” I say to her back as she leaves. She flings a weak smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. Bye.” I grab the vacuum and head back into the bedroom. When I finish, I hear male voices in the living room. “Hope you can get some sleep, Nico. How long’s it been?” one of the voices asked. “Forty-eight hours. Fucking insomnia.” “G’luck, see you later.” A door clicks shut. My heart immediately beats a little faster with excitement or nerves. Yes—I’m a fool. Later, I would realize my mistake in not marching right out and introducing myself, but Marissa has me nervous about the Tacones and I freeze up. The cart stands out in the living room, though. I decide to go into the bathroom and clean everything I can without getting fresh supplies. Finally, I give up, square my shoulders and head out. I arrive in the living room and pull out three folded towels, four hand towels and four washcloths. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the broad shoulders and back of another finely dressed man. He glances over then does a double-take. His dark eyes rake over me, lingering on my legs and traveling up to my breasts, then face. “Who the fuck are you?” I should’ve expected that response, but it startles me anyway. He sounds scary. Seriously scary, and he walks toward me like he means business. He’s beautiful, with dark wavy hair, a stubbled square jaw and thick-lashed eyes that bore a hole right through me. “Huh? Who. The fuck. Are you?” I panic. Instead of answering him, I turn and walk swiftly to the bathroom, as if putting fresh towels in his bathroom will fix everything. He stalks after me and follows me in. “What are you doing in here?” He knocks the towels out of my hands. Stunned, I stare down at them scattered on the floor. “I’m...housekeeping,” I offer lamely. Damn my idiotic fascination with the mafia. This is not the freaking Sopranos. This is a real-life, dangerous man wearing a gun in a holster under his armpit. I know, because I see it when he reaches for me. He grips my upper arms. “Bullshit. No one who looks like”—his eyes travel up and down the length of my body again—“you—works in housekeeping.” I blink, not sure what that means. I’m pretty, I know that, but there’s nothing special about me. I’m your girl-next-door blue-eyed blonde type, on the short and curvy side. Not like my cousin Corey, who is tall, slender, red-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, with the confidence to match. There’s something lewd in the way he looks at me that makes it sound like I’m standing there in nipple tassels and a G-string instead of my short, fitted maid’s dress. I play dumb. “I’m new. I’ve only been here a couple weeks.” He sports dark circles under his eyes, and I remember what he told the other man. He suffers from insomnia. Hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. “Are you bugging the place?” he demands. “Wha—” I can’t even answer. I just stare like an idiot. He starts frisking me for a weapon. “Is this a con? What do they think—I’m going to fuck you? Who sent you?” I attempt to answer, but his warm hands sliding all over me make me forget what I was going to say. Why is he talking about fucking me? He stands up and gives me a tiny shake. “Who. Sent. You?” His dark eyes mesmerize. He smells of the casino—of whiskey and cash, and beneath it, his own simmering essence. “No one...I mean, Marissa!” I exclaim her name like a secret password, but it only seems to irritate him further. He reaches out and runs his fingers swiftly along the collar of my housekeeping dress, as if checking for some hidden wiretap. I’m pretty sure the guy’s half out of his mind, maybe delirious with sleep deprivation. Maybe just nuts. I freeze, not wanting to set him off. To my shock, he yanks down the zipper on the front of my dress, all the way to my waist. If I were my cousin Corey, daughter of a mean FBI agent, I’d knee him in the balls, gun or not. But I was raised not to make waves. To be a nice girl and do what authority tells me to do. So, like a freaking idiot, I just stand there. A tiny mewl leaves my lips, but I don’t dare move, don’t protest. He yanks the form-fitting dress to my waist and jerks it down over my hips. I wrest my arms free from the fabric to wrap them around myself. Nico Tacone shoves me aside to get the dress out from under my feet. He picks it up and runs his hands all over it, still searching for the mythical wiretap while I shiver in my bra and panties. I fold my arms across my breasts. “Look, I’m not wearing a wire or bugging the place,” I breathe. “I was helping Marissa and then she got a call—” “Save it,” he barks. “You’re too fucking perfect. What’s the con? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say. He reaches for my bra. I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense. I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.” He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot. He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters. Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring. Then his brows slammed down as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick. That’s when things really go to shit. He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” I pee myself. Literally. God help me. I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thighs before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation. Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He stares at the dribble on the floor. I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction. He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation. Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check its temperature. My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm. He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.” Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off? Fuck it. I am a mess. I step in, panties and all. I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while, I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell is happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment. Keep it together, Sondra. Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat. Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry. I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff. The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it. Chapter 3 Nico Minchia. Shit. My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my head of HR why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom. I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me—making me paranoid and itchy. I need to get my little brother Stefano out here to help me run the place so I can sleep at least an hour a night. He’s the only one I trust. “Hey.” I make my voice softer. The girl’s standing under the spray of water, soaking her Harley Quinn pigtails and the pair of light blue satin panties she’s still wearing. Fuck if I don’t want to yank them right off her and see what’s underneath. I’m pretty sure she’s in shock, and who could blame her? I terrify my employees on my best days and that’s without tearing off their clothes and flashing a weapon. Her chest shudders as she lets out a silent sob and it gets under my skin, same way her sniffle did. Somehow, I don’t think undercover feds or any kind of professional would pee on my floor and cry in my shower. So yeah. I seriously fucked up here. I reach past her and shut off the water, soaking the entire arm of my suit jacket in the process. “Hey, don’t cry.” A better man might apologize, but until I’m one hundred percent sure there’s not something off here, I keep it in. I yank the shower curtain open, and pull her out to stand on the bath mat while I wrap one of the towels from the floor around her. Because she seems to still be in shock, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her wet panties and tug them down her trembling legs. I must not be as depraved as I think, because I somehow manage not to look at what she keeps under them when I lower to a squat and grip her ankle to help her step out of the dripping fabric. I toss them in the garbage can. Earlier, I threw a towel over the place where she peed, and her eyes dart there now. I know she’s gotta be completely humiliated by it, but the truth is, she’s not the first person I’ve made piss themselves. I guess she’s the first female. The only one I’m sorry for scaring. She’s trying to stifle her sobs, which, of course, only turns them into snorts and choked gasps. Now I really feel like a first-class asshole. “Aw, bambina.” I grab the two corners of the towel, and pull her against me. Her wet skin dampens my suit, but all I can think about is how soft her lush, naked form is against my body. The exhaustion in my limbs ebbs, cleared by the flames of white-hot desire. “Shh. You’re okay.” She trembles against me, but her sobs quiet. “Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head, her wet pigtails splattering a drop of water onto my cheek. Her gaze tracks to it. A loose section in the front flops over her eyes. I shift my grip on the towel to one hand and use the other to brush the hair back from her face. “You’re okay,” I repeat. She blinks up at me with long-lashed blue eyes. I love having her up close and captive where I can study her better. She’s as beautiful as I originally thought, with porcelain skin and high cheekbones. It’s not just beauty that makes her special. There’s some other quality that makes her seem so out of place here. A fresh-faced innocence. Yet she’s not overly naive or young. She’s not dumb, either. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t release her. I don’t want to. The heat of her body radiates through my damp clothes and crowds my mind with the dirtiest of thoughts. If I were a gentleman, I’d leave the room and let her get dressed, but I’m not. I’m an asshole with a hotel casino to run. And I still don’t know who the hell this girl is or how she ended up in my suite. And seriously, heads are going to roll for this. Even more because the girl suffered for it. Right. If my brain were working better, I might acknowledge I’m the only one who can take blame for that part, especially since I’m still holding her naked and captive. “It’s just a girl who looks like you doesn’t normally clean rooms in Vegas,” I offer as the lamest excuse ever. It’s true, though. I’m sure there are more girls like her out there. But I don’t see them around here. All I see are the fake-boobed hustlers trying to work some angle. The professionals. Women who use their bodies like weapons. And I have no problem with them. I’m happy to use their bodies, too. But this one—she’s different. Her full berry lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. I can’t keep my hands to myself. I run my thumb across her lower lip, trace it back and forth over the plump flesh. Her pupils dilate, giving me encouragement to keep touching. “A girl like you is usually on the stage—some kind of stage—even if it’s just a gentleman’s club.” Her eyes narrow but I don’t shut up. “Girl like you could make a shit ton selling herself.” Mary, Queen of Peace, I want to kiss the girl. I lower my lips but manage to stop above hers. A kiss would definitely not be welcome. I may be a scary prick, but I don’t force myself on women. “You know how much a guy like me would pay for a night with you?” This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together a moment before saying, “May I go?” I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt. She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy. “I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her, and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed. I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one. And that’s my strangest thought yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating. “I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing. Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.” I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women. And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation. “Who are you and why are you here?” She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin, Corey Simonson, works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss, and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars are out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck. I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk. She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.” I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?” “Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts. “That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes, I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her. I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for? She swallows and nods. “Yeah.” “You follow a guy here?” “No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.” I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off. “Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So”—she shrugs— “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totaled when I arrived.” “How is that your karma?” “Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.” I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?” “Mine.” “Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.” Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it. Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck, I need sleep. She blinks rapidly. “Because you won’t let me leave?” I was right. She’s smart. The corners of my mouth twitch. “Housekeeping is the only place I could get a job on short notice. I’d rather work as a dealer. Think you can hook me up?” Now she’s getting sassy. Funny, I don’t have the urge to take her down a peg the way I usually do with employees. Unless, of course, it involves her naked and at my mercy. Oh yeah. I already set that up. But the suggestion of her working as a dealer irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t know if it’s because she’d be ruined by Las Vegas in a month, or because I really want to keep her in my room. Cleaning my floors. Naked. “No.” She flinches because I say the word too hard. I’m definitely having a difficult time modulating my behavior. But she just shrugs. “Well, this is temporary, anyway. Just until I earn enough to get a new car and find a teaching job.” Okay, even not trusting my instincts, I think she’s who she says she is. Which means I have no good reason to keep her prisoner here. I step back and take another long perusal of her now that I know more about her. Seriously. I want to keep her. But considering the things I just did to her, she’ll probably quit the second she leaves my suite. I point to her crumpled dress and bra on the floor. “Get dressed.” Before I do or say anything else to traumatize the girl, I leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself. Chapter 4 Sondra Well. That was interesting. My knees wobble when I stand. What will he do now? Am I free to go? I pull on my clothes with shaking hands and zip my dress all the way up, even though he’s already seen my breasts. The wet panties are in the trash bin, so I go commando. I decide the best course of action is to hold my head high and march right out of there. Because there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to finish cleaning his suite after what just went down. I grab the doorknob and take a breath. Here goes nothing. He stands in the hallway in front of my cart, talking on his cell phone. Blocking my exit. Damn. I catch my breath again at how scary-sexy he looks—the delicious way he fills the expensive suit, his thick, dark hair that curled up at the edges, the penetrating dark eyes. He ends the call and drops his phone in his suit pocket. “Your story checked out, at least for now. I’ll be digging further.” His dark eyes glitter but the menace I sensed there before has vanished. I straighten my back, which draws his gaze down to my tits. “You won’t find anything.” The corners of his mouth curve faintly. He watches me like a lion watches prey. Hungry. Sure of himself. He shakes his head, almost ruefully. “Girl who looks like you…shouldn’t be cleaning rooms,” he mutters. I march past him, giving him a wide berth. “Yeah, you said that earlier.” The guy just totally violated me. Stripped me naked and watched me pee on his floor. I need to get the hell out of here and never come back. Forget working for the mafia. I have a life worth living…somewhere else. Somewhere far from Vegas. I push the cart, even though I never finished cleaning his bathroom. Just get the hell out, Sondra. “Hold up,” he barks. “Leave the cart. Tony will take you home.” A tap sounds at the door and a huge guy with a wire in his ear walks in. Judging by the bulge at his sides, he packs as much heat as Tacone. Fuckity fuck fuck. I step back, shaking my head. Oh hell, no. I’m not getting in a car with this guy so he can shoot me in the head and drop me off a pier. Okay, there are no piers in Las Vegas. The Hoover Dam, then. I’m not that stupid. “Relax.” Tacone must’ve seen the blood drain from my face. “You’ll get home safely. You have my word. Hold up just a minute.” He walks out of the living room and into his office. “I-I’ll just take a bus,” I call out after him and head toward the door, hoping to skirt past Tony. “That’s what I usually do.” Tony doesn’t budge from his position in front of the door. “You’re not taking the fucking bus.” Tacone sounds so scary I stop in my tracks. He returns holding an envelope, which he hands to Tony and murmurs something I didn’t hear. “Go with Tony.” It’s a command, not an option. Tony’s stood there stony-faced the whole time. Now, he lifts his chin at me. I walk to the door, trembling like a leaf. Tony opens it, ushers me through and shuts it again. I dart a glance up at the beefy man beside me. Tony drops a huge paw on my nape. “You’re okay.” Seriously? Does this guy care about my welfare? He ushers me forward into the elevator. “You hurt? Or just scared?” Every bit of my body trembles. “I’m okay.” I sound sullen. I position myself as far away from him as possible, folding my arms across my chest. Tony frowns at me. The elevator zooms down. “Boss isn’t himself. He didn’t—” The frown deepens. “Did he force you?” Okay, that’s kinda sweet. This guy really is checking up on me. But he works for Tacone, head of the crime family, so I’m not sure why he’s even asking. “What would you do if I said yes?” Dark fury comes over the guy’s face. He takes a step forward toward me. “Is that what happened?” Danger tinges the edges of his voice. I shake my head. “No. Not like you’re thinking.” I look away. “Not that. Something else.” I don’t look, but I can feel his glower still resting on me. “What would you have done if I said yes?” I ask again. I suppose my morbid curiosity about all things mafia prompts the repeated question. He presses his lips together and resumes a soldier-like stance. His signal that he’s not going to answer. When the elevator dings open, I dart forward, weaving into the throng of gamblers. Somehow, he stays right behind me. The meat-like hand drops on my nape again. “Slow down. I have orders to take you home.” “I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the bus—really.” He doesn’t remove his hand, but uses it to direct me through the crowd, which parts for his big frame and bigger presence. “I’m not gonna whack you, if that’s what you think.” I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re even having a conversation where whacking someone is involved. “Good to know.” It’s all I seem capable of saying. He takes me to another elevator—a private one he uses his keycard to get into. We arrive at the lowest floor, which appears to be the private parking area. He leads me to a limousine and opens the back door for me. “We’re going in this?” Maybe he really isn’t going to kill me. I look around at the other cars there. Limos, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. Row after row of luxury cars packed the floor. Wow. Tony smiles like he thinks I’m cute. “Yeah. Get in.” “You’re as bossy as your boss,” I mutter and he grins. I do as I’m told. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a death sentence or not, but I can breathe more steadily now. He doesn’t ask for my address but he drives straight to Corey’s place and pulls up along the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. A chill runs up my spine. Tacone had certainly checked up on me. Is this another way he throws his weight around? Showing me he knows where I live and how to find me? Or is this really a courtesy drop off? I push the door open the second the car stops. “Hold up.” Tony’s deep voice doesn’t have the same effect as Tacone’s. I don’t freeze. Instead, I run for the door. “I said, hold up,” he shouts, and I hear the slam of his door. “Mr. Tacone wanted me to give you something.” Hopefully not a bullet between the eyes. I fumble for my keys. No, I’m being stupid. He drove me home. The guy isn’t going to kill me. I turn around and watch him jog up the walk. He pulls the envelope Tacone handed him out of his jacket pocket and gives it to me. My name scrawls across the front in a thin, neat print. For some reason, I’m surprised at how beautiful Tacone’s handwriting is. I draw a shaky breath. “Is that it?” Tony’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, that’s it.” I swallow. “‘Kay. Thanks.” He smirks and turns away without another word. My hands shake as I work the key into the lock. It’s over. A bad day, nothing more. I never have to go back there again. Yes, they know where I live, but they took me home safe and sound. Nothing more will come of this. I had my little taste of the mafia, just like I wanted. Tomorrow I’ll start applying for a normal job. One that doesn’t involve shady underground characters with huge, hot hands and piercing dark eyes. One without guns, or the jingle of coins in slot machines. One without Tacone. Chapter 5 Sondra Dean, Corey’s boyfriend, sits on the couch watching TV. “Hey, Sondra.” He looks a little too happy to see me. My stomach clenches, awareness of my pantyless state increasing. The guy has a habit of leering at me, and I’m afraid he’ll somehow figure out there’s nothing under my very short dress. “Hey,” I mutter. He gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes, lingering way too long on my breasts. “What’s up?” There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about my crazy day. Corey, yes, but not him. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room—I crashed on their couch—so there was nowhere for me to hide. Earning enough to put the deposit on my own place is my first priority, even over getting a car that runs. I go to my suitcase in the corner and grab a change of clothes before locking myself in the bathroom. Only then do I realize I still clutch the envelope from Mr. Tacone. I stick my thumb under the flap and tear it open. Six crisp hundred-dollar bills slide out with a note of paper. I draw in my breath. For someone who has pretty much been broke, eating nothing but ramen noodles through college and grad school, it’s a lot of money. I had scholarships and assistantships in college, but that still put me below the poverty level. Adjunct teaching hasn’t exactly paid the bills, either. The note’s written in the same neat penmanship on the envelope. Sondra— Sorry for scaring you. Money doesn’t fix everything, but sometimes it helps. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. —Nico My heart skitters.Nico. He signed his first name? And apologized. Not in person, but still, it’s an apology. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. The image of his face leaning just inches from mine as he gripped the towel that bound me against him flashes through in my mind. My knees go weak. He wants me to return? He guessed correctly that I planned to quit and never set foot in the place again. I fan myself with the six hundred-dollar bills. Some people would take a high moral ground. Say they wouldn’t let him buy their silence or compliance or whatever. But not me. He’s right. Money does go a helluva long way to fixing things. Still, the asshole held a gun to my head. And stripped me naked. And I peed. It was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. But my sense of violation fades as I remember the way he also shoved me in the shower, toweled me off and murmured, you’re okay. I stare at the money. Six hundred dollars closer to moving off my cousin’s couch and into my own place. Six hundred dollars closer to getting another car. I can buy groceries and pay my cousin back for what she’s already spotted me. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to show up at work tomorrow. Yes, it had been utterly humiliating, but I’ll probably never see the guy again. It would save me the trouble of finding a new interim job while I figure my life out. I exhale slowly, trying to erase the vision of Tacone brushing my hair back from my face, his penetrating stare. I won’t have to see him again. And that’s a good thing. Definitely a good thing. I take a shower and exit the bathroom, unsurprised to find Dean lurking just outside it, ostensibly in the kitchen. I haven’t figured out how to tell Corey I think her boyfriend’s a lecherous, no-good cheating asshole. I don’t have any proof—just the way he looks at me, and seems way more interested in talking to me or hanging out when we’re alone. Considering I’m a magnet for cheating boyfriends, I know the vibe. I usually make it a habit not to be around when Dean is at the townhouse without Corey, but Tacone’s guy drove me home too quickly. I try to make the best of it. “Hey, Dean. You feel like driving me to the grocery store? I got paid today.” For getting strip searched. This time when the memory of Mr. Tacone’s—Nico’s—large hot hands roaming over my body flashed back, the fear is gone. A brief fantasy flickers in my mind—him peeling my panties down my legs for a different reason... "You know how much a guy like me would spend for a night with a girl like you?" Five thousand dollars! Stop thinking about him! I need to forget Nico Tacone is exactly the kind of man who makes my toes curl. Dark. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The ultimate bad boy. Yes, I’m in danger of falling to the dark side again. Big time. I need to stay strong. And stay away from this dangerous man. Nico's POV Sondra Simonson. It’s her real name. I asked security to pull everything they can find on her and bring me the file. Along with the video feed of our interaction. If she doesn’t quit, I definitely want her up in my room again. Naked. Preferably naked and willing this time, but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t like her a little scared. There was something so appealing about the way she both trembled and got turned on when I stripped her. Or had I imagined it? I’ll find out soon enough. Where is that damn video feed? I’m like a junkie waiting for his next hit. I can’t wait to watch the video of her. I’m going to be fucking my hand all night to the sight of her pouty lips and wide blue eyes decorating my screen. A knock sounds on the door. “It’s Tony.” The deep voice of my right-hand man echoes through the door. “Yeah?” “I dropped her off.” He steps in and gives me a careful look. I know he didn’t come in here just to tell me that. He came in to find out what the hell happened. Why I sent the maid home wet and scared. He’s worried about me. My mental state is starting to crumble with the inability to sleep. He’s too smart to come out and ask me what happened. He knows I’d tell him to mind his own fucking business. But he’s made a career out of standing around me silently, serving as my bodyguard, making himself available when I do feel like confiding. He’s not family. He’s not even Italian. He’s just a big, loyal guy from Cicero who decided I was the guy he was going to follow into the bowels of hell. I guess you could say he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. If a Tacone ever really has a friend. “She’s new. I thought she looked off, so I strip searched her.” A muscle in Tony’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. Tony is absolutely a defender of women. His ma was abused by his dad pretty bad and he’s still eager to even that score with any guy who manhandles a woman. Probably even, if it came down to it, me. But I don’t usually make a habit out of mistreating women. This one was a special case. I purse my lips and shrug. “I also may have pointed a gun at her head while I was questioning her.” I tell him in case there’s some mess we need to clean up from the fallout. Hopefully Sondra won’t kick up a fuss. I don’t think she will. And for some reason that bugs the hell out of me. I have terrible taste in men. Smart, well-educated, smoking hot little number like her shouldn’t be walking around with that fatal flaw that puts her in danger. Especially not in Vegas. Except it’s probably that terrible taste that turned her supple and pliant in my arms, too. Those incredible nipples pebbled up, that pussy turned wet for me. And I hadn’t even been coming on to her. I was rough-handling her like a deranged lunatic. Fuck. Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, Nico. The lack of sleep has you paranoid.” “I know.” I run my hand through my hair. “You need to take something. Have you tried the drugs?” I have a whole shelfful of pharmaceuticals that are supposed to help me sleep, but either they don’t work or I don’t like the way they make me feel afterward. Not that I like the delirium I’m under now. “Nah. I think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” “That’s what you said last night.” I look out the wall of windows that make up my penthouse suite. “So you got her home? Was she okay?” “She was skittish. You pay her off?” The words pay her off set my teeth on edge, even though that’s exactly what I did. Still, it sounds so sordid when associated with her. It’s the same reason I don’t want to see her dealing on my floor. She shouldn’t be sullied by all the shit that goes down at this hotel casino. She shouldn’t be sullied by me. Too bad I want to dirty her in every possible way. If I were a better man, I would make certain our paths never cross again. But I’m not. I’m not a good man. I put her right back in the lion’s den. “Call the head of housekeeping, ” I ordered, "And let him know-I want Sondra be the regular penthouse suite housekeeper."
I tug down the hem of my one-piece, zippered housekeeping uniform dress. The Pepto Bismol pink number comes to my upper thighs and fits like a glove, hugging my curves, showing off my cleavage. Clearly, the owners of the Bellissimo Hotel and Casino want their maids to look as hot as their cocktail girls. I went with it. I’m wearing a pair of platform-heeled wrap-arounds comfortable enough to clean rooms in, but sexy enough to show off the muscles in my legs, and I pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into two fluffy pigtails. When in Vegas, right? My feminist friends from grad school would have a fit with this. I push the not-so-little housekeeping cart down the hallway of the grand hotel portion of the casino. I spent all morning cleaning people’s messes. And let me tell you, the messes in Vegas are big. Drug paraphernalia. Semen. Condoms. Blood. And this is an expensive, high-class place. I’ve only worked here two weeks and I’ve already seen all that and more. I work fast. Some of the maids recommend taking your time so you don’t get overloaded, but I still hope to impress someone at the Bellissimo into giving me a better job. Hence dressing like the casino version of the French maid fantasy. Dolling myself up was probably prompted by what my cousin Corey dubs, The Voice of Wrong. I have the opposite of a sixth sense or voice of reason, especially when it comes to the male half of the population. Why else would I be broke and on the rebound from the two-timing party boy I left in Reno? I’m a smart woman. I have a master’s degree. I had a decent adjunct faculty position and a bright future. But when I realized all my suspicions about Tanner cheating on me were true, I packed the Subaru I shared with him and left for Vegas to stay with Corey, who promised to get me a job dealing cards with her here. But there aren’t any dealer jobs available at the moment—only housekeeping. So now I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, broke, single, and without a set of wheels because my car got totaled in a hit and run the day I arrived. Not that I plan to stay here long-term. I’m just testing the waters in Vegas. If I like it, I’ll apply for adjunct college teaching jobs. I’ve even considered substitute teaching high school once I have the wheels to get around. If I’m able to land a dealer job, though, I’ll take it because the money would be three times what I’d make in the public school system. Which is a tragedy to be discussed on another day. I head back into the main supply area which doubles as my boss’ office and load up my cart in the housekeeping cave, stacking towels and soap boxes in neat rows. “Oh for God’s sake.” Marissa, my supervisor, shoves her phone in the pocket of her housekeeping dress. A hot forty-two-year-old, she fills hers out in all the right places, making it look like a dress she chose to wear, rather than a uniform. “I have four people out sick today. Now I have to go do the bosses’ suites myself,” she groans. I perk up. I know—that’s The Voice of Wrong. I have a morbid fascination with everything mafioso. Like, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos and have memorized the script from The Godfather. “You mean the Tacones’ rooms? I’ll do them.” It’s stupid, but I want a glimpse of them. What do real mafia men look like? Al Pacino? James Gandolfini? Or are they just ordinary guys? Maybe I’ve already passed them while pushing my cart around. “I wish, but you can’t. It’s a special security clearance thing. And believe me—you don’t want to. They are super paranoid and picky as hell. You can’t look at the wrong thing without getting ripped a new one. They definitely wouldn’t want to see anyone new up there. I’d probably lose my job over it, as a matter of fact.” I should be daunted, but this news only adds to the mystique I created in my mind around these men. “Well, I’m willing and available, if you want me to. I already finished my hallway. Or I could go with you and help? Make it go faster?” I see my suggestion worming through her objections. Interest flits over her face, followed by more consternation. I adopt a hopeful-helpful expression. “Well, maybe that would be all right...I’d be supervising you, after all.” Yes! I’m dying of curiosity to see the mafia bosses up close. Foolish, I know, but I can’t help it. I want to text Corey to tell her the news, but there isn’t time. Corey knows all about my fascination, since I already pumped her for information. Marissa loads a few other things on my cart and we head off together for the special bank of elevators—the only ones that go all the way to the top of the building and require a keycard to access. “So, these guys are really touchy. Most times they’re not in their rooms, and then all you have to worry about is staying away from their office desks,” Marissa explains once we left the last public floor and it was just the two of us in the elevator. “Don’t open any drawers—don’t do anything that appears nosy. I’m serious—these guys are scary.” The doors swish open and I push the cart out, following her around the bend to the first door. The sound of loud, male voices comes from the room. Marissa winces. “Always knock,” she whispers before lifting her knuckles to rap on the door. They clearly don’t hear her, because the loud talking continues. She knocks again and the talking stops. “Yeah?” a deep masculine voice calls out. “Housekeeping.” We wait as silence greets her call. After a moment the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy with slightly graying hair. “Yeah, we were just leaving.” He pulls on what must be a thousand dollar suit jacket. A slight gut thickens his middle, but otherwise he’s extremely good-looking. Behind him stand three other men, all dressed in equally nice suits, none wearing their jackets. They ignore us as they push past, resuming their conversation in the hallway. “So I tell him…” The door closes behind them. “Whew,” Marissa breathes. “It’s way easier if they’re not here.” She glances up at the corners of the rooms. “Of course there are cameras everywhere, so it’s not like we aren’t being watched.” She points to a tiny red light shining from a little device mounted at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. I’ve already noticed them all over the casino. “But it’s less nerve-wracking if we’re not tiptoeing around them.” She jerks her head down the hall. “You take the bathroom and bedrooms, I’ll do the kitchen, office and living area.” “Got it.” I grab the supplies I need off the cart and head in the direction she indicated. The bedroom’s well-appointed in a nondescript way. I pull the sheets and bedspread up to make the bed. The sheets were probably 3,000 thread count, if there is such a thing. That may be an exaggeration but, really, they are amazing. Just for kicks, I rub one against my cheek. It’s so smooth and soft. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in that bed. I wonder which of the guys slept in here. I make the bed with hospital corners, the way Marissa trained me to, dust and vacuum, then move on to the second bedroom and then the bathroom. When I finish, I find Marissa vacuuming in the living room. She switches it off and winds up the cord. “All done? Me too. Let’s go to the next one.” I push out the cart and she taps on the door of the suite down the hall. No answer. She keys us in. “It is way faster having you help,” she says gratefully. I flash her a smile. “I think it’s more fun to work as a team, too.” She smiles back. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think they would go for it as a regular thing, but it’s nice for a change.” “Same routine?” Chapter 2 “Unless you want to switch? This one only has one bedroom.” “Nah,” I say, “I like bed/bath.” Of course that’s because of my all-consuming curiosity. There are more personal effects in a bedroom and a bathroom, not that I saw anything of interest in the last place. I didn’t go poking around, of course. The cameras in every corner have me nervous. This place is the same as the last, as if they’d paid a decorator to furnish them and they were all identical. High luxury, but not much personality. Well, from what I understand, the Tacone family—at least the ones who run the Bellissimo—are all single men. What can I expect? I make the bed and move on to dusting. From the living room, I hear Marissa’s voice. “What?” I call out, but then I realize she’s talking on the phone. She comes in a moment later, breathless. “I have to go.” Her face has gone pale. “My kid’s been taken to the ER for a concussion.” “Oh shit. Go—I’ve got this. Do you want to give me the keycard for the last suite?” There are three suites on this top floor. She looks around distractedly. “No, I’d better not. Could you just finish this place up and head back downstairs? I’ll call Samuel to let him know what happened.” Samuel’s our boss, the head of housekeeping. “Don’t forget to stay away from the desk in the office.” “Sure thing. Get out of here.” I make a shooing motion. “Go be with your kid.” “Okay.” She digs her purse out from the cart and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “I hope he’s all right,” I say to her back as she leaves. She flings a weak smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. Bye.” I grab the vacuum and head back into the bedroom. When I finish, I hear male voices in the living room. “Hope you can get some sleep, Nico. How long’s it been?” one of the voices asked. “Forty-eight hours. Fucking insomnia.” “G’luck, see you later.” A door clicks shut. My heart immediately beats a little faster with excitement or nerves. Yes—I’m a fool. Later, I would realize my mistake in not marching right out and introducing myself, but Marissa has me nervous about the Tacones and I freeze up. The cart stands out in the living room, though. I decide to go into the bathroom and clean everything I can without getting fresh supplies. Finally, I give up, square my shoulders and head out. I arrive in the living room and pull out three folded towels, four hand towels and four washcloths. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the broad shoulders and back of another finely dressed man. He glances over then does a double-take. His dark eyes rake over me, lingering on my legs and traveling up to my breasts, then face. “Who the fuck are you?” I should’ve expected that response, but it startles me anyway. He sounds scary. Seriously scary, and he walks toward me like he means business. He’s beautiful, with dark wavy hair, a stubbled square jaw and thick-lashed eyes that bore a hole right through me. “Huh? Who. The fuck. Are you?” I panic. Instead of answering him, I turn and walk swiftly to the bathroom, as if putting fresh towels in his bathroom will fix everything. He stalks after me and follows me in. “What are you doing in here?” He knocks the towels out of my hands. Stunned, I stare down at them scattered on the floor. “I’m...housekeeping,” I offer lamely. Damn my idiotic fascination with the mafia. This is not the freaking Sopranos. This is a real-life, dangerous man wearing a gun in a holster under his armpit. I know, because I see it when he reaches for me. He grips my upper arms. “Bullshit. No one who looks like”—his eyes travel up and down the length of my body again—“you—works in housekeeping.” I blink, not sure what that means. I’m pretty, I know that, but there’s nothing special about me. I’m your girl-next-door blue-eyed blonde type, on the short and curvy side. Not like my cousin Corey, who is tall, slender, red-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, with the confidence to match. There’s something lewd in the way he looks at me that makes it sound like I’m standing there in nipple tassels and a G-string instead of my short, fitted maid’s dress. I play dumb. “I’m new. I’ve only been here a couple weeks.” He sports dark circles under his eyes, and I remember what he told the other man. He suffers from insomnia. Hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. “Are you bugging the place?” he demands. “Wha—” I can’t even answer. I just stare like an idiot. He starts frisking me for a weapon. “Is this a con? What do they think—I’m going to fuck you? Who sent you?” I attempt to answer, but his warm hands sliding all over me make me forget what I was going to say. Why is he talking about fucking me? He stands up and gives me a tiny shake. “Who. Sent. You?” His dark eyes mesmerize. He smells of the casino—of whiskey and cash, and beneath it, his own simmering essence. “No one...I mean, Marissa!” I exclaim her name like a secret password, but it only seems to irritate him further. He reaches out and runs his fingers swiftly along the collar of my housekeeping dress, as if checking for some hidden wiretap. I’m pretty sure the guy’s half out of his mind, maybe delirious with sleep deprivation. Maybe just nuts. I freeze, not wanting to set him off. To my shock, he yanks down the zipper on the front of my dress, all the way to my waist. If I were my cousin Corey, daughter of a mean FBI agent, I’d knee him in the balls, gun or not. But I was raised not to make waves. To be a nice girl and do what authority tells me to do. So, like a freaking idiot, I just stand there. A tiny mewl leaves my lips, but I don’t dare move, don’t protest. He yanks the form-fitting dress to my waist and jerks it down over my hips. I wrest my arms free from the fabric to wrap them around myself. Nico Tacone shoves me aside to get the dress out from under my feet. He picks it up and runs his hands all over it, still searching for the mythical wiretap while I shiver in my bra and panties. I fold my arms across my breasts. “Look, I’m not wearing a wire or bugging the place,” I breathe. “I was helping Marissa and then she got a call—” “Save it,” he barks. “You’re too fucking perfect. What’s the con? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say. He reaches for my bra. I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense. I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.” He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot. He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters. Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring. Then his brows slammed down as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick. That’s when things really go to shit. He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” I pee myself. Literally. God help me. I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thighs before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation. Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He stares at the dribble on the floor. I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction. He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation. Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check its temperature. My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm. He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.” Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off? Fuck it. I am a mess. I step in, panties and all. I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while, I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell is happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment. Keep it together, Sondra. Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat. Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry. I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff. The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it. Chapter 3 Nico Minchia. Shit. My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my head of HR why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom. I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me—making me paranoid and itchy. I need to get my little brother Stefano out here to help me run the place so I can sleep at least an hour a night. He’s the only one I trust. “Hey.” I make my voice softer. The girl’s standing under the spray of water, soaking her Harley Quinn pigtails and the pair of light blue satin panties she’s still wearing. Fuck if I don’t want to yank them right off her and see what’s underneath. I’m pretty sure she’s in shock, and who could blame her? I terrify my employees on my best days and that’s without tearing off their clothes and flashing a weapon. Her chest shudders as she lets out a silent sob and it gets under my skin, same way her sniffle did. Somehow, I don’t think undercover feds or any kind of professional would pee on my floor and cry in my shower. So yeah. I seriously fucked up here. I reach past her and shut off the water, soaking the entire arm of my suit jacket in the process. “Hey, don’t cry.” A better man might apologize, but until I’m one hundred percent sure there’s not something off here, I keep it in. I yank the shower curtain open, and pull her out to stand on the bath mat while I wrap one of the towels from the floor around her. Because she seems to still be in shock, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her wet panties and tug them down her trembling legs. I must not be as depraved as I think, because I somehow manage not to look at what she keeps under them when I lower to a squat and grip her ankle to help her step out of the dripping fabric. I toss them in the garbage can. Earlier, I threw a towel over the place where she peed, and her eyes dart there now. I know she’s gotta be completely humiliated by it, but the truth is, she’s not the first person I’ve made piss themselves. I guess she’s the first female. The only one I’m sorry for scaring. She’s trying to stifle her sobs, which, of course, only turns them into snorts and choked gasps. Now I really feel like a first-class asshole. “Aw, bambina.” I grab the two corners of the towel, and pull her against me. Her wet skin dampens my suit, but all I can think about is how soft her lush, naked form is against my body. The exhaustion in my limbs ebbs, cleared by the flames of white-hot desire. “Shh. You’re okay.” She trembles against me, but her sobs quiet. “Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head, her wet pigtails splattering a drop of water onto my cheek. Her gaze tracks to it. A loose section in the front flops over her eyes. I shift my grip on the towel to one hand and use the other to brush the hair back from her face. “You’re okay,” I repeat. She blinks up at me with long-lashed blue eyes. I love having her up close and captive where I can study her better. She’s as beautiful as I originally thought, with porcelain skin and high cheekbones. It’s not just beauty that makes her special. There’s some other quality that makes her seem so out of place here. A fresh-faced innocence. Yet she’s not overly naive or young. She’s not dumb, either. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t release her. I don’t want to. The heat of her body radiates through my damp clothes and crowds my mind with the dirtiest of thoughts. If I were a gentleman, I’d leave the room and let her get dressed, but I’m not. I’m an asshole with a hotel casino to run. And I still don’t know who the hell this girl is or how she ended up in my suite. And seriously, heads are going to roll for this. Even more because the girl suffered for it. Right. If my brain were working better, I might acknowledge I’m the only one who can take blame for that part, especially since I’m still holding her naked and captive. “It’s just a girl who looks like you doesn’t normally clean rooms in Vegas,” I offer as the lamest excuse ever. It’s true, though. I’m sure there are more girls like her out there. But I don’t see them around here. All I see are the fake-boobed hustlers trying to work some angle. The professionals. Women who use their bodies like weapons. And I have no problem with them. I’m happy to use their bodies, too. But this one—she’s different. Her full berry lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. I can’t keep my hands to myself. I run my thumb across her lower lip, trace it back and forth over the plump flesh. Her pupils dilate, giving me encouragement to keep touching. “A girl like you is usually on the stage—some kind of stage—even if it’s just a gentleman’s club.” Her eyes narrow but I don’t shut up. “Girl like you could make a shit ton selling herself.” Mary, Queen of Peace, I want to kiss the girl. I lower my lips but manage to stop above hers. A kiss would definitely not be welcome. I may be a scary prick, but I don’t force myself on women. “You know how much a guy like me would pay for a night with you?” This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together a moment before saying, “May I go?” I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt. She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy. “I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her, and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed. I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one. And that’s my strangest thought yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating. “I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing. Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.” I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women. And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation. “Who are you and why are you here?” She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin, Corey Simonson, works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss, and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars are out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck. I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk. She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.” I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?” “Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts. “That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes, I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her. I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for? She swallows and nods. “Yeah.” “You follow a guy here?” “No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.” I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off. “Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So”—she shrugs— “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totaled when I arrived.” “How is that your karma?” “Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.” I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?” “Mine.” “Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.” Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it. Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck, I need sleep. She blinks rapidly. “Because you won’t let me leave?” I was right. She’s smart. The corners of my mouth twitch. “Housekeeping is the only place I could get a job on short notice. I’d rather work as a dealer. Think you can hook me up?” Now she’s getting sassy. Funny, I don’t have the urge to take her down a peg the way I usually do with employees. Unless, of course, it involves her naked and at my mercy. Oh yeah. I already set that up. But the suggestion of her working as a dealer irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t know if it’s because she’d be ruined by Las Vegas in a month, or because I really want to keep her in my room. Cleaning my floors. Naked. “No.” She flinches because I say the word too hard. I’m definitely having a difficult time modulating my behavior. But she just shrugs. “Well, this is temporary, anyway. Just until I earn enough to get a new car and find a teaching job.” Okay, even not trusting my instincts, I think she’s who she says she is. Which means I have no good reason to keep her prisoner here. I step back and take another long perusal of her now that I know more about her. Seriously. I want to keep her. But considering the things I just did to her, she’ll probably quit the second she leaves my suite. I point to her crumpled dress and bra on the floor. “Get dressed.” Before I do or say anything else to traumatize the girl, I leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself. Chapter 4 Sondra Well. That was interesting. My knees wobble when I stand. What will he do now? Am I free to go? I pull on my clothes with shaking hands and zip my dress all the way up, even though he’s already seen my breasts. The wet panties are in the trash bin, so I go commando. I decide the best course of action is to hold my head high and march right out of there. Because there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to finish cleaning his suite after what just went down. I grab the doorknob and take a breath. Here goes nothing. He stands in the hallway in front of my cart, talking on his cell phone. Blocking my exit. Damn. I catch my breath again at how scary-sexy he looks—the delicious way he fills the expensive suit, his thick, dark hair that curled up at the edges, the penetrating dark eyes. He ends the call and drops his phone in his suit pocket. “Your story checked out, at least for now. I’ll be digging further.” His dark eyes glitter but the menace I sensed there before has vanished. I straighten my back, which draws his gaze down to my tits. “You won’t find anything.” The corners of his mouth curve faintly. He watches me like a lion watches prey. Hungry. Sure of himself. He shakes his head, almost ruefully. “Girl who looks like you…shouldn’t be cleaning rooms,” he mutters. I march past him, giving him a wide berth. “Yeah, you said that earlier.” The guy just totally violated me. Stripped me naked and watched me pee on his floor. I need to get the hell out of here and never come back. Forget working for the mafia. I have a life worth living…somewhere else. Somewhere far from Vegas. I push the cart, even though I never finished cleaning his bathroom. Just get the hell out, Sondra. “Hold up,” he barks. “Leave the cart. Tony will take you home.” A tap sounds at the door and a huge guy with a wire in his ear walks in. Judging by the bulge at his sides, he packs as much heat as Tacone. Fuckity fuck fuck. I step back, shaking my head. Oh hell, no. I’m not getting in a car with this guy so he can shoot me in the head and drop me off a pier. Okay, there are no piers in Las Vegas. The Hoover Dam, then. I’m not that stupid. “Relax.” Tacone must’ve seen the blood drain from my face. “You’ll get home safely. You have my word. Hold up just a minute.” He walks out of the living room and into his office. “I-I’ll just take a bus,” I call out after him and head toward the door, hoping to skirt past Tony. “That’s what I usually do.” Tony doesn’t budge from his position in front of the door. “You’re not taking the fucking bus.” Tacone sounds so scary I stop in my tracks. He returns holding an envelope, which he hands to Tony and murmurs something I didn’t hear. “Go with Tony.” It’s a command, not an option. Tony’s stood there stony-faced the whole time. Now, he lifts his chin at me. I walk to the door, trembling like a leaf. Tony opens it, ushers me through and shuts it again. I dart a glance up at the beefy man beside me. Tony drops a huge paw on my nape. “You’re okay.” Seriously? Does this guy care about my welfare? He ushers me forward into the elevator. “You hurt? Or just scared?” Every bit of my body trembles. “I’m okay.” I sound sullen. I position myself as far away from him as possible, folding my arms across my chest. Tony frowns at me. The elevator zooms down. “Boss isn’t himself. He didn’t—” The frown deepens. “Did he force you?” Okay, that’s kinda sweet. This guy really is checking up on me. But he works for Tacone, head of the crime family, so I’m not sure why he’s even asking. “What would you do if I said yes?” Dark fury comes over the guy’s face. He takes a step forward toward me. “Is that what happened?” Danger tinges the edges of his voice. I shake my head. “No. Not like you’re thinking.” I look away. “Not that. Something else.” I don’t look, but I can feel his glower still resting on me. “What would you have done if I said yes?” I ask again. I suppose my morbid curiosity about all things mafia prompts the repeated question. He presses his lips together and resumes a soldier-like stance. His signal that he’s not going to answer. When the elevator dings open, I dart forward, weaving into the throng of gamblers. Somehow, he stays right behind me. The meat-like hand drops on my nape again. “Slow down. I have orders to take you home.” “I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the bus—really.” He doesn’t remove his hand, but uses it to direct me through the crowd, which parts for his big frame and bigger presence. “I’m not gonna whack you, if that’s what you think.” I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re even having a conversation where whacking someone is involved. “Good to know.” It’s all I seem capable of saying. He takes me to another elevator—a private one he uses his keycard to get into. We arrive at the lowest floor, which appears to be the private parking area. He leads me to a limousine and opens the back door for me. “We’re going in this?” Maybe he really isn’t going to kill me. I look around at the other cars there. Limos, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. Row after row of luxury cars packed the floor. Wow. Tony smiles like he thinks I’m cute. “Yeah. Get in.” “You’re as bossy as your boss,” I mutter and he grins. I do as I’m told. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a death sentence or not, but I can breathe more steadily now. He doesn’t ask for my address but he drives straight to Corey’s place and pulls up along the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. A chill runs up my spine. Tacone had certainly checked up on me. Is this another way he throws his weight around? Showing me he knows where I live and how to find me? Or is this really a courtesy drop off? I push the door open the second the car stops. “Hold up.” Tony’s deep voice doesn’t have the same effect as Tacone’s. I don’t freeze. Instead, I run for the door. “I said, hold up,” he shouts, and I hear the slam of his door. “Mr. Tacone wanted me to give you something.” Hopefully not a bullet between the eyes. I fumble for my keys. No, I’m being stupid. He drove me home. The guy isn’t going to kill me. I turn around and watch him jog up the walk. He pulls the envelope Tacone handed him out of his jacket pocket and gives it to me. My name scrawls across the front in a thin, neat print. For some reason, I’m surprised at how beautiful Tacone’s handwriting is. I draw a shaky breath. “Is that it?” Tony’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, that’s it.” I swallow. “‘Kay. Thanks.” He smirks and turns away without another word. My hands shake as I work the key into the lock. It’s over. A bad day, nothing more. I never have to go back there again. Yes, they know where I live, but they took me home safe and sound. Nothing more will come of this. I had my little taste of the mafia, just like I wanted. Tomorrow I’ll start applying for a normal job. One that doesn’t involve shady underground characters with huge, hot hands and piercing dark eyes. One without guns, or the jingle of coins in slot machines. One without Tacone. Chapter 5 Sondra Dean, Corey’s boyfriend, sits on the couch watching TV. “Hey, Sondra.” He looks a little too happy to see me. My stomach clenches, awareness of my pantyless state increasing. The guy has a habit of leering at me, and I’m afraid he’ll somehow figure out there’s nothing under my very short dress. “Hey,” I mutter. He gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes, lingering way too long on my breasts. “What’s up?” There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about my crazy day. Corey, yes, but not him. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room—I crashed on their couch—so there was nowhere for me to hide. Earning enough to put the deposit on my own place is my first priority, even over getting a car that runs. I go to my suitcase in the corner and grab a change of clothes before locking myself in the bathroom. Only then do I realize I still clutch the envelope from Mr. Tacone. I stick my thumb under the flap and tear it open. Six crisp hundred-dollar bills slide out with a note of paper. I draw in my breath. For someone who has pretty much been broke, eating nothing but ramen noodles through college and grad school, it’s a lot of money. I had scholarships and assistantships in college, but that still put me below the poverty level. Adjunct teaching hasn’t exactly paid the bills, either. The note’s written in the same neat penmanship on the envelope. Sondra— Sorry for scaring you. Money doesn’t fix everything, but sometimes it helps. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. —Nico My heart skitters.Nico. He signed his first name? And apologized. Not in person, but still, it’s an apology. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. The image of his face leaning just inches from mine as he gripped the towel that bound me against him flashes through in my mind. My knees go weak. He wants me to return? He guessed correctly that I planned to quit and never set foot in the place again. I fan myself with the six hundred-dollar bills. Some people would take a high moral ground. Say they wouldn’t let him buy their silence or compliance or whatever. But not me. He’s right. Money does go a helluva long way to fixing things. Still, the asshole held a gun to my head. And stripped me naked. And I peed. It was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. But my sense of violation fades as I remember the way he also shoved me in the shower, toweled me off and murmured, you’re okay. I stare at the money. Six hundred dollars closer to moving off my cousin’s couch and into my own place. Six hundred dollars closer to getting another car. I can buy groceries and pay my cousin back for what she’s already spotted me. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to show up at work tomorrow. Yes, it had been utterly humiliating, but I’ll probably never see the guy again. It would save me the trouble of finding a new interim job while I figure my life out. I exhale slowly, trying to erase the vision of Tacone brushing my hair back from my face, his penetrating stare. I won’t have to see him again. And that’s a good thing. Definitely a good thing. I take a shower and exit the bathroom, unsurprised to find Dean lurking just outside it, ostensibly in the kitchen. I haven’t figured out how to tell Corey I think her boyfriend’s a lecherous, no-good cheating asshole. I don’t have any proof—just the way he looks at me, and seems way more interested in talking to me or hanging out when we’re alone. Considering I’m a magnet for cheating boyfriends, I know the vibe. I usually make it a habit not to be around when Dean is at the townhouse without Corey, but Tacone’s guy drove me home too quickly. I try to make the best of it. “Hey, Dean. You feel like driving me to the grocery store? I got paid today.” For getting strip searched. This time when the memory of Mr. Tacone’s—Nico’s—large hot hands roaming over my body flashed back, the fear is gone. A brief fantasy flickers in my mind—him peeling my panties down my legs for a different reason... "You know how much a guy like me would spend for a night with a girl like you?" Five thousand dollars! Stop thinking about him! I need to forget Nico Tacone is exactly the kind of man who makes my toes curl. Dark. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The ultimate bad boy. Yes, I’m in danger of falling to the dark side again. Big time. I need to stay strong. And stay away from this dangerous man. Nico's POV Sondra Simonson. It’s her real name. I asked security to pull everything they can find on her and bring me the file. Along with the video feed of our interaction. If she doesn’t quit, I definitely want her up in my room again. Naked. Preferably naked and willing this time, but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t like her a little scared. There was something so appealing about the way she both trembled and got turned on when I stripped her. Or had I imagined it? I’ll find out soon enough. Where is that damn video feed? I’m like a junkie waiting for his next hit. I can’t wait to watch the video of her. I’m going to be fucking my hand all night to the sight of her pouty lips and wide blue eyes decorating my screen. A knock sounds on the door. “It’s Tony.” The deep voice of my right-hand man echoes through the door. “Yeah?” “I dropped her off.” He steps in and gives me a careful look. I know he didn’t come in here just to tell me that. He came in to find out what the hell happened. Why I sent the maid home wet and scared. He’s worried about me. My mental state is starting to crumble with the inability to sleep. He’s too smart to come out and ask me what happened. He knows I’d tell him to mind his own fucking business. But he’s made a career out of standing around me silently, serving as my bodyguard, making himself available when I do feel like confiding. He’s not family. He’s not even Italian. He’s just a big, loyal guy from Cicero who decided I was the guy he was going to follow into the bowels of hell. I guess you could say he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. If a Tacone ever really has a friend. “She’s new. I thought she looked off, so I strip searched her.” A muscle in Tony’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. Tony is absolutely a defender of women. His ma was abused by his dad pretty bad and he’s still eager to even that score with any guy who manhandles a woman. Probably even, if it came down to it, me. But I don’t usually make a habit out of mistreating women. This one was a special case. I purse my lips and shrug. “I also may have pointed a gun at her head while I was questioning her.” I tell him in case there’s some mess we need to clean up from the fallout. Hopefully Sondra won’t kick up a fuss. I don’t think she will. And for some reason that bugs the hell out of me. I have terrible taste in men. Smart, well-educated, smoking hot little number like her shouldn’t be walking around with that fatal flaw that puts her in danger. Especially not in Vegas. Except it’s probably that terrible taste that turned her supple and pliant in my arms, too. Those incredible nipples pebbled up, that pussy turned wet for me. And I hadn’t even been coming on to her. I was rough-handling her like a deranged lunatic. Fuck. Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, Nico. The lack of sleep has you paranoid.” “I know.” I run my hand through my hair. “You need to take something. Have you tried the drugs?” I have a whole shelfful of pharmaceuticals that are supposed to help me sleep, but either they don’t work or I don’t like the way they make me feel afterward. Not that I like the delirium I’m under now. “Nah. I think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” “That’s what you said last night.” I look out the wall of windows that make up my penthouse suite. “So you got her home? Was she okay?” “She was skittish. You pay her off?” The words pay her off set my teeth on edge, even though that’s exactly what I did. Still, it sounds so sordid when associated with her. It’s the same reason I don’t want to see her dealing on my floor. She shouldn’t be sullied by all the shit that goes down at this hotel casino. She shouldn’t be sullied by me. Too bad I want to dirty her in every possible way. If I were a better man, I would make certain our paths never cross again. But I’m not. I’m not a good man. I put her right back in the lion’s den. “Call the head of housekeeping, ” I ordered, "And let him know-I want Sondra be the regular penthouse suite housekeeper."
I tug down the hem of my one-piece, zippered housekeeping uniform dress. The Pepto Bismol pink number comes to my upper thighs and fits like a glove, hugging my curves, showing off my cleavage. Clearly, the owners of the Bellissimo Hotel and Casino want their maids to look as hot as their cocktail girls. I went with it. I’m wearing a pair of platform-heeled wrap-arounds comfortable enough to clean rooms in, but sexy enough to show off the muscles in my legs, and I pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into two fluffy pigtails. When in Vegas, right? My feminist friends from grad school would have a fit with this. I push the not-so-little housekeeping cart down the hallway of the grand hotel portion of the casino. I spent all morning cleaning people’s messes. And let me tell you, the messes in Vegas are big. Drug paraphernalia. Semen. Condoms. Blood. And this is an expensive, high-class place. I’ve only worked here two weeks and I’ve already seen all that and more. I work fast. Some of the maids recommend taking your time so you don’t get overloaded, but I still hope to impress someone at the Bellissimo into giving me a better job. Hence dressing like the casino version of the French maid fantasy. Dolling myself up was probably prompted by what my cousin Corey dubs, The Voice of Wrong. I have the opposite of a sixth sense or voice of reason, especially when it comes to the male half of the population. Why else would I be broke and on the rebound from the two-timing party boy I left in Reno? I’m a smart woman. I have a master’s degree. I had a decent adjunct faculty position and a bright future. But when I realized all my suspicions about Tanner cheating on me were true, I packed the Subaru I shared with him and left for Vegas to stay with Corey, who promised to get me a job dealing cards with her here. But there aren’t any dealer jobs available at the moment—only housekeeping. So now I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, broke, single, and without a set of wheels because my car got totaled in a hit and run the day I arrived. Not that I plan to stay here long-term. I’m just testing the waters in Vegas. If I like it, I’ll apply for adjunct college teaching jobs. I’ve even considered substitute teaching high school once I have the wheels to get around. If I’m able to land a dealer job, though, I’ll take it because the money would be three times what I’d make in the public school system. Which is a tragedy to be discussed on another day. I head back into the main supply area which doubles as my boss’ office and load up my cart in the housekeeping cave, stacking towels and soap boxes in neat rows. “Oh for God’s sake.” Marissa, my supervisor, shoves her phone in the pocket of her housekeeping dress. A hot forty-two-year-old, she fills hers out in all the right places, making it look like a dress she chose to wear, rather than a uniform. “I have four people out sick today. Now I have to go do the bosses’ suites myself,” she groans. I perk up. I know—that’s The Voice of Wrong. I have a morbid fascination with everything mafioso. Like, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos and have memorized the script from The Godfather. “You mean the Tacones’ rooms? I’ll do them.” It’s stupid, but I want a glimpse of them. What do real mafia men look like? Al Pacino? James Gandolfini? Or are they just ordinary guys? Maybe I’ve already passed them while pushing my cart around. “I wish, but you can’t. It’s a special security clearance thing. And believe me—you don’t want to. They are super paranoid and picky as hell. You can’t look at the wrong thing without getting ripped a new one. They definitely wouldn’t want to see anyone new up there. I’d probably lose my job over it, as a matter of fact.” I should be daunted, but this news only adds to the mystique I created in my mind around these men. “Well, I’m willing and available, if you want me to. I already finished my hallway. Or I could go with you and help? Make it go faster?” I see my suggestion worming through her objections. Interest flits over her face, followed by more consternation. I adopt a hopeful-helpful expression. “Well, maybe that would be all right...I’d be supervising you, after all.” Yes! I’m dying of curiosity to see the mafia bosses up close. Foolish, I know, but I can’t help it. I want to text Corey to tell her the news, but there isn’t time. Corey knows all about my fascination, since I already pumped her for information. Marissa loads a few other things on my cart and we head off together for the special bank of elevators—the only ones that go all the way to the top of the building and require a keycard to access. “So, these guys are really touchy. Most times they’re not in their rooms, and then all you have to worry about is staying away from their office desks,” Marissa explains once we left the last public floor and it was just the two of us in the elevator. “Don’t open any drawers—don’t do anything that appears nosy. I’m serious—these guys are scary.” The doors swish open and I push the cart out, following her around the bend to the first door. The sound of loud, male voices comes from the room. Marissa winces. “Always knock,” she whispers before lifting her knuckles to rap on the door. They clearly don’t hear her, because the loud talking continues. She knocks again and the talking stops. “Yeah?” a deep masculine voice calls out. “Housekeeping.” We wait as silence greets her call. After a moment the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy with slightly graying hair. “Yeah, we were just leaving.” He pulls on what must be a thousand dollar suit jacket. A slight gut thickens his middle, but otherwise he’s extremely good-looking. Behind him stand three other men, all dressed in equally nice suits, none wearing their jackets. They ignore us as they push past, resuming their conversation in the hallway. “So I tell him…” The door closes behind them. “Whew,” Marissa breathes. “It’s way easier if they’re not here.” She glances up at the corners of the rooms. “Of course there are cameras everywhere, so it’s not like we aren’t being watched.” She points to a tiny red light shining from a little device mounted at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. I’ve already noticed them all over the casino. “But it’s less nerve-wracking if we’re not tiptoeing around them.” She jerks her head down the hall. “You take the bathroom and bedrooms, I’ll do the kitchen, office and living area.” “Got it.” I grab the supplies I need off the cart and head in the direction she indicated. The bedroom’s well-appointed in a nondescript way. I pull the sheets and bedspread up to make the bed. The sheets were probably 3,000 thread count, if there is such a thing. That may be an exaggeration but, really, they are amazing. Just for kicks, I rub one against my cheek. It’s so smooth and soft. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in that bed. I wonder which of the guys slept in here. I make the bed with hospital corners, the way Marissa trained me to, dust and vacuum, then move on to the second bedroom and then the bathroom. When I finish, I find Marissa vacuuming in the living room. She switches it off and winds up the cord. “All done? Me too. Let’s go to the next one.” I push out the cart and she taps on the door of the suite down the hall. No answer. She keys us in. “It is way faster having you help,” she says gratefully. I flash her a smile. “I think it’s more fun to work as a team, too.” She smiles back. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think they would go for it as a regular thing, but it’s nice for a change.” “Same routine?” Chapter 2 “Unless you want to switch? This one only has one bedroom.” “Nah,” I say, “I like bed/bath.” Of course that’s because of my all-consuming curiosity. There are more personal effects in a bedroom and a bathroom, not that I saw anything of interest in the last place. I didn’t go poking around, of course. The cameras in every corner have me nervous. This place is the same as the last, as if they’d paid a decorator to furnish them and they were all identical. High luxury, but not much personality. Well, from what I understand, the Tacone family—at least the ones who run the Bellissimo—are all single men. What can I expect? I make the bed and move on to dusting. From the living room, I hear Marissa’s voice. “What?” I call out, but then I realize she’s talking on the phone. She comes in a moment later, breathless. “I have to go.” Her face has gone pale. “My kid’s been taken to the ER for a concussion.” “Oh shit. Go—I’ve got this. Do you want to give me the keycard for the last suite?” There are three suites on this top floor. She looks around distractedly. “No, I’d better not. Could you just finish this place up and head back downstairs? I’ll call Samuel to let him know what happened.” Samuel’s our boss, the head of housekeeping. “Don’t forget to stay away from the desk in the office.” “Sure thing. Get out of here.” I make a shooing motion. “Go be with your kid.” “Okay.” She digs her purse out from the cart and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “I hope he’s all right,” I say to her back as she leaves. She flings a weak smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. Bye.” I grab the vacuum and head back into the bedroom. When I finish, I hear male voices in the living room. “Hope you can get some sleep, Nico. How long’s it been?” one of the voices asked. “Forty-eight hours. Fucking insomnia.” “G’luck, see you later.” A door clicks shut. My heart immediately beats a little faster with excitement or nerves. Yes—I’m a fool. Later, I would realize my mistake in not marching right out and introducing myself, but Marissa has me nervous about the Tacones and I freeze up. The cart stands out in the living room, though. I decide to go into the bathroom and clean everything I can without getting fresh supplies. Finally, I give up, square my shoulders and head out. I arrive in the living room and pull out three folded towels, four hand towels and four washcloths. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the broad shoulders and back of another finely dressed man. He glances over then does a double-take. His dark eyes rake over me, lingering on my legs and traveling up to my breasts, then face. “Who the fuck are you?” I should’ve expected that response, but it startles me anyway. He sounds scary. Seriously scary, and he walks toward me like he means business. He’s beautiful, with dark wavy hair, a stubbled square jaw and thick-lashed eyes that bore a hole right through me. “Huh? Who. The fuck. Are you?” I panic. Instead of answering him, I turn and walk swiftly to the bathroom, as if putting fresh towels in his bathroom will fix everything. He stalks after me and follows me in. “What are you doing in here?” He knocks the towels out of my hands. Stunned, I stare down at them scattered on the floor. “I’m...housekeeping,” I offer lamely. Damn my idiotic fascination with the mafia. This is not the freaking Sopranos. This is a real-life, dangerous man wearing a gun in a holster under his armpit. I know, because I see it when he reaches for me. He grips my upper arms. “Bullshit. No one who looks like”—his eyes travel up and down the length of my body again—“you—works in housekeeping.” I blink, not sure what that means. I’m pretty, I know that, but there’s nothing special about me. I’m your girl-next-door blue-eyed blonde type, on the short and curvy side. Not like my cousin Corey, who is tall, slender, red-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, with the confidence to match. There’s something lewd in the way he looks at me that makes it sound like I’m standing there in nipple tassels and a G-string instead of my short, fitted maid’s dress. I play dumb. “I’m new. I’ve only been here a couple weeks.” He sports dark circles under his eyes, and I remember what he told the other man. He suffers from insomnia. Hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. “Are you bugging the place?” he demands. “Wha—” I can’t even answer. I just stare like an idiot. He starts frisking me for a weapon. “Is this a con? What do they think—I’m going to fuck you? Who sent you?” I attempt to answer, but his warm hands sliding all over me make me forget what I was going to say. Why is he talking about fucking me? He stands up and gives me a tiny shake. “Who. Sent. You?” His dark eyes mesmerize. He smells of the casino—of whiskey and cash, and beneath it, his own simmering essence. “No one...I mean, Marissa!” I exclaim her name like a secret password, but it only seems to irritate him further. He reaches out and runs his fingers swiftly along the collar of my housekeeping dress, as if checking for some hidden wiretap. I’m pretty sure the guy’s half out of his mind, maybe delirious with sleep deprivation. Maybe just nuts. I freeze, not wanting to set him off. To my shock, he yanks down the zipper on the front of my dress, all the way to my waist. If I were my cousin Corey, daughter of a mean FBI agent, I’d knee him in the balls, gun or not. But I was raised not to make waves. To be a nice girl and do what authority tells me to do. So, like a freaking idiot, I just stand there. A tiny mewl leaves my lips, but I don’t dare move, don’t protest. He yanks the form-fitting dress to my waist and jerks it down over my hips. I wrest my arms free from the fabric to wrap them around myself. Nico Tacone shoves me aside to get the dress out from under my feet. He picks it up and runs his hands all over it, still searching for the mythical wiretap while I shiver in my bra and panties. I fold my arms across my breasts. “Look, I’m not wearing a wire or bugging the place,” I breathe. “I was helping Marissa and then she got a call—” “Save it,” he barks. “You’re too fucking perfect. What’s the con? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say. He reaches for my bra. I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense. I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.” He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot. He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters. Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring. Then his brows slammed down as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick. That’s when things really go to shit. He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” I pee myself. Literally. God help me. I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thighs before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation. Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He stares at the dribble on the floor. I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction. He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation. Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check its temperature. My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm. He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.” Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off? Fuck it. I am a mess. I step in, panties and all. I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while, I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell is happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment. Keep it together, Sondra. Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat. Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry. I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff. The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it. Chapter 3 Nico Minchia. Shit. My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my head of HR why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom. I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me—making me paranoid and itchy. I need to get my little brother Stefano out here to help me run the place so I can sleep at least an hour a night. He’s the only one I trust. “Hey.” I make my voice softer. The girl’s standing under the spray of water, soaking her Harley Quinn pigtails and the pair of light blue satin panties she’s still wearing. Fuck if I don’t want to yank them right off her and see what’s underneath. I’m pretty sure she’s in shock, and who could blame her? I terrify my employees on my best days and that’s without tearing off their clothes and flashing a weapon. Her chest shudders as she lets out a silent sob and it gets under my skin, same way her sniffle did. Somehow, I don’t think undercover feds or any kind of professional would pee on my floor and cry in my shower. So yeah. I seriously fucked up here. I reach past her and shut off the water, soaking the entire arm of my suit jacket in the process. “Hey, don’t cry.” A better man might apologize, but until I’m one hundred percent sure there’s not something off here, I keep it in. I yank the shower curtain open, and pull her out to stand on the bath mat while I wrap one of the towels from the floor around her. Because she seems to still be in shock, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her wet panties and tug them down her trembling legs. I must not be as depraved as I think, because I somehow manage not to look at what she keeps under them when I lower to a squat and grip her ankle to help her step out of the dripping fabric. I toss them in the garbage can. Earlier, I threw a towel over the place where she peed, and her eyes dart there now. I know she’s gotta be completely humiliated by it, but the truth is, she’s not the first person I’ve made piss themselves. I guess she’s the first female. The only one I’m sorry for scaring. She’s trying to stifle her sobs, which, of course, only turns them into snorts and choked gasps. Now I really feel like a first-class asshole. “Aw, bambina.” I grab the two corners of the towel, and pull her against me. Her wet skin dampens my suit, but all I can think about is how soft her lush, naked form is against my body. The exhaustion in my limbs ebbs, cleared by the flames of white-hot desire. “Shh. You’re okay.” She trembles against me, but her sobs quiet. “Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head, her wet pigtails splattering a drop of water onto my cheek. Her gaze tracks to it. A loose section in the front flops over her eyes. I shift my grip on the towel to one hand and use the other to brush the hair back from her face. “You’re okay,” I repeat. She blinks up at me with long-lashed blue eyes. I love having her up close and captive where I can study her better. She’s as beautiful as I originally thought, with porcelain skin and high cheekbones. It’s not just beauty that makes her special. There’s some other quality that makes her seem so out of place here. A fresh-faced innocence. Yet she’s not overly naive or young. She’s not dumb, either. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t release her. I don’t want to. The heat of her body radiates through my damp clothes and crowds my mind with the dirtiest of thoughts. If I were a gentleman, I’d leave the room and let her get dressed, but I’m not. I’m an asshole with a hotel casino to run. And I still don’t know who the hell this girl is or how she ended up in my suite. And seriously, heads are going to roll for this. Even more because the girl suffered for it. Right. If my brain were working better, I might acknowledge I’m the only one who can take blame for that part, especially since I’m still holding her naked and captive. “It’s just a girl who looks like you doesn’t normally clean rooms in Vegas,” I offer as the lamest excuse ever. It’s true, though. I’m sure there are more girls like her out there. But I don’t see them around here. All I see are the fake-boobed hustlers trying to work some angle. The professionals. Women who use their bodies like weapons. And I have no problem with them. I’m happy to use their bodies, too. But this one—she’s different. Her full berry lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. I can’t keep my hands to myself. I run my thumb across her lower lip, trace it back and forth over the plump flesh. Her pupils dilate, giving me encouragement to keep touching. “A girl like you is usually on the stage—some kind of stage—even if it’s just a gentleman’s club.” Her eyes narrow but I don’t shut up. “Girl like you could make a shit ton selling herself.” Mary, Queen of Peace, I want to kiss the girl. I lower my lips but manage to stop above hers. A kiss would definitely not be welcome. I may be a scary prick, but I don’t force myself on women. “You know how much a guy like me would pay for a night with you?” This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together a moment before saying, “May I go?” I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt. She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy. “I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her, and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed. I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one. And that’s my strangest thought yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating. “I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing. Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.” I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women. And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation. “Who are you and why are you here?” She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin, Corey Simonson, works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss, and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars are out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck. I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk. She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.” I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?” “Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts. “That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes, I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her. I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for? She swallows and nods. “Yeah.” “You follow a guy here?” “No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.” I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off. “Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So”—she shrugs— “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totaled when I arrived.” “How is that your karma?” “Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.” I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?” “Mine.” “Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.” Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it. Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck, I need sleep. She blinks rapidly. “Because you won’t let me leave?” I was right. She’s smart. The corners of my mouth twitch. “Housekeeping is the only place I could get a job on short notice. I’d rather work as a dealer. Think you can hook me up?” Now she’s getting sassy. Funny, I don’t have the urge to take her down a peg the way I usually do with employees. Unless, of course, it involves her naked and at my mercy. Oh yeah. I already set that up. But the suggestion of her working as a dealer irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t know if it’s because she’d be ruined by Las Vegas in a month, or because I really want to keep her in my room. Cleaning my floors. Naked. “No.” She flinches because I say the word too hard. I’m definitely having a difficult time modulating my behavior. But she just shrugs. “Well, this is temporary, anyway. Just until I earn enough to get a new car and find a teaching job.” Okay, even not trusting my instincts, I think she’s who she says she is. Which means I have no good reason to keep her prisoner here. I step back and take another long perusal of her now that I know more about her. Seriously. I want to keep her. But considering the things I just did to her, she’ll probably quit the second she leaves my suite. I point to her crumpled dress and bra on the floor. “Get dressed.” Before I do or say anything else to traumatize the girl, I leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself. Chapter 4 Sondra Well. That was interesting. My knees wobble when I stand. What will he do now? Am I free to go? I pull on my clothes with shaking hands and zip my dress all the way up, even though he’s already seen my breasts. The wet panties are in the trash bin, so I go commando. I decide the best course of action is to hold my head high and march right out of there. Because there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to finish cleaning his suite after what just went down. I grab the doorknob and take a breath. Here goes nothing. He stands in the hallway in front of my cart, talking on his cell phone. Blocking my exit. Damn. I catch my breath again at how scary-sexy he looks—the delicious way he fills the expensive suit, his thick, dark hair that curled up at the edges, the penetrating dark eyes. He ends the call and drops his phone in his suit pocket. “Your story checked out, at least for now. I’ll be digging further.” His dark eyes glitter but the menace I sensed there before has vanished. I straighten my back, which draws his gaze down to my tits. “You won’t find anything.” The corners of his mouth curve faintly. He watches me like a lion watches prey. Hungry. Sure of himself. He shakes his head, almost ruefully. “Girl who looks like you…shouldn’t be cleaning rooms,” he mutters. I march past him, giving him a wide berth. “Yeah, you said that earlier.” The guy just totally violated me. Stripped me naked and watched me pee on his floor. I need to get the hell out of here and never come back. Forget working for the mafia. I have a life worth living…somewhere else. Somewhere far from Vegas. I push the cart, even though I never finished cleaning his bathroom. Just get the hell out, Sondra. “Hold up,” he barks. “Leave the cart. Tony will take you home.” A tap sounds at the door and a huge guy with a wire in his ear walks in. Judging by the bulge at his sides, he packs as much heat as Tacone. Fuckity fuck fuck. I step back, shaking my head. Oh hell, no. I’m not getting in a car with this guy so he can shoot me in the head and drop me off a pier. Okay, there are no piers in Las Vegas. The Hoover Dam, then. I’m not that stupid. “Relax.” Tacone must’ve seen the blood drain from my face. “You’ll get home safely. You have my word. Hold up just a minute.” He walks out of the living room and into his office. “I-I’ll just take a bus,” I call out after him and head toward the door, hoping to skirt past Tony. “That’s what I usually do.” Tony doesn’t budge from his position in front of the door. “You’re not taking the fucking bus.” Tacone sounds so scary I stop in my tracks. He returns holding an envelope, which he hands to Tony and murmurs something I didn’t hear. “Go with Tony.” It’s a command, not an option. Tony’s stood there stony-faced the whole time. Now, he lifts his chin at me. I walk to the door, trembling like a leaf. Tony opens it, ushers me through and shuts it again. I dart a glance up at the beefy man beside me. Tony drops a huge paw on my nape. “You’re okay.” Seriously? Does this guy care about my welfare? He ushers me forward into the elevator. “You hurt? Or just scared?” Every bit of my body trembles. “I’m okay.” I sound sullen. I position myself as far away from him as possible, folding my arms across my chest. Tony frowns at me. The elevator zooms down. “Boss isn’t himself. He didn’t—” The frown deepens. “Did he force you?” Okay, that’s kinda sweet. This guy really is checking up on me. But he works for Tacone, head of the crime family, so I’m not sure why he’s even asking. “What would you do if I said yes?” Dark fury comes over the guy’s face. He takes a step forward toward me. “Is that what happened?” Danger tinges the edges of his voice. I shake my head. “No. Not like you’re thinking.” I look away. “Not that. Something else.” I don’t look, but I can feel his glower still resting on me. “What would you have done if I said yes?” I ask again. I suppose my morbid curiosity about all things mafia prompts the repeated question. He presses his lips together and resumes a soldier-like stance. His signal that he’s not going to answer. When the elevator dings open, I dart forward, weaving into the throng of gamblers. Somehow, he stays right behind me. The meat-like hand drops on my nape again. “Slow down. I have orders to take you home.” “I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the bus—really.” He doesn’t remove his hand, but uses it to direct me through the crowd, which parts for his big frame and bigger presence. “I’m not gonna whack you, if that’s what you think.” I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re even having a conversation where whacking someone is involved. “Good to know.” It’s all I seem capable of saying. He takes me to another elevator—a private one he uses his keycard to get into. We arrive at the lowest floor, which appears to be the private parking area. He leads me to a limousine and opens the back door for me. “We’re going in this?” Maybe he really isn’t going to kill me. I look around at the other cars there. Limos, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. Row after row of luxury cars packed the floor. Wow. Tony smiles like he thinks I’m cute. “Yeah. Get in.” “You’re as bossy as your boss,” I mutter and he grins. I do as I’m told. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a death sentence or not, but I can breathe more steadily now. He doesn’t ask for my address but he drives straight to Corey’s place and pulls up along the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. A chill runs up my spine. Tacone had certainly checked up on me. Is this another way he throws his weight around? Showing me he knows where I live and how to find me? Or is this really a courtesy drop off? I push the door open the second the car stops. “Hold up.” Tony’s deep voice doesn’t have the same effect as Tacone’s. I don’t freeze. Instead, I run for the door. “I said, hold up,” he shouts, and I hear the slam of his door. “Mr. Tacone wanted me to give you something.” Hopefully not a bullet between the eyes. I fumble for my keys. No, I’m being stupid. He drove me home. The guy isn’t going to kill me. I turn around and watch him jog up the walk. He pulls the envelope Tacone handed him out of his jacket pocket and gives it to me. My name scrawls across the front in a thin, neat print. For some reason, I’m surprised at how beautiful Tacone’s handwriting is. I draw a shaky breath. “Is that it?” Tony’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, that’s it.” I swallow. “‘Kay. Thanks.” He smirks and turns away without another word. My hands shake as I work the key into the lock. It’s over. A bad day, nothing more. I never have to go back there again. Yes, they know where I live, but they took me home safe and sound. Nothing more will come of this. I had my little taste of the mafia, just like I wanted. Tomorrow I’ll start applying for a normal job. One that doesn’t involve shady underground characters with huge, hot hands and piercing dark eyes. One without guns, or the jingle of coins in slot machines. One without Tacone. Chapter 5 Sondra Dean, Corey’s boyfriend, sits on the couch watching TV. “Hey, Sondra.” He looks a little too happy to see me. My stomach clenches, awareness of my pantyless state increasing. The guy has a habit of leering at me, and I’m afraid he’ll somehow figure out there’s nothing under my very short dress. “Hey,” I mutter. He gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes, lingering way too long on my breasts. “What’s up?” There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about my crazy day. Corey, yes, but not him. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room—I crashed on their couch—so there was nowhere for me to hide. Earning enough to put the deposit on my own place is my first priority, even over getting a car that runs. I go to my suitcase in the corner and grab a change of clothes before locking myself in the bathroom. Only then do I realize I still clutch the envelope from Mr. Tacone. I stick my thumb under the flap and tear it open. Six crisp hundred-dollar bills slide out with a note of paper. I draw in my breath. For someone who has pretty much been broke, eating nothing but ramen noodles through college and grad school, it’s a lot of money. I had scholarships and assistantships in college, but that still put me below the poverty level. Adjunct teaching hasn’t exactly paid the bills, either. The note’s written in the same neat penmanship on the envelope. Sondra— Sorry for scaring you. Money doesn’t fix everything, but sometimes it helps. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. —Nico My heart skitters.Nico. He signed his first name? And apologized. Not in person, but still, it’s an apology. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. The image of his face leaning just inches from mine as he gripped the towel that bound me against him flashes through in my mind. My knees go weak. He wants me to return? He guessed correctly that I planned to quit and never set foot in the place again. I fan myself with the six hundred-dollar bills. Some people would take a high moral ground. Say they wouldn’t let him buy their silence or compliance or whatever. But not me. He’s right. Money does go a helluva long way to fixing things. Still, the asshole held a gun to my head. And stripped me naked. And I peed. It was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. But my sense of violation fades as I remember the way he also shoved me in the shower, toweled me off and murmured, you’re okay. I stare at the money. Six hundred dollars closer to moving off my cousin’s couch and into my own place. Six hundred dollars closer to getting another car. I can buy groceries and pay my cousin back for what she’s already spotted me. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to show up at work tomorrow. Yes, it had been utterly humiliating, but I’ll probably never see the guy again. It would save me the trouble of finding a new interim job while I figure my life out. I exhale slowly, trying to erase the vision of Tacone brushing my hair back from my face, his penetrating stare. I won’t have to see him again. And that’s a good thing. Definitely a good thing. I take a shower and exit the bathroom, unsurprised to find Dean lurking just outside it, ostensibly in the kitchen. I haven’t figured out how to tell Corey I think her boyfriend’s a lecherous, no-good cheating asshole. I don’t have any proof—just the way he looks at me, and seems way more interested in talking to me or hanging out when we’re alone. Considering I’m a magnet for cheating boyfriends, I know the vibe. I usually make it a habit not to be around when Dean is at the townhouse without Corey, but Tacone’s guy drove me home too quickly. I try to make the best of it. “Hey, Dean. You feel like driving me to the grocery store? I got paid today.” For getting strip searched. This time when the memory of Mr. Tacone’s—Nico’s—large hot hands roaming over my body flashed back, the fear is gone. A brief fantasy flickers in my mind—him peeling my panties down my legs for a different reason... "You know how much a guy like me would spend for a night with a girl like you?" Five thousand dollars! Stop thinking about him! I need to forget Nico Tacone is exactly the kind of man who makes my toes curl. Dark. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The ultimate bad boy. Yes, I’m in danger of falling to the dark side again. Big time. I need to stay strong. And stay away from this dangerous man. Nico's POV Sondra Simonson. It’s her real name. I asked security to pull everything they can find on her and bring me the file. Along with the video feed of our interaction. If she doesn’t quit, I definitely want her up in my room again. Naked. Preferably naked and willing this time, but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t like her a little scared. There was something so appealing about the way she both trembled and got turned on when I stripped her. Or had I imagined it? I’ll find out soon enough. Where is that damn video feed? I’m like a junkie waiting for his next hit. I can’t wait to watch the video of her. I’m going to be fucking my hand all night to the sight of her pouty lips and wide blue eyes decorating my screen. A knock sounds on the door. “It’s Tony.” The deep voice of my right-hand man echoes through the door. “Yeah?” “I dropped her off.” He steps in and gives me a careful look. I know he didn’t come in here just to tell me that. He came in to find out what the hell happened. Why I sent the maid home wet and scared. He’s worried about me. My mental state is starting to crumble with the inability to sleep. He’s too smart to come out and ask me what happened. He knows I’d tell him to mind his own fucking business. But he’s made a career out of standing around me silently, serving as my bodyguard, making himself available when I do feel like confiding. He’s not family. He’s not even Italian. He’s just a big, loyal guy from Cicero who decided I was the guy he was going to follow into the bowels of hell. I guess you could say he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. If a Tacone ever really has a friend. “She’s new. I thought she looked off, so I strip searched her.” A muscle in Tony’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. Tony is absolutely a defender of women. His ma was abused by his dad pretty bad and he’s still eager to even that score with any guy who manhandles a woman. Probably even, if it came down to it, me. But I don’t usually make a habit out of mistreating women. This one was a special case. I purse my lips and shrug. “I also may have pointed a gun at her head while I was questioning her.” I tell him in case there’s some mess we need to clean up from the fallout. Hopefully Sondra won’t kick up a fuss. I don’t think she will. And for some reason that bugs the hell out of me. I have terrible taste in men. Smart, well-educated, smoking hot little number like her shouldn’t be walking around with that fatal flaw that puts her in danger. Especially not in Vegas. Except it’s probably that terrible taste that turned her supple and pliant in my arms, too. Those incredible nipples pebbled up, that pussy turned wet for me. And I hadn’t even been coming on to her. I was rough-handling her like a deranged lunatic. Fuck. Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, Nico. The lack of sleep has you paranoid.” “I know.” I run my hand through my hair. “You need to take something. Have you tried the drugs?” I have a whole shelfful of pharmaceuticals that are supposed to help me sleep, but either they don’t work or I don’t like the way they make me feel afterward. Not that I like the delirium I’m under now. “Nah. I think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” “That’s what you said last night.” I look out the wall of windows that make up my penthouse suite. “So you got her home? Was she okay?” “She was skittish. You pay her off?” The words pay her off set my teeth on edge, even though that’s exactly what I did. Still, it sounds so sordid when associated with her. It’s the same reason I don’t want to see her dealing on my floor. She shouldn’t be sullied by all the shit that goes down at this hotel casino. She shouldn’t be sullied by me. Too bad I want to dirty her in every possible way. If I were a better man, I would make certain our paths never cross again. But I’m not. I’m not a good man. I put her right back in the lion’s den. “Call the head of housekeeping, ” I ordered, "And let him know-I want Sondra be the regular penthouse suite housekeeper."
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I tug down the hem of my one-piece, zippered housekeeping uniform dress. The Pepto Bismol pink number comes to my upper thighs and fits like a glove, hugging my curves, showing off my cleavage. Clearly, the owners of the Bellissimo Hotel and Casino want their maids to look as hot as their cocktail girls. I went with it. I’m wearing a pair of platform-heeled wrap-arounds comfortable enough to clean rooms in, but sexy enough to show off the muscles in my legs, and I pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into two fluffy pigtails. When in Vegas, right? My feminist friends from grad school would have a fit with this. I push the not-so-little housekeeping cart down the hallway of the grand hotel portion of the casino. I spent all morning cleaning people’s messes. And let me tell you, the messes in Vegas are big. Drug paraphernalia. Semen. Condoms. Blood. And this is an expensive, high-class place. I’ve only worked here two weeks and I’ve already seen all that and more. I work fast. Some of the maids recommend taking your time so you don’t get overloaded, but I still hope to impress someone at the Bellissimo into giving me a better job. Hence dressing like the casino version of the French maid fantasy. Dolling myself up was probably prompted by what my cousin Corey dubs, The Voice of Wrong. I have the opposite of a sixth sense or voice of reason, especially when it comes to the male half of the population. Why else would I be broke and on the rebound from the two-timing party boy I left in Reno? I’m a smart woman. I have a master’s degree. I had a decent adjunct faculty position and a bright future. But when I realized all my suspicions about Tanner cheating on me were true, I packed the Subaru I shared with him and left for Vegas to stay with Corey, who promised to get me a job dealing cards with her here. But there aren’t any dealer jobs available at the moment—only housekeeping. So now I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, broke, single, and without a set of wheels because my car got totaled in a hit and run the day I arrived. Not that I plan to stay here long-term. I’m just testing the waters in Vegas. If I like it, I’ll apply for adjunct college teaching jobs. I’ve even considered substitute teaching high school once I have the wheels to get around. If I’m able to land a dealer job, though, I’ll take it because the money would be three times what I’d make in the public school system. Which is a tragedy to be discussed on another day. I head back into the main supply area which doubles as my boss’ office and load up my cart in the housekeeping cave, stacking towels and soap boxes in neat rows. “Oh for God’s sake.” Marissa, my supervisor, shoves her phone in the pocket of her housekeeping dress. A hot forty-two-year-old, she fills hers out in all the right places, making it look like a dress she chose to wear, rather than a uniform. “I have four people out sick today. Now I have to go do the bosses’ suites myself,” she groans. I perk up. I know—that’s The Voice of Wrong. I have a morbid fascination with everything mafioso. Like, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos and have memorized the script from The Godfather. “You mean the Tacones’ rooms? I’ll do them.” It’s stupid, but I want a glimpse of them. What do real mafia men look like? Al Pacino? James Gandolfini? Or are they just ordinary guys? Maybe I’ve already passed them while pushing my cart around. “I wish, but you can’t. It’s a special security clearance thing. And believe me—you don’t want to. They are super paranoid and picky as hell. You can’t look at the wrong thing without getting ripped a new one. They definitely wouldn’t want to see anyone new up there. I’d probably lose my job over it, as a matter of fact.” I should be daunted, but this news only adds to the mystique I created in my mind around these men. “Well, I’m willing and available, if you want me to. I already finished my hallway. Or I could go with you and help? Make it go faster?” I see my suggestion worming through her objections. Interest flits over her face, followed by more consternation. I adopt a hopeful-helpful expression. “Well, maybe that would be all right...I’d be supervising you, after all.” Yes! I’m dying of curiosity to see the mafia bosses up close. Foolish, I know, but I can’t help it. I want to text Corey to tell her the news, but there isn’t time. Corey knows all about my fascination, since I already pumped her for information. Marissa loads a few other things on my cart and we head off together for the special bank of elevators—the only ones that go all the way to the top of the building and require a keycard to access. “So, these guys are really touchy. Most times they’re not in their rooms, and then all you have to worry about is staying away from their office desks,” Marissa explains once we left the last public floor and it was just the two of us in the elevator. “Don’t open any drawers—don’t do anything that appears nosy. I’m serious—these guys are scary.” The doors swish open and I push the cart out, following her around the bend to the first door. The sound of loud, male voices comes from the room. Marissa winces. “Always knock,” she whispers before lifting her knuckles to rap on the door. They clearly don’t hear her, because the loud talking continues. She knocks again and the talking stops. “Yeah?” a deep masculine voice calls out. “Housekeeping.” We wait as silence greets her call. After a moment the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy with slightly graying hair. “Yeah, we were just leaving.” He pulls on what must be a thousand dollar suit jacket. A slight gut thickens his middle, but otherwise he’s extremely good-looking. Behind him stand three other men, all dressed in equally nice suits, none wearing their jackets. They ignore us as they push past, resuming their conversation in the hallway. “So I tell him…” The door closes behind them. “Whew,” Marissa breathes. “It’s way easier if they’re not here.” She glances up at the corners of the rooms. “Of course there are cameras everywhere, so it’s not like we aren’t being watched.” She points to a tiny red light shining from a little device mounted at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. I’ve already noticed them all over the casino. “But it’s less nerve-wracking if we’re not tiptoeing around them.” She jerks her head down the hall. “You take the bathroom and bedrooms, I’ll do the kitchen, office and living area.” “Got it.” I grab the supplies I need off the cart and head in the direction she indicated. The bedroom’s well-appointed in a nondescript way. I pull the sheets and bedspread up to make the bed. The sheets were probably 3,000 thread count, if there is such a thing. That may be an exaggeration but, really, they are amazing. Just for kicks, I rub one against my cheek. It’s so smooth and soft. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in that bed. I wonder which of the guys slept in here. I make the bed with hospital corners, the way Marissa trained me to, dust and vacuum, then move on to the second bedroom and then the bathroom. When I finish, I find Marissa vacuuming in the living room. She switches it off and winds up the cord. “All done? Me too. Let’s go to the next one.” I push out the cart and she taps on the door of the suite down the hall. No answer. She keys us in. “It is way faster having you help,” she says gratefully. I flash her a smile. “I think it’s more fun to work as a team, too.” She smiles back. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think they would go for it as a regular thing, but it’s nice for a change.” “Same routine?” Chapter 2 “Unless you want to switch? This one only has one bedroom.” “Nah,” I say, “I like bed/bath.” Of course that’s because of my all-consuming curiosity. There are more personal effects in a bedroom and a bathroom, not that I saw anything of interest in the last place. I didn’t go poking around, of course. The cameras in every corner have me nervous. This place is the same as the last, as if they’d paid a decorator to furnish them and they were all identical. High luxury, but not much personality. Well, from what I understand, the Tacone family—at least the ones who run the Bellissimo—are all single men. What can I expect? I make the bed and move on to dusting. From the living room, I hear Marissa’s voice. “What?” I call out, but then I realize she’s talking on the phone. She comes in a moment later, breathless. “I have to go.” Her face has gone pale. “My kid’s been taken to the ER for a concussion.” “Oh shit. Go—I’ve got this. Do you want to give me the keycard for the last suite?” There are three suites on this top floor. She looks around distractedly. “No, I’d better not. Could you just finish this place up and head back downstairs? I’ll call Samuel to let him know what happened.” Samuel’s our boss, the head of housekeeping. “Don’t forget to stay away from the desk in the office.” “Sure thing. Get out of here.” I make a shooing motion. “Go be with your kid.” “Okay.” She digs her purse out from the cart and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “I hope he’s all right,” I say to her back as she leaves. She flings a weak smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. Bye.” I grab the vacuum and head back into the bedroom. When I finish, I hear male voices in the living room. “Hope you can get some sleep, Nico. How long’s it been?” one of the voices asked. “Forty-eight hours. Fucking insomnia.” “G’luck, see you later.” A door clicks shut. My heart immediately beats a little faster with excitement or nerves. Yes—I’m a fool. Later, I would realize my mistake in not marching right out and introducing myself, but Marissa has me nervous about the Tacones and I freeze up. The cart stands out in the living room, though. I decide to go into the bathroom and clean everything I can without getting fresh supplies. Finally, I give up, square my shoulders and head out. I arrive in the living room and pull out three folded towels, four hand towels and four washcloths. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the broad shoulders and back of another finely dressed man. He glances over then does a double-take. His dark eyes rake over me, lingering on my legs and traveling up to my breasts, then face. “Who the fuck are you?” I should’ve expected that response, but it startles me anyway. He sounds scary. Seriously scary, and he walks toward me like he means business. He’s beautiful, with dark wavy hair, a stubbled square jaw and thick-lashed eyes that bore a hole right through me. “Huh? Who. The fuck. Are you?” I panic. Instead of answering him, I turn and walk swiftly to the bathroom, as if putting fresh towels in his bathroom will fix everything. He stalks after me and follows me in. “What are you doing in here?” He knocks the towels out of my hands. Stunned, I stare down at them scattered on the floor. “I’m...housekeeping,” I offer lamely. Damn my idiotic fascination with the mafia. This is not the freaking Sopranos. This is a real-life, dangerous man wearing a gun in a holster under his armpit. I know, because I see it when he reaches for me. He grips my upper arms. “Bullshit. No one who looks like”—his eyes travel up and down the length of my body again—“you—works in housekeeping.” I blink, not sure what that means. I’m pretty, I know that, but there’s nothing special about me. I’m your girl-next-door blue-eyed blonde type, on the short and curvy side. Not like my cousin Corey, who is tall, slender, red-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, with the confidence to match. There’s something lewd in the way he looks at me that makes it sound like I’m standing there in nipple tassels and a G-string instead of my short, fitted maid’s dress. I play dumb. “I’m new. I’ve only been here a couple weeks.” He sports dark circles under his eyes, and I remember what he told the other man. He suffers from insomnia. Hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. “Are you bugging the place?” he demands. “Wha—” I can’t even answer. I just stare like an idiot. He starts frisking me for a weapon. “Is this a con? What do they think—I’m going to fuck you? Who sent you?” I attempt to answer, but his warm hands sliding all over me make me forget what I was going to say. Why is he talking about fucking me? He stands up and gives me a tiny shake. “Who. Sent. You?” His dark eyes mesmerize. He smells of the casino—of whiskey and cash, and beneath it, his own simmering essence. “No one...I mean, Marissa!” I exclaim her name like a secret password, but it only seems to irritate him further. He reaches out and runs his fingers swiftly along the collar of my housekeeping dress, as if checking for some hidden wiretap. I’m pretty sure the guy’s half out of his mind, maybe delirious with sleep deprivation. Maybe just nuts. I freeze, not wanting to set him off. To my shock, he yanks down the zipper on the front of my dress, all the way to my waist. If I were my cousin Corey, daughter of a mean FBI agent, I’d knee him in the balls, gun or not. But I was raised not to make waves. To be a nice girl and do what authority tells me to do. So, like a freaking idiot, I just stand there. A tiny mewl leaves my lips, but I don’t dare move, don’t protest. He yanks the form-fitting dress to my waist and jerks it down over my hips. I wrest my arms free from the fabric to wrap them around myself. Nico Tacone shoves me aside to get the dress out from under my feet. He picks it up and runs his hands all over it, still searching for the mythical wiretap while I shiver in my bra and panties. I fold my arms across my breasts. “Look, I’m not wearing a wire or bugging the place,” I breathe. “I was helping Marissa and then she got a call—” “Save it,” he barks. “You’re too fucking perfect. What’s the con? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say. He reaches for my bra. I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense. I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.” He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot. He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters. Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring. Then his brows slammed down as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick. That’s when things really go to shit. He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” I pee myself. Literally. God help me. I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thighs before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation. Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He stares at the dribble on the floor. I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction. He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation. Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check its temperature. My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm. He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.” Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off? Fuck it. I am a mess. I step in, panties and all. I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while, I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell is happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment. Keep it together, Sondra. Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat. Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry. I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff. The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it. Chapter 3 Nico Minchia. Shit. My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my head of HR why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom. I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me—making me paranoid and itchy. I need to get my little brother Stefano out here to help me run the place so I can sleep at least an hour a night. He’s the only one I trust. “Hey.” I make my voice softer. The girl’s standing under the spray of water, soaking her Harley Quinn pigtails and the pair of light blue satin panties she’s still wearing. Fuck if I don’t want to yank them right off her and see what’s underneath. I’m pretty sure she’s in shock, and who could blame her? I terrify my employees on my best days and that’s without tearing off their clothes and flashing a weapon. Her chest shudders as she lets out a silent sob and it gets under my skin, same way her sniffle did. Somehow, I don’t think undercover feds or any kind of professional would pee on my floor and cry in my shower. So yeah. I seriously fucked up here. I reach past her and shut off the water, soaking the entire arm of my suit jacket in the process. “Hey, don’t cry.” A better man might apologize, but until I’m one hundred percent sure there’s not something off here, I keep it in. I yank the shower curtain open, and pull her out to stand on the bath mat while I wrap one of the towels from the floor around her. Because she seems to still be in shock, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her wet panties and tug them down her trembling legs. I must not be as depraved as I think, because I somehow manage not to look at what she keeps under them when I lower to a squat and grip her ankle to help her step out of the dripping fabric. I toss them in the garbage can. Earlier, I threw a towel over the place where she peed, and her eyes dart there now. I know she’s gotta be completely humiliated by it, but the truth is, she’s not the first person I’ve made piss themselves. I guess she’s the first female. The only one I’m sorry for scaring. She’s trying to stifle her sobs, which, of course, only turns them into snorts and choked gasps. Now I really feel like a first-class asshole. “Aw, bambina.” I grab the two corners of the towel, and pull her against me. Her wet skin dampens my suit, but all I can think about is how soft her lush, naked form is against my body. The exhaustion in my limbs ebbs, cleared by the flames of white-hot desire. “Shh. You’re okay.” She trembles against me, but her sobs quiet. “Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head, her wet pigtails splattering a drop of water onto my cheek. Her gaze tracks to it. A loose section in the front flops over her eyes. I shift my grip on the towel to one hand and use the other to brush the hair back from her face. “You’re okay,” I repeat. She blinks up at me with long-lashed blue eyes. I love having her up close and captive where I can study her better. She’s as beautiful as I originally thought, with porcelain skin and high cheekbones. It’s not just beauty that makes her special. There’s some other quality that makes her seem so out of place here. A fresh-faced innocence. Yet she’s not overly naive or young. She’s not dumb, either. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t release her. I don’t want to. The heat of her body radiates through my damp clothes and crowds my mind with the dirtiest of thoughts. If I were a gentleman, I’d leave the room and let her get dressed, but I’m not. I’m an asshole with a hotel casino to run. And I still don’t know who the hell this girl is or how she ended up in my suite. And seriously, heads are going to roll for this. Even more because the girl suffered for it. Right. If my brain were working better, I might acknowledge I’m the only one who can take blame for that part, especially since I’m still holding her naked and captive. “It’s just a girl who looks like you doesn’t normally clean rooms in Vegas,” I offer as the lamest excuse ever. It’s true, though. I’m sure there are more girls like her out there. But I don’t see them around here. All I see are the fake-boobed hustlers trying to work some angle. The professionals. Women who use their bodies like weapons. And I have no problem with them. I’m happy to use their bodies, too. But this one—she’s different. Her full berry lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. I can’t keep my hands to myself. I run my thumb across her lower lip, trace it back and forth over the plump flesh. Her pupils dilate, giving me encouragement to keep touching. “A girl like you is usually on the stage—some kind of stage—even if it’s just a gentleman’s club.” Her eyes narrow but I don’t shut up. “Girl like you could make a shit ton selling herself.” Mary, Queen of Peace, I want to kiss the girl. I lower my lips but manage to stop above hers. A kiss would definitely not be welcome. I may be a scary prick, but I don’t force myself on women. “You know how much a guy like me would pay for a night with you?” This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together a moment before saying, “May I go?” I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt. She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy. “I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her, and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed. I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one. And that’s my strangest thought yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating. “I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing. Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.” I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women. And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation. “Who are you and why are you here?” She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin, Corey Simonson, works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss, and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars are out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck. I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk. She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.” I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?” “Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts. “That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes, I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her. I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for? She swallows and nods. “Yeah.” “You follow a guy here?” “No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.” I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off. “Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So”—she shrugs— “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totaled when I arrived.” “How is that your karma?” “Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.” I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?” “Mine.” “Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.” Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it. Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck, I need sleep. She blinks rapidly. “Because you won’t let me leave?” I was right. She’s smart. The corners of my mouth twitch. “Housekeeping is the only place I could get a job on short notice. I’d rather work as a dealer. Think you can hook me up?” Now she’s getting sassy. Funny, I don’t have the urge to take her down a peg the way I usually do with employees. Unless, of course, it involves her naked and at my mercy. Oh yeah. I already set that up. But the suggestion of her working as a dealer irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t know if it’s because she’d be ruined by Las Vegas in a month, or because I really want to keep her in my room. Cleaning my floors. Naked. “No.” She flinches because I say the word too hard. I’m definitely having a difficult time modulating my behavior. But she just shrugs. “Well, this is temporary, anyway. Just until I earn enough to get a new car and find a teaching job.” Okay, even not trusting my instincts, I think she’s who she says she is. Which means I have no good reason to keep her prisoner here. I step back and take another long perusal of her now that I know more about her. Seriously. I want to keep her. But considering the things I just did to her, she’ll probably quit the second she leaves my suite. I point to her crumpled dress and bra on the floor. “Get dressed.” Before I do or say anything else to traumatize the girl, I leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself. Chapter 4 Sondra Well. That was interesting. My knees wobble when I stand. What will he do now? Am I free to go? I pull on my clothes with shaking hands and zip my dress all the way up, even though he’s already seen my breasts. The wet panties are in the trash bin, so I go commando. I decide the best course of action is to hold my head high and march right out of there. Because there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to finish cleaning his suite after what just went down. I grab the doorknob and take a breath. Here goes nothing. He stands in the hallway in front of my cart, talking on his cell phone. Blocking my exit. Damn. I catch my breath again at how scary-sexy he looks—the delicious way he fills the expensive suit, his thick, dark hair that curled up at the edges, the penetrating dark eyes. He ends the call and drops his phone in his suit pocket. “Your story checked out, at least for now. I’ll be digging further.” His dark eyes glitter but the menace I sensed there before has vanished. I straighten my back, which draws his gaze down to my tits. “You won’t find anything.” The corners of his mouth curve faintly. He watches me like a lion watches prey. Hungry. Sure of himself. He shakes his head, almost ruefully. “Girl who looks like you…shouldn’t be cleaning rooms,” he mutters. I march past him, giving him a wide berth. “Yeah, you said that earlier.” The guy just totally violated me. Stripped me naked and watched me pee on his floor. I need to get the hell out of here and never come back. Forget working for the mafia. I have a life worth living…somewhere else. Somewhere far from Vegas. I push the cart, even though I never finished cleaning his bathroom. Just get the hell out, Sondra. “Hold up,” he barks. “Leave the cart. Tony will take you home.” A tap sounds at the door and a huge guy with a wire in his ear walks in. Judging by the bulge at his sides, he packs as much heat as Tacone. Fuckity fuck fuck. I step back, shaking my head. Oh hell, no. I’m not getting in a car with this guy so he can shoot me in the head and drop me off a pier. Okay, there are no piers in Las Vegas. The Hoover Dam, then. I’m not that stupid. “Relax.” Tacone must’ve seen the blood drain from my face. “You’ll get home safely. You have my word. Hold up just a minute.” He walks out of the living room and into his office. “I-I’ll just take a bus,” I call out after him and head toward the door, hoping to skirt past Tony. “That’s what I usually do.” Tony doesn’t budge from his position in front of the door. “You’re not taking the fucking bus.” Tacone sounds so scary I stop in my tracks. He returns holding an envelope, which he hands to Tony and murmurs something I didn’t hear. “Go with Tony.” It’s a command, not an option. Tony’s stood there stony-faced the whole time. Now, he lifts his chin at me. I walk to the door, trembling like a leaf. Tony opens it, ushers me through and shuts it again. I dart a glance up at the beefy man beside me. Tony drops a huge paw on my nape. “You’re okay.” Seriously? Does this guy care about my welfare? He ushers me forward into the elevator. “You hurt? Or just scared?” Every bit of my body trembles. “I’m okay.” I sound sullen. I position myself as far away from him as possible, folding my arms across my chest. Tony frowns at me. The elevator zooms down. “Boss isn’t himself. He didn’t—” The frown deepens. “Did he force you?” Okay, that’s kinda sweet. This guy really is checking up on me. But he works for Tacone, head of the crime family, so I’m not sure why he’s even asking. “What would you do if I said yes?” Dark fury comes over the guy’s face. He takes a step forward toward me. “Is that what happened?” Danger tinges the edges of his voice. I shake my head. “No. Not like you’re thinking.” I look away. “Not that. Something else.” I don’t look, but I can feel his glower still resting on me. “What would you have done if I said yes?” I ask again. I suppose my morbid curiosity about all things mafia prompts the repeated question. He presses his lips together and resumes a soldier-like stance. His signal that he’s not going to answer. When the elevator dings open, I dart forward, weaving into the throng of gamblers. Somehow, he stays right behind me. The meat-like hand drops on my nape again. “Slow down. I have orders to take you home.” “I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the bus—really.” He doesn’t remove his hand, but uses it to direct me through the crowd, which parts for his big frame and bigger presence. “I’m not gonna whack you, if that’s what you think.” I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re even having a conversation where whacking someone is involved. “Good to know.” It’s all I seem capable of saying. He takes me to another elevator—a private one he uses his keycard to get into. We arrive at the lowest floor, which appears to be the private parking area. He leads me to a limousine and opens the back door for me. “We’re going in this?” Maybe he really isn’t going to kill me. I look around at the other cars there. Limos, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. Row after row of luxury cars packed the floor. Wow. Tony smiles like he thinks I’m cute. “Yeah. Get in.” “You’re as bossy as your boss,” I mutter and he grins. I do as I’m told. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a death sentence or not, but I can breathe more steadily now. He doesn’t ask for my address but he drives straight to Corey’s place and pulls up along the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. A chill runs up my spine. Tacone had certainly checked up on me. Is this another way he throws his weight around? Showing me he knows where I live and how to find me? Or is this really a courtesy drop off? I push the door open the second the car stops. “Hold up.” Tony’s deep voice doesn’t have the same effect as Tacone’s. I don’t freeze. Instead, I run for the door. “I said, hold up,” he shouts, and I hear the slam of his door. “Mr. Tacone wanted me to give you something.” Hopefully not a bullet between the eyes. I fumble for my keys. No, I’m being stupid. He drove me home. The guy isn’t going to kill me. I turn around and watch him jog up the walk. He pulls the envelope Tacone handed him out of his jacket pocket and gives it to me. My name scrawls across the front in a thin, neat print. For some reason, I’m surprised at how beautiful Tacone’s handwriting is. I draw a shaky breath. “Is that it?” Tony’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, that’s it.” I swallow. “‘Kay. Thanks.” He smirks and turns away without another word. My hands shake as I work the key into the lock. It’s over. A bad day, nothing more. I never have to go back there again. Yes, they know where I live, but they took me home safe and sound. Nothing more will come of this. I had my little taste of the mafia, just like I wanted. Tomorrow I’ll start applying for a normal job. One that doesn’t involve shady underground characters with huge, hot hands and piercing dark eyes. One without guns, or the jingle of coins in slot machines. One without Tacone. Chapter 5 Sondra Dean, Corey’s boyfriend, sits on the couch watching TV. “Hey, Sondra.” He looks a little too happy to see me. My stomach clenches, awareness of my pantyless state increasing. The guy has a habit of leering at me, and I’m afraid he’ll somehow figure out there’s nothing under my very short dress. “Hey,” I mutter. He gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes, lingering way too long on my breasts. “What’s up?” There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about my crazy day. Corey, yes, but not him. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room—I crashed on their couch—so there was nowhere for me to hide. Earning enough to put the deposit on my own place is my first priority, even over getting a car that runs. I go to my suitcase in the corner and grab a change of clothes before locking myself in the bathroom. Only then do I realize I still clutch the envelope from Mr. Tacone. I stick my thumb under the flap and tear it open. Six crisp hundred-dollar bills slide out with a note of paper. I draw in my breath. For someone who has pretty much been broke, eating nothing but ramen noodles through college and grad school, it’s a lot of money. I had scholarships and assistantships in college, but that still put me below the poverty level. Adjunct teaching hasn’t exactly paid the bills, either. The note’s written in the same neat penmanship on the envelope. Sondra— Sorry for scaring you. Money doesn’t fix everything, but sometimes it helps. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. —Nico My heart skitters.Nico. He signed his first name? And apologized. Not in person, but still, it’s an apology. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. The image of his face leaning just inches from mine as he gripped the towel that bound me against him flashes through in my mind. My knees go weak. He wants me to return? He guessed correctly that I planned to quit and never set foot in the place again. I fan myself with the six hundred-dollar bills. Some people would take a high moral ground. Say they wouldn’t let him buy their silence or compliance or whatever. But not me. He’s right. Money does go a helluva long way to fixing things. Still, the asshole held a gun to my head. And stripped me naked. And I peed. It was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. But my sense of violation fades as I remember the way he also shoved me in the shower, toweled me off and murmured, you’re okay. I stare at the money. Six hundred dollars closer to moving off my cousin’s couch and into my own place. Six hundred dollars closer to getting another car. I can buy groceries and pay my cousin back for what she’s already spotted me. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to show up at work tomorrow. Yes, it had been utterly humiliating, but I’ll probably never see the guy again. It would save me the trouble of finding a new interim job while I figure my life out. I exhale slowly, trying to erase the vision of Tacone brushing my hair back from my face, his penetrating stare. I won’t have to see him again. And that’s a good thing. Definitely a good thing. I take a shower and exit the bathroom, unsurprised to find Dean lurking just outside it, ostensibly in the kitchen. I haven’t figured out how to tell Corey I think her boyfriend’s a lecherous, no-good cheating asshole. I don’t have any proof—just the way he looks at me, and seems way more interested in talking to me or hanging out when we’re alone. Considering I’m a magnet for cheating boyfriends, I know the vibe. I usually make it a habit not to be around when Dean is at the townhouse without Corey, but Tacone’s guy drove me home too quickly. I try to make the best of it. “Hey, Dean. You feel like driving me to the grocery store? I got paid today.” For getting strip searched. This time when the memory of Mr. Tacone’s—Nico’s—large hot hands roaming over my body flashed back, the fear is gone. A brief fantasy flickers in my mind—him peeling my panties down my legs for a different reason... "You know how much a guy like me would spend for a night with a girl like you?" Five thousand dollars! Stop thinking about him! I need to forget Nico Tacone is exactly the kind of man who makes my toes curl. Dark. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The ultimate bad boy. Yes, I’m in danger of falling to the dark side again. Big time. I need to stay strong. And stay away from this dangerous man. Nico's POV Sondra Simonson. It’s her real name. I asked security to pull everything they can find on her and bring me the file. Along with the video feed of our interaction. If she doesn’t quit, I definitely want her up in my room again. Naked. Preferably naked and willing this time, but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t like her a little scared. There was something so appealing about the way she both trembled and got turned on when I stripped her. Or had I imagined it? I’ll find out soon enough. Where is that damn video feed? I’m like a junkie waiting for his next hit. I can’t wait to watch the video of her. I’m going to be fucking my hand all night to the sight of her pouty lips and wide blue eyes decorating my screen. A knock sounds on the door. “It’s Tony.” The deep voice of my right-hand man echoes through the door. “Yeah?” “I dropped her off.” He steps in and gives me a careful look. I know he didn’t come in here just to tell me that. He came in to find out what the hell happened. Why I sent the maid home wet and scared. He’s worried about me. My mental state is starting to crumble with the inability to sleep. He’s too smart to come out and ask me what happened. He knows I’d tell him to mind his own fucking business. But he’s made a career out of standing around me silently, serving as my bodyguard, making himself available when I do feel like confiding. He’s not family. He’s not even Italian. He’s just a big, loyal guy from Cicero who decided I was the guy he was going to follow into the bowels of hell. I guess you could say he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. If a Tacone ever really has a friend. “She’s new. I thought she looked off, so I strip searched her.” A muscle in Tony’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. Tony is absolutely a defender of women. His ma was abused by his dad pretty bad and he’s still eager to even that score with any guy who manhandles a woman. Probably even, if it came down to it, me. But I don’t usually make a habit out of mistreating women. This one was a special case. I purse my lips and shrug. “I also may have pointed a gun at her head while I was questioning her.” I tell him in case there’s some mess we need to clean up from the fallout. Hopefully Sondra won’t kick up a fuss. I don’t think she will. And for some reason that bugs the hell out of me. I have terrible taste in men. Smart, well-educated, smoking hot little number like her shouldn’t be walking around with that fatal flaw that puts her in danger. Especially not in Vegas. Except it’s probably that terrible taste that turned her supple and pliant in my arms, too. Those incredible nipples pebbled up, that pussy turned wet for me. And I hadn’t even been coming on to her. I was rough-handling her like a deranged lunatic. Fuck. Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, Nico. The lack of sleep has you paranoid.” “I know.” I run my hand through my hair. “You need to take something. Have you tried the drugs?” I have a whole shelfful of pharmaceuticals that are supposed to help me sleep, but either they don’t work or I don’t like the way they make me feel afterward. Not that I like the delirium I’m under now. “Nah. I think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” “That’s what you said last night.” I look out the wall of windows that make up my penthouse suite. “So you got her home? Was she okay?” “She was skittish. You pay her off?” The words pay her off set my teeth on edge, even though that’s exactly what I did. Still, it sounds so sordid when associated with her. It’s the same reason I don’t want to see her dealing on my floor. She shouldn’t be sullied by all the shit that goes down at this hotel casino. She shouldn’t be sullied by me. Too bad I want to dirty her in every possible way. If I were a better man, I would make certain our paths never cross again. But I’m not. I’m not a good man. I put her right back in the lion’s den. “Call the head of housekeeping, ” I ordered, "And let him know-I want Sondra be the regular penthouse suite housekeeper."
Pour rire, elle fait semblant de tout oublier. Son petit-ami joue le jeu... trop bien. Il l'abandonne pour sa meilleure amie. Humiliée, elle accepte d'être la fausse copine du mauvais garçon. Mais quand les vrais sentiments naissent, le mensonge éclate.
Pour rire, elle fait semblant de tout oublier. Son petit-ami joue le jeu... trop bien. Il l'abandonne pour sa meilleure amie. Humiliée, elle accepte d'être la fausse copine du mauvais garçon. Mais quand les vrais sentiments naissent, le mensonge éclate.
Pour rire, elle fait semblant de tout oublier. Son petit-ami joue le jeu... trop bien. Il l'abandonne pour sa meilleure amie. Humiliée, elle accepte d'être la fausse copine du mauvais garçon. Mais quand les vrais sentiments naissent, le mensonge éclate.
Pour rire, elle fait semblant de tout oublier. Son petit-ami joue le jeu... trop bien. Il l'abandonne pour sa meilleure amie. Humiliée, elle accepte d'être la fausse copine du mauvais garçon. Mais quand les vrais sentiments naissent, le mensonge éclate.
I tug down the hem of my one-piece, zippered housekeeping uniform dress. The Pepto Bismol pink number comes to my upper thighs and fits like a glove, hugging my curves, showing off my cleavage. Clearly, the owners of the Bellissimo Hotel and Casino want their maids to look as hot as their cocktail girls. I went with it. I’m wearing a pair of platform-heeled wrap-arounds comfortable enough to clean rooms in, but sexy enough to show off the muscles in my legs, and I pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into two fluffy pigtails. When in Vegas, right? My feminist friends from grad school would have a fit with this. I push the not-so-little housekeeping cart down the hallway of the grand hotel portion of the casino. I spent all morning cleaning people’s messes. And let me tell you, the messes in Vegas are big. Drug paraphernalia. Semen. Condoms. Blood. And this is an expensive, high-class place. I’ve only worked here two weeks and I’ve already seen all that and more. I work fast. Some of the maids recommend taking your time so you don’t get overloaded, but I still hope to impress someone at the Bellissimo into giving me a better job. Hence dressing like the casino version of the French maid fantasy. Dolling myself up was probably prompted by what my cousin Corey dubs, The Voice of Wrong. I have the opposite of a sixth sense or voice of reason, especially when it comes to the male half of the population. Why else would I be broke and on the rebound from the two-timing party boy I left in Reno? I’m a smart woman. I have a master’s degree. I had a decent adjunct faculty position and a bright future. But when I realized all my suspicions about Tanner cheating on me were true, I packed the Subaru I shared with him and left for Vegas to stay with Corey, who promised to get me a job dealing cards with her here. But there aren’t any dealer jobs available at the moment—only housekeeping. So now I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, broke, single, and without a set of wheels because my car got totaled in a hit and run the day I arrived. Not that I plan to stay here long-term. I’m just testing the waters in Vegas. If I like it, I’ll apply for adjunct college teaching jobs. I’ve even considered substitute teaching high school once I have the wheels to get around. If I’m able to land a dealer job, though, I’ll take it because the money would be three times what I’d make in the public school system. Which is a tragedy to be discussed on another day. I head back into the main supply area which doubles as my boss’ office and load up my cart in the housekeeping cave, stacking towels and soap boxes in neat rows. “Oh for God’s sake.” Marissa, my supervisor, shoves her phone in the pocket of her housekeeping dress. A hot forty-two-year-old, she fills hers out in all the right places, making it look like a dress she chose to wear, rather than a uniform. “I have four people out sick today. Now I have to go do the bosses’ suites myself,” she groans. I perk up. I know—that’s The Voice of Wrong. I have a morbid fascination with everything mafioso. Like, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos and have memorized the script from The Godfather. “You mean the Tacones’ rooms? I’ll do them.” It’s stupid, but I want a glimpse of them. What do real mafia men look like? Al Pacino? James Gandolfini? Or are they just ordinary guys? Maybe I’ve already passed them while pushing my cart around. “I wish, but you can’t. It’s a special security clearance thing. And believe me—you don’t want to. They are super paranoid and picky as hell. You can’t look at the wrong thing without getting ripped a new one. They definitely wouldn’t want to see anyone new up there. I’d probably lose my job over it, as a matter of fact.” I should be daunted, but this news only adds to the mystique I created in my mind around these men. “Well, I’m willing and available, if you want me to. I already finished my hallway. Or I could go with you and help? Make it go faster?” I see my suggestion worming through her objections. Interest flits over her face, followed by more consternation. I adopt a hopeful-helpful expression. “Well, maybe that would be all right...I’d be supervising you, after all.” Yes! I’m dying of curiosity to see the mafia bosses up close. Foolish, I know, but I can’t help it. I want to text Corey to tell her the news, but there isn’t time. Corey knows all about my fascination, since I already pumped her for information. Marissa loads a few other things on my cart and we head off together for the special bank of elevators—the only ones that go all the way to the top of the building and require a keycard to access. “So, these guys are really touchy. Most times they’re not in their rooms, and then all you have to worry about is staying away from their office desks,” Marissa explains once we left the last public floor and it was just the two of us in the elevator. “Don’t open any drawers—don’t do anything that appears nosy. I’m serious—these guys are scary.” The doors swish open and I push the cart out, following her around the bend to the first door. The sound of loud, male voices comes from the room. Marissa winces. “Always knock,” she whispers before lifting her knuckles to rap on the door. They clearly don’t hear her, because the loud talking continues. She knocks again and the talking stops. “Yeah?” a deep masculine voice calls out. “Housekeeping.” We wait as silence greets her call. After a moment the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy with slightly graying hair. “Yeah, we were just leaving.” He pulls on what must be a thousand dollar suit jacket. A slight gut thickens his middle, but otherwise he’s extremely good-looking. Behind him stand three other men, all dressed in equally nice suits, none wearing their jackets. They ignore us as they push past, resuming their conversation in the hallway. “So I tell him…” The door closes behind them. “Whew,” Marissa breathes. “It’s way easier if they’re not here.” She glances up at the corners of the rooms. “Of course there are cameras everywhere, so it’s not like we aren’t being watched.” She points to a tiny red light shining from a little device mounted at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. I’ve already noticed them all over the casino. “But it’s less nerve-wracking if we’re not tiptoeing around them.” She jerks her head down the hall. “You take the bathroom and bedrooms, I’ll do the kitchen, office and living area.” “Got it.” I grab the supplies I need off the cart and head in the direction she indicated. The bedroom’s well-appointed in a nondescript way. I pull the sheets and bedspread up to make the bed. The sheets were probably 3,000 thread count, if there is such a thing. That may be an exaggeration but, really, they are amazing. Just for kicks, I rub one against my cheek. It’s so smooth and soft. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in that bed. I wonder which of the guys slept in here. I make the bed with hospital corners, the way Marissa trained me to, dust and vacuum, then move on to the second bedroom and then the bathroom. When I finish, I find Marissa vacuuming in the living room. She switches it off and winds up the cord. “All done? Me too. Let’s go to the next one.” I push out the cart and she taps on the door of the suite down the hall. No answer. She keys us in. “It is way faster having you help,” she says gratefully. I flash her a smile. “I think it’s more fun to work as a team, too.” She smiles back. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think they would go for it as a regular thing, but it’s nice for a change.” “Same routine?” Chapter 2 “Unless you want to switch? This one only has one bedroom.” “Nah,” I say, “I like bed/bath.” Of course that’s because of my all-consuming curiosity. There are more personal effects in a bedroom and a bathroom, not that I saw anything of interest in the last place. I didn’t go poking around, of course. The cameras in every corner have me nervous. This place is the same as the last, as if they’d paid a decorator to furnish them and they were all identical. High luxury, but not much personality. Well, from what I understand, the Tacone family—at least the ones who run the Bellissimo—are all single men. What can I expect? I make the bed and move on to dusting. From the living room, I hear Marissa’s voice. “What?” I call out, but then I realize she’s talking on the phone. She comes in a moment later, breathless. “I have to go.” Her face has gone pale. “My kid’s been taken to the ER for a concussion.” “Oh shit. Go—I’ve got this. Do you want to give me the keycard for the last suite?” There are three suites on this top floor. She looks around distractedly. “No, I’d better not. Could you just finish this place up and head back downstairs? I’ll call Samuel to let him know what happened.” Samuel’s our boss, the head of housekeeping. “Don’t forget to stay away from the desk in the office.” “Sure thing. Get out of here.” I make a shooing motion. “Go be with your kid.” “Okay.” She digs her purse out from the cart and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “I hope he’s all right,” I say to her back as she leaves. She flings a weak smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. Bye.” I grab the vacuum and head back into the bedroom. When I finish, I hear male voices in the living room. “Hope you can get some sleep, Nico. How long’s it been?” one of the voices asked. “Forty-eight hours. Fucking insomnia.” “G’luck, see you later.” A door clicks shut. My heart immediately beats a little faster with excitement or nerves. Yes—I’m a fool. Later, I would realize my mistake in not marching right out and introducing myself, but Marissa has me nervous about the Tacones and I freeze up. The cart stands out in the living room, though. I decide to go into the bathroom and clean everything I can without getting fresh supplies. Finally, I give up, square my shoulders and head out. I arrive in the living room and pull out three folded towels, four hand towels and four washcloths. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the broad shoulders and back of another finely dressed man. He glances over then does a double-take. His dark eyes rake over me, lingering on my legs and traveling up to my breasts, then face. “Who the fuck are you?” I should’ve expected that response, but it startles me anyway. He sounds scary. Seriously scary, and he walks toward me like he means business. He’s beautiful, with dark wavy hair, a stubbled square jaw and thick-lashed eyes that bore a hole right through me. “Huh? Who. The fuck. Are you?” I panic. Instead of answering him, I turn and walk swiftly to the bathroom, as if putting fresh towels in his bathroom will fix everything. He stalks after me and follows me in. “What are you doing in here?” He knocks the towels out of my hands. Stunned, I stare down at them scattered on the floor. “I’m...housekeeping,” I offer lamely. Damn my idiotic fascination with the mafia. This is not the freaking Sopranos. This is a real-life, dangerous man wearing a gun in a holster under his armpit. I know, because I see it when he reaches for me. He grips my upper arms. “Bullshit. No one who looks like”—his eyes travel up and down the length of my body again—“you—works in housekeeping.” I blink, not sure what that means. I’m pretty, I know that, but there’s nothing special about me. I’m your girl-next-door blue-eyed blonde type, on the short and curvy side. Not like my cousin Corey, who is tall, slender, red-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, with the confidence to match. There’s something lewd in the way he looks at me that makes it sound like I’m standing there in nipple tassels and a G-string instead of my short, fitted maid’s dress. I play dumb. “I’m new. I’ve only been here a couple weeks.” He sports dark circles under his eyes, and I remember what he told the other man. He suffers from insomnia. Hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. “Are you bugging the place?” he demands. “Wha—” I can’t even answer. I just stare like an idiot. He starts frisking me for a weapon. “Is this a con? What do they think—I’m going to fuck you? Who sent you?” I attempt to answer, but his warm hands sliding all over me make me forget what I was going to say. Why is he talking about fucking me? He stands up and gives me a tiny shake. “Who. Sent. You?” His dark eyes mesmerize. He smells of the casino—of whiskey and cash, and beneath it, his own simmering essence. “No one...I mean, Marissa!” I exclaim her name like a secret password, but it only seems to irritate him further. He reaches out and runs his fingers swiftly along the collar of my housekeeping dress, as if checking for some hidden wiretap. I’m pretty sure the guy’s half out of his mind, maybe delirious with sleep deprivation. Maybe just nuts. I freeze, not wanting to set him off. To my shock, he yanks down the zipper on the front of my dress, all the way to my waist. If I were my cousin Corey, daughter of a mean FBI agent, I’d knee him in the balls, gun or not. But I was raised not to make waves. To be a nice girl and do what authority tells me to do. So, like a freaking idiot, I just stand there. A tiny mewl leaves my lips, but I don’t dare move, don’t protest. He yanks the form-fitting dress to my waist and jerks it down over my hips. I wrest my arms free from the fabric to wrap them around myself. Nico Tacone shoves me aside to get the dress out from under my feet. He picks it up and runs his hands all over it, still searching for the mythical wiretap while I shiver in my bra and panties. I fold my arms across my breasts. “Look, I’m not wearing a wire or bugging the place,” I breathe. “I was helping Marissa and then she got a call—” “Save it,” he barks. “You’re too fucking perfect. What’s the con? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say. He reaches for my bra. I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense. I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.” He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot. He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters. Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring. Then his brows slammed down as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick. That’s when things really go to shit. He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” I pee myself. Literally. God help me. I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thighs before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation. Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He stares at the dribble on the floor. I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction. He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation. Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check its temperature. My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm. He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.” Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off? Fuck it. I am a mess. I step in, panties and all. I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while, I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell is happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment. Keep it together, Sondra. Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat. Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry. I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff. The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it. Chapter 3 Nico Minchia. Shit. My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my head of HR why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom. I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me—making me paranoid and itchy. I need to get my little brother Stefano out here to help me run the place so I can sleep at least an hour a night. He’s the only one I trust. “Hey.” I make my voice softer. The girl’s standing under the spray of water, soaking her Harley Quinn pigtails and the pair of light blue satin panties she’s still wearing. Fuck if I don’t want to yank them right off her and see what’s underneath. I’m pretty sure she’s in shock, and who could blame her? I terrify my employees on my best days and that’s without tearing off their clothes and flashing a weapon. Her chest shudders as she lets out a silent sob and it gets under my skin, same way her sniffle did. Somehow, I don’t think undercover feds or any kind of professional would pee on my floor and cry in my shower. So yeah. I seriously fucked up here. I reach past her and shut off the water, soaking the entire arm of my suit jacket in the process. “Hey, don’t cry.” A better man might apologize, but until I’m one hundred percent sure there’s not something off here, I keep it in. I yank the shower curtain open, and pull her out to stand on the bath mat while I wrap one of the towels from the floor around her. Because she seems to still be in shock, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her wet panties and tug them down her trembling legs. I must not be as depraved as I think, because I somehow manage not to look at what she keeps under them when I lower to a squat and grip her ankle to help her step out of the dripping fabric. I toss them in the garbage can. Earlier, I threw a towel over the place where she peed, and her eyes dart there now. I know she’s gotta be completely humiliated by it, but the truth is, she’s not the first person I’ve made piss themselves. I guess she’s the first female. The only one I’m sorry for scaring. She’s trying to stifle her sobs, which, of course, only turns them into snorts and choked gasps. Now I really feel like a first-class asshole. “Aw, bambina.” I grab the two corners of the towel, and pull her against me. Her wet skin dampens my suit, but all I can think about is how soft her lush, naked form is against my body. The exhaustion in my limbs ebbs, cleared by the flames of white-hot desire. “Shh. You’re okay.” She trembles against me, but her sobs quiet. “Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head, her wet pigtails splattering a drop of water onto my cheek. Her gaze tracks to it. A loose section in the front flops over her eyes. I shift my grip on the towel to one hand and use the other to brush the hair back from her face. “You’re okay,” I repeat. She blinks up at me with long-lashed blue eyes. I love having her up close and captive where I can study her better. She’s as beautiful as I originally thought, with porcelain skin and high cheekbones. It’s not just beauty that makes her special. There’s some other quality that makes her seem so out of place here. A fresh-faced innocence. Yet she’s not overly naive or young. She’s not dumb, either. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t release her. I don’t want to. The heat of her body radiates through my damp clothes and crowds my mind with the dirtiest of thoughts. If I were a gentleman, I’d leave the room and let her get dressed, but I’m not. I’m an asshole with a hotel casino to run. And I still don’t know who the hell this girl is or how she ended up in my suite. And seriously, heads are going to roll for this. Even more because the girl suffered for it. Right. If my brain were working better, I might acknowledge I’m the only one who can take blame for that part, especially since I’m still holding her naked and captive. “It’s just a girl who looks like you doesn’t normally clean rooms in Vegas,” I offer as the lamest excuse ever. It’s true, though. I’m sure there are more girls like her out there. But I don’t see them around here. All I see are the fake-boobed hustlers trying to work some angle. The professionals. Women who use their bodies like weapons. And I have no problem with them. I’m happy to use their bodies, too. But this one—she’s different. Her full berry lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. I can’t keep my hands to myself. I run my thumb across her lower lip, trace it back and forth over the plump flesh. Her pupils dilate, giving me encouragement to keep touching. “A girl like you is usually on the stage—some kind of stage—even if it’s just a gentleman’s club.” Her eyes narrow but I don’t shut up. “Girl like you could make a shit ton selling herself.” Mary, Queen of Peace, I want to kiss the girl. I lower my lips but manage to stop above hers. A kiss would definitely not be welcome. I may be a scary prick, but I don’t force myself on women. “You know how much a guy like me would pay for a night with you?” This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together a moment before saying, “May I go?” I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt. She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy. “I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her, and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed. I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one. And that’s my strangest thought yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating. “I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing. Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.” I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women. And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation. “Who are you and why are you here?” She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin, Corey Simonson, works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss, and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars are out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck. I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk. She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.” I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?” “Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts. “That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes, I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her. I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for? She swallows and nods. “Yeah.” “You follow a guy here?” “No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.” I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off. “Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So”—she shrugs— “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totaled when I arrived.” “How is that your karma?” “Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.” I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?” “Mine.” “Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.” Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it. Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck, I need sleep. She blinks rapidly. “Because you won’t let me leave?” I was right. She’s smart. The corners of my mouth twitch. “Housekeeping is the only place I could get a job on short notice. I’d rather work as a dealer. Think you can hook me up?” Now she’s getting sassy. Funny, I don’t have the urge to take her down a peg the way I usually do with employees. Unless, of course, it involves her naked and at my mercy. Oh yeah. I already set that up. But the suggestion of her working as a dealer irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t know if it’s because she’d be ruined by Las Vegas in a month, or because I really want to keep her in my room. Cleaning my floors. Naked. “No.” She flinches because I say the word too hard. I’m definitely having a difficult time modulating my behavior. But she just shrugs. “Well, this is temporary, anyway. Just until I earn enough to get a new car and find a teaching job.” Okay, even not trusting my instincts, I think she’s who she says she is. Which means I have no good reason to keep her prisoner here. I step back and take another long perusal of her now that I know more about her. Seriously. I want to keep her. But considering the things I just did to her, she’ll probably quit the second she leaves my suite. I point to her crumpled dress and bra on the floor. “Get dressed.” Before I do or say anything else to traumatize the girl, I leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself. Chapter 4 Sondra Well. That was interesting. My knees wobble when I stand. What will he do now? Am I free to go? I pull on my clothes with shaking hands and zip my dress all the way up, even though he’s already seen my breasts. The wet panties are in the trash bin, so I go commando. I decide the best course of action is to hold my head high and march right out of there. Because there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to finish cleaning his suite after what just went down. I grab the doorknob and take a breath. Here goes nothing. He stands in the hallway in front of my cart, talking on his cell phone. Blocking my exit. Damn. I catch my breath again at how scary-sexy he looks—the delicious way he fills the expensive suit, his thick, dark hair that curled up at the edges, the penetrating dark eyes. He ends the call and drops his phone in his suit pocket. “Your story checked out, at least for now. I’ll be digging further.” His dark eyes glitter but the menace I sensed there before has vanished. I straighten my back, which draws his gaze down to my tits. “You won’t find anything.” The corners of his mouth curve faintly. He watches me like a lion watches prey. Hungry. Sure of himself. He shakes his head, almost ruefully. “Girl who looks like you…shouldn’t be cleaning rooms,” he mutters. I march past him, giving him a wide berth. “Yeah, you said that earlier.” The guy just totally violated me. Stripped me naked and watched me pee on his floor. I need to get the hell out of here and never come back. Forget working for the mafia. I have a life worth living…somewhere else. Somewhere far from Vegas. I push the cart, even though I never finished cleaning his bathroom. Just get the hell out, Sondra. “Hold up,” he barks. “Leave the cart. Tony will take you home.” A tap sounds at the door and a huge guy with a wire in his ear walks in. Judging by the bulge at his sides, he packs as much heat as Tacone. Fuckity fuck fuck. I step back, shaking my head. Oh hell, no. I’m not getting in a car with this guy so he can shoot me in the head and drop me off a pier. Okay, there are no piers in Las Vegas. The Hoover Dam, then. I’m not that stupid. “Relax.” Tacone must’ve seen the blood drain from my face. “You’ll get home safely. You have my word. Hold up just a minute.” He walks out of the living room and into his office. “I-I’ll just take a bus,” I call out after him and head toward the door, hoping to skirt past Tony. “That’s what I usually do.” Tony doesn’t budge from his position in front of the door. “You’re not taking the fucking bus.” Tacone sounds so scary I stop in my tracks. He returns holding an envelope, which he hands to Tony and murmurs something I didn’t hear. “Go with Tony.” It’s a command, not an option. Tony’s stood there stony-faced the whole time. Now, he lifts his chin at me. I walk to the door, trembling like a leaf. Tony opens it, ushers me through and shuts it again. I dart a glance up at the beefy man beside me. Tony drops a huge paw on my nape. “You’re okay.” Seriously? Does this guy care about my welfare? He ushers me forward into the elevator. “You hurt? Or just scared?” Every bit of my body trembles. “I’m okay.” I sound sullen. I position myself as far away from him as possible, folding my arms across my chest. Tony frowns at me. The elevator zooms down. “Boss isn’t himself. He didn’t—” The frown deepens. “Did he force you?” Okay, that’s kinda sweet. This guy really is checking up on me. But he works for Tacone, head of the crime family, so I’m not sure why he’s even asking. “What would you do if I said yes?” Dark fury comes over the guy’s face. He takes a step forward toward me. “Is that what happened?” Danger tinges the edges of his voice. I shake my head. “No. Not like you’re thinking.” I look away. “Not that. Something else.” I don’t look, but I can feel his glower still resting on me. “What would you have done if I said yes?” I ask again. I suppose my morbid curiosity about all things mafia prompts the repeated question. He presses his lips together and resumes a soldier-like stance. His signal that he’s not going to answer. When the elevator dings open, I dart forward, weaving into the throng of gamblers. Somehow, he stays right behind me. The meat-like hand drops on my nape again. “Slow down. I have orders to take you home.” “I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the bus—really.” He doesn’t remove his hand, but uses it to direct me through the crowd, which parts for his big frame and bigger presence. “I’m not gonna whack you, if that’s what you think.” I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re even having a conversation where whacking someone is involved. “Good to know.” It’s all I seem capable of saying. He takes me to another elevator—a private one he uses his keycard to get into. We arrive at the lowest floor, which appears to be the private parking area. He leads me to a limousine and opens the back door for me. “We’re going in this?” Maybe he really isn’t going to kill me. I look around at the other cars there. Limos, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. Row after row of luxury cars packed the floor. Wow. Tony smiles like he thinks I’m cute. “Yeah. Get in.” “You’re as bossy as your boss,” I mutter and he grins. I do as I’m told. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a death sentence or not, but I can breathe more steadily now. He doesn’t ask for my address but he drives straight to Corey’s place and pulls up along the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. A chill runs up my spine. Tacone had certainly checked up on me. Is this another way he throws his weight around? Showing me he knows where I live and how to find me? Or is this really a courtesy drop off? I push the door open the second the car stops. “Hold up.” Tony’s deep voice doesn’t have the same effect as Tacone’s. I don’t freeze. Instead, I run for the door. “I said, hold up,” he shouts, and I hear the slam of his door. “Mr. Tacone wanted me to give you something.” Hopefully not a bullet between the eyes. I fumble for my keys. No, I’m being stupid. He drove me home. The guy isn’t going to kill me. I turn around and watch him jog up the walk. He pulls the envelope Tacone handed him out of his jacket pocket and gives it to me. My name scrawls across the front in a thin, neat print. For some reason, I’m surprised at how beautiful Tacone’s handwriting is. I draw a shaky breath. “Is that it?” Tony’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, that’s it.” I swallow. “‘Kay. Thanks.” He smirks and turns away without another word. My hands shake as I work the key into the lock. It’s over. A bad day, nothing more. I never have to go back there again. Yes, they know where I live, but they took me home safe and sound. Nothing more will come of this. I had my little taste of the mafia, just like I wanted. Tomorrow I’ll start applying for a normal job. One that doesn’t involve shady underground characters with huge, hot hands and piercing dark eyes. One without guns, or the jingle of coins in slot machines. One without Tacone. Chapter 5 Sondra Dean, Corey’s boyfriend, sits on the couch watching TV. “Hey, Sondra.” He looks a little too happy to see me. My stomach clenches, awareness of my pantyless state increasing. The guy has a habit of leering at me, and I’m afraid he’ll somehow figure out there’s nothing under my very short dress. “Hey,” I mutter. He gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes, lingering way too long on my breasts. “What’s up?” There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about my crazy day. Corey, yes, but not him. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room—I crashed on their couch—so there was nowhere for me to hide. Earning enough to put the deposit on my own place is my first priority, even over getting a car that runs. I go to my suitcase in the corner and grab a change of clothes before locking myself in the bathroom. Only then do I realize I still clutch the envelope from Mr. Tacone. I stick my thumb under the flap and tear it open. Six crisp hundred-dollar bills slide out with a note of paper. I draw in my breath. For someone who has pretty much been broke, eating nothing but ramen noodles through college and grad school, it’s a lot of money. I had scholarships and assistantships in college, but that still put me below the poverty level. Adjunct teaching hasn’t exactly paid the bills, either. The note’s written in the same neat penmanship on the envelope. Sondra— Sorry for scaring you. Money doesn’t fix everything, but sometimes it helps. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. —Nico My heart skitters.Nico. He signed his first name? And apologized. Not in person, but still, it’s an apology. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. The image of his face leaning just inches from mine as he gripped the towel that bound me against him flashes through in my mind. My knees go weak. He wants me to return? He guessed correctly that I planned to quit and never set foot in the place again. I fan myself with the six hundred-dollar bills. Some people would take a high moral ground. Say they wouldn’t let him buy their silence or compliance or whatever. But not me. He’s right. Money does go a helluva long way to fixing things. Still, the asshole held a gun to my head. And stripped me naked. And I peed. It was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. But my sense of violation fades as I remember the way he also shoved me in the shower, toweled me off and murmured, you’re okay. I stare at the money. Six hundred dollars closer to moving off my cousin’s couch and into my own place. Six hundred dollars closer to getting another car. I can buy groceries and pay my cousin back for what she’s already spotted me. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to show up at work tomorrow. Yes, it had been utterly humiliating, but I’ll probably never see the guy again. It would save me the trouble of finding a new interim job while I figure my life out. I exhale slowly, trying to erase the vision of Tacone brushing my hair back from my face, his penetrating stare. I won’t have to see him again. And that’s a good thing. Definitely a good thing. I take a shower and exit the bathroom, unsurprised to find Dean lurking just outside it, ostensibly in the kitchen. I haven’t figured out how to tell Corey I think her boyfriend’s a lecherous, no-good cheating asshole. I don’t have any proof—just the way he looks at me, and seems way more interested in talking to me or hanging out when we’re alone. Considering I’m a magnet for cheating boyfriends, I know the vibe. I usually make it a habit not to be around when Dean is at the townhouse without Corey, but Tacone’s guy drove me home too quickly. I try to make the best of it. “Hey, Dean. You feel like driving me to the grocery store? I got paid today.” For getting strip searched. This time when the memory of Mr. Tacone’s—Nico’s—large hot hands roaming over my body flashed back, the fear is gone. A brief fantasy flickers in my mind—him peeling my panties down my legs for a different reason... "You know how much a guy like me would spend for a night with a girl like you?" Five thousand dollars! Stop thinking about him! I need to forget Nico Tacone is exactly the kind of man who makes my toes curl. Dark. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The ultimate bad boy. Yes, I’m in danger of falling to the dark side again. Big time. I need to stay strong. And stay away from this dangerous man. Nico's POV Sondra Simonson. It’s her real name. I asked security to pull everything they can find on her and bring me the file. Along with the video feed of our interaction. If she doesn’t quit, I definitely want her up in my room again. Naked. Preferably naked and willing this time, but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t like her a little scared. There was something so appealing about the way she both trembled and got turned on when I stripped her. Or had I imagined it? I’ll find out soon enough. Where is that damn video feed? I’m like a junkie waiting for his next hit. I can’t wait to watch the video of her. I’m going to be fucking my hand all night to the sight of her pouty lips and wide blue eyes decorating my screen. A knock sounds on the door. “It’s Tony.” The deep voice of my right-hand man echoes through the door. “Yeah?” “I dropped her off.” He steps in and gives me a careful look. I know he didn’t come in here just to tell me that. He came in to find out what the hell happened. Why I sent the maid home wet and scared. He’s worried about me. My mental state is starting to crumble with the inability to sleep. He’s too smart to come out and ask me what happened. He knows I’d tell him to mind his own fucking business. But he’s made a career out of standing around me silently, serving as my bodyguard, making himself available when I do feel like confiding. He’s not family. He’s not even Italian. He’s just a big, loyal guy from Cicero who decided I was the guy he was going to follow into the bowels of hell. I guess you could say he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. If a Tacone ever really has a friend. “She’s new. I thought she looked off, so I strip searched her.” A muscle in Tony’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. Tony is absolutely a defender of women. His ma was abused by his dad pretty bad and he’s still eager to even that score with any guy who manhandles a woman. Probably even, if it came down to it, me. But I don’t usually make a habit out of mistreating women. This one was a special case. I purse my lips and shrug. “I also may have pointed a gun at her head while I was questioning her.” I tell him in case there’s some mess we need to clean up from the fallout. Hopefully Sondra won’t kick up a fuss. I don’t think she will. And for some reason that bugs the hell out of me. I have terrible taste in men. Smart, well-educated, smoking hot little number like her shouldn’t be walking around with that fatal flaw that puts her in danger. Especially not in Vegas. Except it’s probably that terrible taste that turned her supple and pliant in my arms, too. Those incredible nipples pebbled up, that pussy turned wet for me. And I hadn’t even been coming on to her. I was rough-handling her like a deranged lunatic. Fuck. Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, Nico. The lack of sleep has you paranoid.” “I know.” I run my hand through my hair. “You need to take something. Have you tried the drugs?” I have a whole shelfful of pharmaceuticals that are supposed to help me sleep, but either they don’t work or I don’t like the way they make me feel afterward. Not that I like the delirium I’m under now. “Nah. I think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” “That’s what you said last night.” I look out the wall of windows that make up my penthouse suite. “So you got her home? Was she okay?” “She was skittish. You pay her off?” The words pay her off set my teeth on edge, even though that’s exactly what I did. Still, it sounds so sordid when associated with her. It’s the same reason I don’t want to see her dealing on my floor. She shouldn’t be sullied by all the shit that goes down at this hotel casino. She shouldn’t be sullied by me. Too bad I want to dirty her in every possible way. If I were a better man, I would make certain our paths never cross again. But I’m not. I’m not a good man. I put her right back in the lion’s den. “Call the head of housekeeping, ” I ordered, "And let him know-I want Sondra be the regular penthouse suite housekeeper."
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$2,640+ quietly leaves the average aesthetic clinic & medspa every month. 🤯 Not as a missing payment. As silence, from leads that enquired and never replied again. Across 500+ clinics audited, the leak was not the ads, not the leads, and not the offer. It was six words sent inside the first five minutes of every new enquiry. The pattern looks like this. Ads run. Enquiries come in. The first DM goes out, usually some version of "Hi, thanks for the enquiry, when would be a good time to come in?" Most of those enquiries are never heard from again. That first message tends to be the single most expensive moment in an aesthetic business. Not because it is rude or unprofessional, but because it skips the four steps every buyer needs before booking: curiosity, value, proof, urgency. Data from 500+ aesthetic clinics across the UK, US, and Canada points to an average lead to booking rate of around 12%. The clinics converting at 61% to 73% are not running smarter ads or buying better leads. The difference sits in five specific messages, sent in a specific order, over a 24 to 48 hour window. That is the full mechanism. The 5-Message Close Script is a copy paste version of that exact sequence. Timing for each message, three treatment variations (injectables, body, skin), and a short psychology breakdown for in house adaptation. $7. 30-day money-back guarantee. No lift in booking rate inside 30 days, full refund. 👉 Tap below to get the script 👉 $7. 30-day refund
$2,640+ quietly leaves the average aesthetic clinic & medspa every month. 🤯 Not as a missing payment. As silence, from leads that enquired and never replied again. Across 500+ clinics audited, the leak was not the ads, not the leads, and not the offer. It was six words sent inside the first five minutes of every new enquiry. The pattern looks like this. Ads run. Enquiries come in. The first DM goes out, usually some version of "Hi, thanks for the enquiry, when would be a good time to come in?" Most of those enquiries are never heard from again. That first message tends to be the single most expensive moment in an aesthetic business. Not because it is rude or unprofessional, but because it skips the four steps every buyer needs before booking: curiosity, value, proof, urgency. Data from 500+ aesthetic clinics across the UK, US, and Canada points to an average lead to booking rate of around 12%. The clinics converting at 61% to 73% are not running smarter ads or buying better leads. The difference sits in five specific messages, sent in a specific order, over a 24 to 48 hour window. That is the full mechanism. The 5-Message Close Script is a copy paste version of that exact sequence. Timing for each message, three treatment variations (injectables, body, skin), and a short psychology breakdown for in house adaptation. $7. 30-day money-back guarantee. No lift in booking rate inside 30 days, full refund. 👉 Tap below to get the script 👉 $7. 30-day refund
$2,640+ quietly leaves the average aesthetic clinic & medspa every month. 🤯 Not as a missing payment. As silence, from leads that enquired and never replied again. Across 500+ clinics audited, the leak was not the ads, not the leads, and not the offer. It was six words sent inside the first five minutes of every new enquiry. The pattern looks like this. Ads run. Enquiries come in. The first DM goes out, usually some version of "Hi, thanks for the enquiry, when would be a good time to come in?" Most of those enquiries are never heard from again. That first message tends to be the single most expensive moment in an aesthetic business. Not because it is rude or unprofessional, but because it skips the four steps every buyer needs before booking: curiosity, value, proof, urgency. Data from 500+ aesthetic clinics across the UK, US, and Canada points to an average lead to booking rate of around 12%. The clinics converting at 61% to 73% are not running smarter ads or buying better leads. The difference sits in five specific messages, sent in a specific order, over a 24 to 48 hour window. That is the full mechanism. The 5-Message Close Script is a copy paste version of that exact sequence. Timing for each message, three treatment variations (injectables, body, skin), and a short psychology breakdown for in house adaptation. $7. 30-day money-back guarantee. No lift in booking rate inside 30 days, full refund. 👉 Tap below to get the script 👉 $7. 30-day refund | $2,640+ quietly leaves the average aesthetic clinic & medspa every month. 🤯 Not as a missing payment. As silence, from leads that enquired and never replied again. Across 500+ clinics audited, the leak was not the ads, not the leads, and not the offer. It was six words sent inside the first five minutes of every new enquiry. The pattern looks like this. Ads run. Enquiries come in. The first DM goes out, usually some version of "Hi, thanks for the enquiry, when would be a good time to come in?" Most of those enquiries are never heard from again. That first message tends to be the single most expensive moment in an aesthetic business. Not because it is rude or unprofessional, but because it skips the four steps every buyer needs before booking: curiosity, value, proof, urgency. Data from 500+ aesthetic clinics across the UK, US, and Canada points to an average lead to booking rate of around 12%. The clinics converting at 61% to 73% are not running smarter ads or buying better leads. The difference sits in five specific messages, sent in a specific order, over a 24 to 48 hour window. That is the full mechanism. The 5-Message Close Script is a copy paste version of that exact sequence. Timing for each message, three treatment variations (injectables, body, skin), and a short psychology breakdown for in house adaptation. $7. 30-day money-back guarantee. No lift in booking rate inside 30 days, full refund. 👉 Tap below to get the script 👉 $7. 30-day refund | $2,640+ quietly leaves the average aesthetic clinic & medspa every month. 🤯 Not as a missing payment. As silence, from leads that enquired and never replied again. Across 500+ clinics audited, the leak was not the ads, not the leads, and not the offer. It was six words sent inside the first five minutes of every new enquiry. The pattern looks like this. Ads run. Enquiries come in. The first DM goes out, usually some version of "Hi, thanks for the enquiry, when would be a good time to come in?" Most of those enquiries are never heard from again. That first message tends to be the single most expensive moment in an aesthetic business. Not because it is rude or unprofessional, but because it skips the four steps every buyer needs before booking: curiosity, value, proof, urgency. Data from 500+ aesthetic clinics across the UK, US, and Canada points to an average lead to booking rate of around 12%. The clinics converting at 61% to 73% are not running smarter ads or buying better leads. The difference sits in five specific messages, sent in a specific order, over a 24 to 48 hour window. That is the full mechanism. The 5-Message Close Script is a copy paste version of that exact sequence. Timing for each message, three treatment variations (injectables, body, skin), and a short psychology breakdown for in house adaptation. $7. 30-day money-back guarantee. No lift in booking rate inside 30 days, full refund. 👉 Tap below to get the script 👉 $7. 30-day refund
$2,640+ quietly leaves the average aesthetic clinic & medspa every month. 🤯 Not as a missing payment. As silence, from leads that enquired and never replied again. Across 500+ clinics audited, the leak was not the ads, not the leads, and not the offer. It was six words sent inside the first five minutes of every new enquiry. The pattern looks like this. Ads run. Enquiries come in. The first DM goes out, usually some version of "Hi, thanks for the enquiry, when would be a good time to come in?" Most of those enquiries are never heard from again. That first message tends to be the single most expensive moment in an aesthetic business. Not because it is rude or unprofessional, but because it skips the four steps every buyer needs before booking: curiosity, value, proof, urgency. Data from 500+ aesthetic clinics across the UK, US, and Canada points to an average lead to booking rate of around 12%. The clinics converting at 61% to 73% are not running smarter ads or buying better leads. The difference sits in five specific messages, sent in a specific order, over a 24 to 48 hour window. That is the full mechanism. The 5-Message Close Script is a copy paste version of that exact sequence. Timing for each message, three treatment variations (injectables, body, skin), and a short psychology breakdown for in house adaptation. $7. 30-day money-back guarantee. No lift in booking rate inside 30 days, full refund. 👉 Tap below to get the script 👉 $7. 30-day refund
If my wife has been told for ten years that her seb derm is chronic and she just has to manage it, and if she's spent over £8,000 on shampoos, creams and prescription tubes that all stopped working within three months, then it's not a skin problem and it's not bad luck and it's not because she needs to wash her face better. By the time you finish this, you're going to be properly angry. One — every dermatologist she's seen has run the same twelve-minute appointment script. Two — every cream and shampoo she's bought has worked for around ninety days then stopped. Three — the mechanism behind why it keeps coming back has been in the medical literature for forty years and her three GPs in a row haven't mentioned it once. My wife is Caroline. She's 42. Primary school deputy head. Took eight months of maternity leave with our youngest and came back to work with the redness across her cheeks already settling in for what would become a decade. Ten years. She's stopped wearing the dark green jumper she got for our anniversary because the flakes show. She stopped suggesting we have date nights during what she calls the "bad weeks." She turns her face slightly away when our daughter takes selfies with her on the school run. I've watched her do this for ten years and I've finally lost it. The first NHS GP said: "It's seborrhoeic dermatitis. Try Nizoral twice a week." The second NHS GP said: "Nizoral, hydrocortisone for the bad days. It's chronic, just manage it." The dermatologist she finally got referred to said: "Try ketoconazole 2% cream. Maintenance Nizoral. Hydrocortisone for flares." The private dermatologist she paid £220 to see said: "Have you considered roflumilast foam? £900 a can." IT'S CHRONIC, JUST MANAGE IT. Four medical professionals. Ten years. £8,000. And the only thing they could give her was a rotation of products that work for three months and quit. She tried Nizoral 2%. Worked for three months. Quit. Tried Selsun Blue. Tried prescription ketoconazole cream. Tried hydrocortisone, then desonide, then pimecrolimus. Tried MCT oil from the r/SebDerm protocol. Tried squalane. Tried apple cider vinegar rinses that made our bathroom smell like a chip shop. Cut sugar, cut dairy, cut gluten. Tried fish oil for nine months and concluded it was useless. Why does nobody ask why a condition that affects 5% of adults has no actual fix? Why does nobody ask why every "treatment" is something you have to keep buying forever? Why does nobody ask whether the prescribing protocol matches the actual mechanism? Nobody tells us this — seb derm is not a skin disease. It's an internal inflammatory cascade that your skin happens to display first because the sebaceous zones are where Malassezia yeast triggers the overreaction. The yeast lives on 90% of adults; only 5% develop seb derm. The yeast isn't the cause. Your immune system's overreaction to it is. The size of the overreaction is set by the Omega-6 to Omega-3 ratio in your cell membranes — which in modern Western diets runs about 15-to-1, against an evolutionary baseline closer to 1-to-1. Topicals can't reach the place the inflammation is being made. The inflammation is built inside your cells. You cannot paint the inside of a cell with hydrocortisone. What made my blood boil was finding out the entire COX and LOX inflammatory cascade was mapped at the Karolinska Institute in the 1970s — Dr. Bengt Samuelsson won the 1982 Nobel Prize for it. The biochemistry has been sitting in the dermatology textbooks for over forty years while my wife was being told to use stronger shampoo. You can't patent EPA. You can't bill £900 a can for a fatty acid. So the protocol stays the same. What finally made the difference for Caroline was a specific form of Omega-3 at a specific dose. EPA — eicosapentaenoic acid — at 880mg per single capsule. Triglyceride form, not the cheap ethyl ester from the supermarket. Enteric-coated to stop the fishy burps that quietly cause most fish oil users to quit before the dose reaches therapeutic concentration. The brand is OmegaMax™. She was sceptical. She'd tried fish oil already. I had to make a deal with her — eight weeks, one capsule a day, no other changes. If it did nothing, I'd shut up about it forever. Day 16, she came out of the bathroom holding a flannel and said her cheeks weren't red. Said it like a question. By week four, the scaling on her hairline had stopped depositing on her dark cardigans. By week eight, she wore the green jumper to my mum's birthday dinner and didn't excuse herself early. Three months in, our daughter asked her to be in the family Christmas photo. Caroline said yes without hesitating. She told me on the drive home. She cried a little bit. Read the article that explained the whole thing. It's by James Parker — same condition, Manchester bloke, ten years of failed treatments — and he walks through what he calls the Internal Flare Engine in his own words. Reading his story was the first time I felt someone actually understood what Caroline had been going through. Don't wait. Read it now — not next month. https://www.zynvista.com/UK/seb-derm-isnt-a-skin-problem--heres-why
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The bedroom issue started in my late forties and three years ago at 53 I went up to the maximum daily dose. It still barely works. The GP said "we've reached the ceiling of what we can prescribe." I asked what came next. He said "injections." I went home and sat in the car for an hour. I'd already tried L-arginine. £40 a month for ten months. Nothing. I'd tried a Brazilian "men's vitality" stack a friend recommended. £65 a month. Nothing. I'd tried daily cardio for eight months. Lost weight. Helped my mood. Did nothing for the bedroom. The standard medical pathway never investigates the actual cause in men my age. They write the script, watch you escalate, then push you to injections or implants. The cause is never addressed. A 2003 paper in European Urology (Montorsi et al., 300 patients with diagnosed coronary disease) found 67 percent reported bedroom problems first, by an average of 3.2 years before their cardiac symptoms. The penile artery is 1 to 2 millimetres across. The coronary artery is 3 to 4. Plaque deposits affect every artery at once but the smallest one chokes off first. That's why the bedroom is the warning light. That's why blue pill doses keep climbing. The pill forces blood past the deposit. That's it. It doesn't break it down. It doesn't repair the vessel lining. It doesn't address the underlying disease at all. The article I came across referenced a 2016 trial from Harbor-UCLA (Matsumoto and Budoff) showing aged garlic at clinical dose significantly reduced soft plaque in men with metabolic syndrome. The combination it described — aged garlic, olive leaf, and hawthorn at clinical doses — isn't anything a high street health shop sells. The doses are a fraction of what the research uses. The article lays out the artery size theory, the research, and exactly what the formula does. The research is laid out plainly — exactly what's been tested and what hasn't. That's what finally convinced me. If you're on maximum dose and it's still failing — read it before your GP suggests injections. 👇 https://www.sunvanna.com/UK/cardiovascular
Your dog scoots across the carpet? Your vet expresses the anal glands. $80. Scratching himself raw, licking the paws until they stain? Apoquel. $90 a month. Hot spots flaring up no matter what shampoo you switch to? Topical steroids and oral Benadryl. $40. Pacing the house at three in the morning, can't settle, can't sleep? Trazodone. $30 a bottle. House-trained for seven years and suddenly peeing on the rug? Gabapentin for "anxiety" and a $300 behaviorist consult. Coat going dull and patchy no matter what you feed him? $120-a-bag hydrolyzed prescription kibble. This is what your dog's pharmacy shelf looks like when six different prescriptions are chasing six different symptoms on the same dog — with no one asking why they are all happening at once. Most owners spend $200 to $400 a month on this carousel, hoping something finally sticks. It won't. Because every one of those six symptoms is the same problem wearing a different costume. That's parasites. All of it. I am a veterinarian. I have been in practice for twelve years. And I am telling you this because the model I was trained in is built to write you those six prescriptions, one at a time, for as long as your dog is alive. Six different prescriptions for six different symptoms is not bad medicine. It is the business. The biggest threat to your dog's health is not allergies. It is not behavior. It is not bad luck or bad breeding or whatever euphemism the latest specialist offered you at $400 a visit. It is a hidden parasite load that has been compounding in his gut for months or years — hiding behind a biofilm shield that makes it almost impossible to kill with conventional treatments, and almost impossible to find on standard fecal tests. Recent CDC and CAPC data shows 85% of U.S. dog parks test positive for parasites, and canine hookworm infections have increased 45% since 2012. Dogs pick them up from dog parks, shared water bowls, other dogs, grass, puddles, even from tracking them in on their paws. Once inside, they find a home in your dog's gut. And here is what makes them almost impossible to kill with standard dewormers. Within days of colonizing, they start building biofilm — a protective slime shield that makes them up to 1,000 times harder to kill with conventional treatments. Over weeks and months, these parasites multiply behind that shield. Every single day, they're reproducing, spreading, getting stronger. They release toxins into your dog's bloodstream that trigger chronic inflammation everywhere in the body — the skin, the gut lining, the immune system, the nervous system. They damage the intestinal lining and steal nutrients before your dog's body can absorb them. The premium food. The joint chews. The omegas. Half of it is going through him without ever reaching a cell. This is why the skin won't stop flaring no matter what cream the vet prescribes — the immune system is in a state of permanent overreaction because of what is leaking out of the gut. This is why the behavior changed and the indoor accidents started — the toxins cross the gut-brain axis and affect everything from sleep cycles to bladder control to impulse regulation. This is why the coat is dull no matter what you feed him — his body cannot absorb the nutrients you are paying premium prices for. This is why he scoots, and licks, and paces, and accidents on the rug, and looks duller in the eyes than he did last year. It is not six things. It is one thing wearing six costumes. And standard fecal tests miss up to 50% of whipworm infections and 75% of Giardia cases — because the tests were not designed to find what is hiding behind the biofilm. The vet runs a fecal, it comes back clean, and you both move on to writing the next prescription for the next symptom. There is a natural antiparasitic herb I have been recommending for almost a decade to my clients who walk into my clinic already stacked on three or four medications, with a folder full of normal lab results, and a $400 specialist consult on the calendar. Three weeks later, they always come back telling me their dog is a different animal. The scooting stops. The paws stop staining. The hot spots clear and stay clear. The 3 a.m. pacing ends. The accidents stop. The coat fills in. The seven prescriptions get tapered down to none. And the math on the household monthly vet bill drops by a factor of ten. One client brought me a six-year-old Australian shepherd whose behavior had deteriorated so badly over fourteen months that her family had a behavioral euthanasia consult on the calendar. Reactivity on walks. Resource guarding. Lunging at the children. The trainer had run out of suggestions. The veterinary behaviorist had run out of medications. The owner had run out of options. Three weeks into the protocol I gave her, she called the office to cancel the consult. It was not a behavior problem. It had never been a behavior problem. It was an inflammation problem, driven by a parasite load that nobody had been able to find, suppressing his nervous system and his gut function simultaneously. Once we removed the upstream cause, the dog his family thought they had lost forever came back. It is not six things. It is one thing wearing six costumes. This ancient antiparasitic is Carpathian wildcrafted wormwood — Artemisia absinthium — at a thujone concentration high enough to actually do the job. I know this herb personally. I grew up watching my grandmother use it on farm dogs in the Eastern European countryside where I was raised. She'd send me out to harvest the silvery-green sprigs from the hillsides behind the house every autumn. Every farm dog in the village got it. None of them were on Apoquel. None of them were on Gabapentin. None of them needed a behavioral consult. They worked the hills and slept by the fire and lived long, full lives — and the families that owned them did not spend their household income on a carousel of prescriptions. It took me a decade of veterinary practice here to understand why. Thujone is the active antiparasitic compound in wormwood. At high enough concentration, it is one of the only natural substances proven to penetrate and dissolve biofilm — and kill the parasites hiding behind it across every life stage. When that happens, the slime shield melts away, the parasites die, the toxins flush out, the chronic inflammation drops across every system, and your dog's gut finally heals. The skin calms. The behavior settles. The accidents stop. The coat fills back in. The carousel of prescriptions becomes unnecessary, one bottle at a time. The most effective concentration is 0.85% thujone — not the weak 0.1 to 0.2% found in cheap cultivated wormwood flooding Amazon and pet stores, which cannot penetrate biofilm at all. That is why I use Pawsy Parasite Cleanse Drops, and it is the only one I recommend to my clients. Just 1 ml daily for a medium dog with this potency-verified formula could help: 🐾 Break through biofilm and kill parasites at every life stage 🐾 Stop the chronic inflammation cascade that drives skin flares, behavior changes, and accidents 🐾 End the scratching, paw-licking, and hot spots without lifelong Apoquel 🐾 Settle the 3 a.m. pacing and resolve indoor accidents in previously house-trained dogs 🐾 Rebuild the gut microbiome with veterinary-grade probiotics so your dog actually absorbs his food again 🐾 Cancel the next four specialist appointments and replace six monthly prescriptions with one daily dropper 🐾 Flush the toxins parasites release into the bloodstream It is safe. It is powerful. And when done right, it works — even on dogs already cycling through three or four prescriptions with nothing improving. No more Apoquel. No more Gabapentin. No more Trazodone. No more hydrolyzed kibble. No more specialist consults. No more $400 referrals for the next thing the panel cannot find. Just real parasite elimination at the cellular level — at the source. But before you go buy any wormwood supplement, there is one thing you need to know. Most natural dewormers on the market are not helpful. Too weak. Too low-quality. Filled with cheap fillers and sourced from industrial cultivars that do not contain enough active compound to matter. And most dewormer chews use such low thujone concentration that they barely move the needle on biofilm penetration or parasite elimination. I have watched too many owners waste $40, $60, $80 on bottles that did nothing, while the carousel of real prescriptions kept turning. To make sure you are getting wormwood that actually kills parasites, it must come from high-elevation Carpathian farms and contain at least 0.85% thujone — verified by third-party testing. The only brand I have found that meets that standard is Pawsy Labs. Pawsy Parasite Cleanse Drops contains: 🐾 0.85% thujone concentration — up to 8x more potent than most competitors 🐾 Carpathian wildcrafted wormwood sourced from high-elevation farms at 2,000+ feet 🐾 Paired with five additional clinically studied herbs and a veterinary-grade probiotic 🐾 3rd party lab tested in the USA for purity and potency 🐾 No fillers, no artificial additives — just what your dog's gut needs to penetrate biofilm and kill parasites 🐾 Easy liquid drops mixed into food — no fighting a pill into a dog who has already had enough of his pharmacy shelf I use it on my own dogs. And now… so do thousands of other owners — many of whom walked into my clinic carrying a Costco bag full of prescriptions and walked out with one bottle instead. 90-day money-back guarantee — because I am confident it will work for your dog like it has for thousands of others. --- "I had a client come in with a four-year-old golden doodle she had been bringing to me for two and a half years. Apoquel daily. Cytopoint every six weeks. A hydrolyzed prescription kibble at $130 a bag. Gabapentin at night. A behaviorist twice a month for reactivity on walks. A $400 dermatology referral that resulted in another prescription. A $600 GI workup that came back unremarkable. She was spending over $480 a month on her dog's medical care and the dog was still scratching, still pacing, and still reactive. She had been told the dog had atopic dermatitis with a behavioral comorbidity and would be on Apoquel for the rest of his life. After three weeks on Pawsy Parasite Cleanse Drops, she called the office and asked me what to do about the rest of his prescriptions. The scratching had stopped on day eleven. The pacing was gone by day fourteen. By day twenty, she had walked him past the neighbor's dog three times in one week without an incident — something that had not been possible in a year and a half. We tapered the Apoquel over four weeks. The Cytopoint was discontinued. The Gabapentin came down to nothing. The hydrolyzed kibble got replaced with normal food. The behaviorist sessions stopped. Her monthly vet-and-medication spend went from $480 to under $50. And the dog she actually had — the one underneath the prescriptions — finally got to come back." --- It is not six things. It is one thing wearing six costumes. The math on the alternative: Apoquel at $90/month, Cytopoint at $80 every six weeks, Gabapentin at $30/month, Trazodone at $30/month, hydrolyzed kibble at $120 every 18 days, anal-gland expressions at $80 a visit, a behaviorist consult at $300, a dermatology referral at $400, a GI workup at $600, and a vet who keeps writing the next prescription because writing the next prescription is the model the schools trained him in. Versus five drops of a duck-flavored liquid on his food, once a day, for about three weeks before the carousel can start coming down. If your dog is scooting, scratching, flaring, pacing, accidenting, or fading on a coat that no food fixes — please do not just write the next prescription. It is almost certainly a hidden parasite load behind biofilm, a wrecked gut microbiome, and an immune system stuck in chronic overreaction. Standard fecal tests will miss it. The next panel will come back unremarkable. The vet will write the next script and book you for a follow-up. Three weeks from now, you could be canceling four of those appointments and pouring six prescriptions down the drain instead. — Dr. Lena Kovač, DVM. 12 years clinical practice. P.S. The Carpathian highland farms only harvest wormwood at the right thujone concentration once a year, and the supply Pawsy gets allocated is limited. When the bottles sell out — which is happening faster every month — there is a wait. If your dog is on three or more of the prescriptions in that opening cascade, please do not wait. The 90-day guarantee means it costs you nothing to find out whether it is parasites and biofilm. The carousel will cost you everything if it is. 👉 https://thecaninegut.com/parasites/
If your script isn’t working… it’s probably not your talent. It’s your structure. DM me @iamkelleykali the word “DIRECTOR” for consultation info. Or comment “DIRECTOR” below and I’ll try to get back to you personally. (Please give me time to respond. I am human and want to connect personally.💕🤗) I’ve seen talented filmmakers spend thousands shooting projects that were never creatively or strategically ready. I’m Kelley Kali — USC School of Cinematic Arts MFA graduate, Academy Award-contending filmmaker, and director for studios including Fox, Disney, Hulu, BET, Lifetime, Amazon, and Paramount+. I help filmmakers identify the hidden problems BEFORE they waste time, money, and energy going into production. That includes: • Script structure & story development • Directing & visual storytelling • Producing feature films and short films • Budgeting & preparing projects for production • Film festival strategy & submissions • Career guidance for emerging filmmakers Whether you’re developing your first short, preparing a feature, trying to strengthen your script, or figuring out your festival path, I’m opening a limited number of private consultation spots. I also work with parents and teens who are serious about learning filmmaking professionally. #Scriptwriting #directing #filmmaker
I tug down the hem of my one-piece, zippered housekeeping uniform dress. The Pepto Bismol pink number comes to my upper thighs and fits like a glove, hugging my curves, showing off my cleavage. Clearly, the owners of the Bellissimo Hotel and Casino want their maids to look as hot as their cocktail girls. I went with it. I’m wearing a pair of platform-heeled wrap-arounds comfortable enough to clean rooms in, but sexy enough to show off the muscles in my legs, and I pulled my shoulder-length blonde hair into two fluffy pigtails. When in Vegas, right? My feminist friends from grad school would have a fit with this. I push the not-so-little housekeeping cart down the hallway of the grand hotel portion of the casino. I spent all morning cleaning people’s messes. And let me tell you, the messes in Vegas are big. Drug paraphernalia. Semen. Condoms. Blood. And this is an expensive, high-class place. I’ve only worked here two weeks and I’ve already seen all that and more. I work fast. Some of the maids recommend taking your time so you don’t get overloaded, but I still hope to impress someone at the Bellissimo into giving me a better job. Hence dressing like the casino version of the French maid fantasy. Dolling myself up was probably prompted by what my cousin Corey dubs, The Voice of Wrong. I have the opposite of a sixth sense or voice of reason, especially when it comes to the male half of the population. Why else would I be broke and on the rebound from the two-timing party boy I left in Reno? I’m a smart woman. I have a master’s degree. I had a decent adjunct faculty position and a bright future. But when I realized all my suspicions about Tanner cheating on me were true, I packed the Subaru I shared with him and left for Vegas to stay with Corey, who promised to get me a job dealing cards with her here. But there aren’t any dealer jobs available at the moment—only housekeeping. So now I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, broke, single, and without a set of wheels because my car got totaled in a hit and run the day I arrived. Not that I plan to stay here long-term. I’m just testing the waters in Vegas. If I like it, I’ll apply for adjunct college teaching jobs. I’ve even considered substitute teaching high school once I have the wheels to get around. If I’m able to land a dealer job, though, I’ll take it because the money would be three times what I’d make in the public school system. Which is a tragedy to be discussed on another day. I head back into the main supply area which doubles as my boss’ office and load up my cart in the housekeeping cave, stacking towels and soap boxes in neat rows. “Oh for God’s sake.” Marissa, my supervisor, shoves her phone in the pocket of her housekeeping dress. A hot forty-two-year-old, she fills hers out in all the right places, making it look like a dress she chose to wear, rather than a uniform. “I have four people out sick today. Now I have to go do the bosses’ suites myself,” she groans. I perk up. I know—that’s The Voice of Wrong. I have a morbid fascination with everything mafioso. Like, I’ve watched every episode of The Sopranos and have memorized the script from The Godfather. “You mean the Tacones’ rooms? I’ll do them.” It’s stupid, but I want a glimpse of them. What do real mafia men look like? Al Pacino? James Gandolfini? Or are they just ordinary guys? Maybe I’ve already passed them while pushing my cart around. “I wish, but you can’t. It’s a special security clearance thing. And believe me—you don’t want to. They are super paranoid and picky as hell. You can’t look at the wrong thing without getting ripped a new one. They definitely wouldn’t want to see anyone new up there. I’d probably lose my job over it, as a matter of fact.” I should be daunted, but this news only adds to the mystique I created in my mind around these men. “Well, I’m willing and available, if you want me to. I already finished my hallway. Or I could go with you and help? Make it go faster?” I see my suggestion worming through her objections. Interest flits over her face, followed by more consternation. I adopt a hopeful-helpful expression. “Well, maybe that would be all right...I’d be supervising you, after all.” Yes! I’m dying of curiosity to see the mafia bosses up close. Foolish, I know, but I can’t help it. I want to text Corey to tell her the news, but there isn’t time. Corey knows all about my fascination, since I already pumped her for information. Marissa loads a few other things on my cart and we head off together for the special bank of elevators—the only ones that go all the way to the top of the building and require a keycard to access. “So, these guys are really touchy. Most times they’re not in their rooms, and then all you have to worry about is staying away from their office desks,” Marissa explains once we left the last public floor and it was just the two of us in the elevator. “Don’t open any drawers—don’t do anything that appears nosy. I’m serious—these guys are scary.” The doors swish open and I push the cart out, following her around the bend to the first door. The sound of loud, male voices comes from the room. Marissa winces. “Always knock,” she whispers before lifting her knuckles to rap on the door. They clearly don’t hear her, because the loud talking continues. She knocks again and the talking stops. “Yeah?” a deep masculine voice calls out. “Housekeeping.” We wait as silence greets her call. After a moment the door swings open to reveal a middle-aged guy with slightly graying hair. “Yeah, we were just leaving.” He pulls on what must be a thousand dollar suit jacket. A slight gut thickens his middle, but otherwise he’s extremely good-looking. Behind him stand three other men, all dressed in equally nice suits, none wearing their jackets. They ignore us as they push past, resuming their conversation in the hallway. “So I tell him…” The door closes behind them. “Whew,” Marissa breathes. “It’s way easier if they’re not here.” She glances up at the corners of the rooms. “Of course there are cameras everywhere, so it’s not like we aren’t being watched.” She points to a tiny red light shining from a little device mounted at the juncture of the wall and ceiling. I’ve already noticed them all over the casino. “But it’s less nerve-wracking if we’re not tiptoeing around them.” She jerks her head down the hall. “You take the bathroom and bedrooms, I’ll do the kitchen, office and living area.” “Got it.” I grab the supplies I need off the cart and head in the direction she indicated. The bedroom’s well-appointed in a nondescript way. I pull the sheets and bedspread up to make the bed. The sheets were probably 3,000 thread count, if there is such a thing. That may be an exaggeration but, really, they are amazing. Just for kicks, I rub one against my cheek. It’s so smooth and soft. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lie in that bed. I wonder which of the guys slept in here. I make the bed with hospital corners, the way Marissa trained me to, dust and vacuum, then move on to the second bedroom and then the bathroom. When I finish, I find Marissa vacuuming in the living room. She switches it off and winds up the cord. “All done? Me too. Let’s go to the next one.” I push out the cart and she taps on the door of the suite down the hall. No answer. She keys us in. “It is way faster having you help,” she says gratefully. I flash her a smile. “I think it’s more fun to work as a team, too.” She smiles back. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think they would go for it as a regular thing, but it’s nice for a change.” “Same routine?” Chapter 2 “Unless you want to switch? This one only has one bedroom.” “Nah,” I say, “I like bed/bath.” Of course that’s because of my all-consuming curiosity. There are more personal effects in a bedroom and a bathroom, not that I saw anything of interest in the last place. I didn’t go poking around, of course. The cameras in every corner have me nervous. This place is the same as the last, as if they’d paid a decorator to furnish them and they were all identical. High luxury, but not much personality. Well, from what I understand, the Tacone family—at least the ones who run the Bellissimo—are all single men. What can I expect? I make the bed and move on to dusting. From the living room, I hear Marissa’s voice. “What?” I call out, but then I realize she’s talking on the phone. She comes in a moment later, breathless. “I have to go.” Her face has gone pale. “My kid’s been taken to the ER for a concussion.” “Oh shit. Go—I’ve got this. Do you want to give me the keycard for the last suite?” There are three suites on this top floor. She looks around distractedly. “No, I’d better not. Could you just finish this place up and head back downstairs? I’ll call Samuel to let him know what happened.” Samuel’s our boss, the head of housekeeping. “Don’t forget to stay away from the desk in the office.” “Sure thing. Get out of here.” I make a shooing motion. “Go be with your kid.” “Okay.” She digs her purse out from the cart and slings it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” “I hope he’s all right,” I say to her back as she leaves. She flings a weak smile over her shoulder. “Thanks. Bye.” I grab the vacuum and head back into the bedroom. When I finish, I hear male voices in the living room. “Hope you can get some sleep, Nico. How long’s it been?” one of the voices asked. “Forty-eight hours. Fucking insomnia.” “G’luck, see you later.” A door clicks shut. My heart immediately beats a little faster with excitement or nerves. Yes—I’m a fool. Later, I would realize my mistake in not marching right out and introducing myself, but Marissa has me nervous about the Tacones and I freeze up. The cart stands out in the living room, though. I decide to go into the bathroom and clean everything I can without getting fresh supplies. Finally, I give up, square my shoulders and head out. I arrive in the living room and pull out three folded towels, four hand towels and four washcloths. Out of my peripheral vision, I watch the broad shoulders and back of another finely dressed man. He glances over then does a double-take. His dark eyes rake over me, lingering on my legs and traveling up to my breasts, then face. “Who the fuck are you?” I should’ve expected that response, but it startles me anyway. He sounds scary. Seriously scary, and he walks toward me like he means business. He’s beautiful, with dark wavy hair, a stubbled square jaw and thick-lashed eyes that bore a hole right through me. “Huh? Who. The fuck. Are you?” I panic. Instead of answering him, I turn and walk swiftly to the bathroom, as if putting fresh towels in his bathroom will fix everything. He stalks after me and follows me in. “What are you doing in here?” He knocks the towels out of my hands. Stunned, I stare down at them scattered on the floor. “I’m...housekeeping,” I offer lamely. Damn my idiotic fascination with the mafia. This is not the freaking Sopranos. This is a real-life, dangerous man wearing a gun in a holster under his armpit. I know, because I see it when he reaches for me. He grips my upper arms. “Bullshit. No one who looks like”—his eyes travel up and down the length of my body again—“you—works in housekeeping.” I blink, not sure what that means. I’m pretty, I know that, but there’s nothing special about me. I’m your girl-next-door blue-eyed blonde type, on the short and curvy side. Not like my cousin Corey, who is tall, slender, red-haired and drop-dead gorgeous, with the confidence to match. There’s something lewd in the way he looks at me that makes it sound like I’m standing there in nipple tassels and a G-string instead of my short, fitted maid’s dress. I play dumb. “I’m new. I’ve only been here a couple weeks.” He sports dark circles under his eyes, and I remember what he told the other man. He suffers from insomnia. Hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. “Are you bugging the place?” he demands. “Wha—” I can’t even answer. I just stare like an idiot. He starts frisking me for a weapon. “Is this a con? What do they think—I’m going to fuck you? Who sent you?” I attempt to answer, but his warm hands sliding all over me make me forget what I was going to say. Why is he talking about fucking me? He stands up and gives me a tiny shake. “Who. Sent. You?” His dark eyes mesmerize. He smells of the casino—of whiskey and cash, and beneath it, his own simmering essence. “No one...I mean, Marissa!” I exclaim her name like a secret password, but it only seems to irritate him further. He reaches out and runs his fingers swiftly along the collar of my housekeeping dress, as if checking for some hidden wiretap. I’m pretty sure the guy’s half out of his mind, maybe delirious with sleep deprivation. Maybe just nuts. I freeze, not wanting to set him off. To my shock, he yanks down the zipper on the front of my dress, all the way to my waist. If I were my cousin Corey, daughter of a mean FBI agent, I’d knee him in the balls, gun or not. But I was raised not to make waves. To be a nice girl and do what authority tells me to do. So, like a freaking idiot, I just stand there. A tiny mewl leaves my lips, but I don’t dare move, don’t protest. He yanks the form-fitting dress to my waist and jerks it down over my hips. I wrest my arms free from the fabric to wrap them around myself. Nico Tacone shoves me aside to get the dress out from under my feet. He picks it up and runs his hands all over it, still searching for the mythical wiretap while I shiver in my bra and panties. I fold my arms across my breasts. “Look, I’m not wearing a wire or bugging the place,” I breathe. “I was helping Marissa and then she got a call—” “Save it,” he barks. “You’re too fucking perfect. What’s the con? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I’m confounded. Should I keep arguing the truth when it only pisses him off? I swallow. None of the words in my head seem like the right ones to say. He reaches for my bra. I bat at his hands, heart pumping like I just did two back-to-back spin classes. He ignores my feeble resistance. The bra is a front hook and he obviously excels at removing women’s lingerie because it’s off faster than the dress. My breasts spring out with a bounce, and he glares at them, as if I bared them just to tempt him. He examines the bra, then tosses it on the floor and stares at me. His eyes dip once more to my breasts and his expression grows even more furious. “Real tits,” he mutters as if that’s a punishable offense. I try to step back but I bump into the toilet. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just a maid. I got hired two weeks ago. You can call Samuel.” He steps closer. Tragically, the hardened menace on his handsome face only increases his attractiveness to me. I really am wired wrong. My body thrills at the nearness of him, pussy dampening. Or maybe it’s the fact that he just stripped me practically naked while he stands there fully clothed. I think this is a fetish to some people. Apparently, I’m one of them. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be uber hot. He palms my backside, warm fingers sliding over the satiny fabric of my panties, but he’s not groping me, he’s still working efficiently, checking for bugs. He slides a thumb under the gusset, running the fabric through his fingers. My belly flutters. Oh God. The back of his thumb brushes my dewy slit. I cringe in embarrassment. His head jerks up and he stares at me in surprise, nostrils flaring. Then his brows slammed down as if it pisses him off I’m turned on, as if it’s a trick. That’s when things really go to shit. He pulls out his gun and points it at my head—actually pushes the cold hard muzzle against my brow. “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” I pee myself. Literally. God help me. I freeze and pee trickles down my inner thighs before I can stop it. My face burns with humiliation. Now, the anger and indignation I should’ve had from the start rushes out. It’s the exact wrong moment to get lippy, but I glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He stares at the dribble on the floor. I think he’s going to... Well, I don’t know what I think he’ll do—pistol whip me or sneer or something—but his expression relaxes and he shoves the gun in its holster. Apparently, I finally gave the right reaction. He grips my arm and drags me toward the shower. My brain is doing flip flops trying to get back online. To figure out what in the hell is happening and how I can get myself out of this very crazy, very fucked up situation. Tacone reaches in and turns on the water, holding his hand under the spray as if to check its temperature. My brain hasn’t turned back on, but I wrestle with his grip on my arm. He releases it and holds his palm face out. “Okay,” he says. “Get in.” He draws his hand out of the shower and jerks his head toward the spray. “Clean up.” Is he coming in there with me? Or is this really just about washing off? Fuck it. I am a mess. I step in, panties and all. I don’t know how long I stand there, drowning in shock. After a while, I blink and awareness seeps back in. Then I freak out. What in the hell is happening? What will he do with me? Did I really just pee on his floor? I want to die of embarrassment. Keep it together, Sondra. Jesus Christ. The mafia boss who stands on the other side of the shower curtain thinks I’m a narc. Or a spy or rat—whatever they call it. And he just stripped me down to my panties and pointed a gun at my head. Things could only get worse from here. A sob rises up in my throat. Don’t cry. Not a good time to cry. I stumble back against the tile wall, my legs too rubbery to stand. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and I sniff. The shower curtain peeps open right by my face and I jerk back. I didn’t know he was standing right outside it. Chapter 3 Nico Minchia. Shit. My remaining doubts about the girl evaporate when I hear her crying. If I made a mistake, it’s a really fucking big one. Because I seriously don’t want to have to explain to my head of HR why I stripped one of our employees and held a gun to her head. In my bathroom. I’ve seriously gone off the deep end this time. The insomnia is fucking with me—making me paranoid and itchy. I need to get my little brother Stefano out here to help me run the place so I can sleep at least an hour a night. He’s the only one I trust. “Hey.” I make my voice softer. The girl’s standing under the spray of water, soaking her Harley Quinn pigtails and the pair of light blue satin panties she’s still wearing. Fuck if I don’t want to yank them right off her and see what’s underneath. I’m pretty sure she’s in shock, and who could blame her? I terrify my employees on my best days and that’s without tearing off their clothes and flashing a weapon. Her chest shudders as she lets out a silent sob and it gets under my skin, same way her sniffle did. Somehow, I don’t think undercover feds or any kind of professional would pee on my floor and cry in my shower. So yeah. I seriously fucked up here. I reach past her and shut off the water, soaking the entire arm of my suit jacket in the process. “Hey, don’t cry.” A better man might apologize, but until I’m one hundred percent sure there’s not something off here, I keep it in. I yank the shower curtain open, and pull her out to stand on the bath mat while I wrap one of the towels from the floor around her. Because she seems to still be in shock, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her wet panties and tug them down her trembling legs. I must not be as depraved as I think, because I somehow manage not to look at what she keeps under them when I lower to a squat and grip her ankle to help her step out of the dripping fabric. I toss them in the garbage can. Earlier, I threw a towel over the place where she peed, and her eyes dart there now. I know she’s gotta be completely humiliated by it, but the truth is, she’s not the first person I’ve made piss themselves. I guess she’s the first female. The only one I’m sorry for scaring. She’s trying to stifle her sobs, which, of course, only turns them into snorts and choked gasps. Now I really feel like a first-class asshole. “Aw, bambina.” I grab the two corners of the towel, and pull her against me. Her wet skin dampens my suit, but all I can think about is how soft her lush, naked form is against my body. The exhaustion in my limbs ebbs, cleared by the flames of white-hot desire. “Shh. You’re okay.” She trembles against me, but her sobs quiet. “Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head, her wet pigtails splattering a drop of water onto my cheek. Her gaze tracks to it. A loose section in the front flops over her eyes. I shift my grip on the towel to one hand and use the other to brush the hair back from her face. “You’re okay,” I repeat. She blinks up at me with long-lashed blue eyes. I love having her up close and captive where I can study her better. She’s as beautiful as I originally thought, with porcelain skin and high cheekbones. It’s not just beauty that makes her special. There’s some other quality that makes her seem so out of place here. A fresh-faced innocence. Yet she’s not overly naive or young. She’s not dumb, either. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t release her. I don’t want to. The heat of her body radiates through my damp clothes and crowds my mind with the dirtiest of thoughts. If I were a gentleman, I’d leave the room and let her get dressed, but I’m not. I’m an asshole with a hotel casino to run. And I still don’t know who the hell this girl is or how she ended up in my suite. And seriously, heads are going to roll for this. Even more because the girl suffered for it. Right. If my brain were working better, I might acknowledge I’m the only one who can take blame for that part, especially since I’m still holding her naked and captive. “It’s just a girl who looks like you doesn’t normally clean rooms in Vegas,” I offer as the lamest excuse ever. It’s true, though. I’m sure there are more girls like her out there. But I don’t see them around here. All I see are the fake-boobed hustlers trying to work some angle. The professionals. Women who use their bodies like weapons. And I have no problem with them. I’m happy to use their bodies, too. But this one—she’s different. Her full berry lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. I can’t keep my hands to myself. I run my thumb across her lower lip, trace it back and forth over the plump flesh. Her pupils dilate, giving me encouragement to keep touching. “A girl like you is usually on the stage—some kind of stage—even if it’s just a gentleman’s club.” Her eyes narrow but I don’t shut up. “Girl like you could make a shit ton selling herself.” Mary, Queen of Peace, I want to kiss the girl. I lower my lips but manage to stop above hers. A kiss would definitely not be welcome. I may be a scary prick, but I don’t force myself on women. “You know how much a guy like me would pay for a night with you?” This time I really went too far. She tries to yank back from me. I don’t release her, but I do lift my head. She presses her lips together a moment before saying, “May I go?” I ease back, but shake my head. “No.” It’s a decisive syllable, short and curt. She flinches. The dilated pupils narrow back to fear. I don’t like her afraid nearly as well as I like her trembling and soft, open to me, the way she was a moment ago. It’s a subtle distinction, though, because I do love the power position of having her here, at my mercy. “I still need some answers.” I back her toward the sink counter, then pick her up by the waist and plop her bare ass down on the cool marble top. The towel flaps open when I release her, and I get another eyeful of her perfect, full breasts as she scrambles to find the corners and pull it closed. I shake my head to clear the fresh flood of lust rocketing through me. My cock’s gone rock hard. I’m a man used to getting everything he wants, which usually includes women. The fact that this one isn’t available makes me want her even more. “Seriously,” I mutter. “I’d pay five large for a night with a girl like you.” Even as I say it, I know I’d never want her that way. I’d want to coax the willingness out of this one. And that’s my strangest thought yet. Because I never, ever spend time dating. “I’m not a prostitute,” she snaps, blue eyes flashing. Her anger pulls me out of my sleep-deprived fantasy. I blink several times. “I know. Just saying you could make a lot of money in this town.” I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? I don’t want this girl to become one of those women. And she just wants to get the hell out of here. So I need to get back to my interrogation. “Who are you and why are you here?” She draws in a shaky breath. “My name is Sondra Simonson. My cousin, Corey Simonson, works here as a dealer. She got me this job in housekeeping while I wait for something better to open up.” She speaks rapidly, but it doesn’t sound rehearsed. And it has enough details to ring true. “Marissa is my boss, and I offered to help her clean the rooms up here because the regulars are out sick. Her kid got a concussion and she had to leave me up here by myself. All I did was clean.” She lifts her chin, even though her pulse flutters at a frantic pace in her neck. I wait for her to go on, not because I’m still that suspicious, but because I like hearing her talk. She babbles on, “I just moved here from Reno…I taught art history at Truckee Meadow Community College.” I tilt my head, trying to assimilate this new information. It only adds to the wrongness of this girl being in my room. “Why is an art history professor working as a goddamn maid in my hotel?” “Because I have terrible taste in men,” she blurts. “That right?” I have to work to keep from smiling. I lean my hip up against the counter between her spread thighs. When she blushes, I know she must be thinking about how close her pretty little bare pussy is to the part of me most eager to touch her. I’m even more fascinated by this lovely creature now. What kind of guy does an art history professor fall for? She swallows and nods. “Yeah.” “You follow a guy here?” “No.” She lets out her breath with a sigh. “I bailed on one. Turns out we had an unshared interest in polyamory.” I lift an eyebrow. She’s studying me right back, her blue eyes intelligent now that the fear is wearing off. “Let’s just say finding him banging three girls in our bed will be forever burned into my mind. So”—she shrugs— “I took our car and headed to Vegas. But karma got me because it got totaled when I arrived.” “How is that your karma?” “Because half that car belonged to Tanner and I stole it.” I shrug. “Whose name was on the title?” “Mine.” “Then it’s your car,” I say, like I’m the guy who makes the final ruling on all things to do with her ex. “So that still doesn’t explain why you’re in my bathroom.” Or maybe it did. My brain is still short-circuiting from lack of sleep. The real truth is probably that I don’t want to let her go. I’d like to string her up in my room and interrogate her with my leather flogger all night long. I wonder how that pale skin would look with my hand prints on it. Too much, Tacone. I try to pull back. The room swims and dips as my vision trails. Fuck, I need sleep. She blinks rapidly. “Because you won’t let me leave?” I was right. She’s smart. The corners of my mouth twitch. “Housekeeping is the only place I could get a job on short notice. I’d rather work as a dealer. Think you can hook me up?” Now she’s getting sassy. Funny, I don’t have the urge to take her down a peg the way I usually do with employees. Unless, of course, it involves her naked and at my mercy. Oh yeah. I already set that up. But the suggestion of her working as a dealer irritates the fuck out of me. I don’t know if it’s because she’d be ruined by Las Vegas in a month, or because I really want to keep her in my room. Cleaning my floors. Naked. “No.” She flinches because I say the word too hard. I’m definitely having a difficult time modulating my behavior. But she just shrugs. “Well, this is temporary, anyway. Just until I earn enough to get a new car and find a teaching job.” Okay, even not trusting my instincts, I think she’s who she says she is. Which means I have no good reason to keep her prisoner here. I step back and take another long perusal of her now that I know more about her. Seriously. I want to keep her. But considering the things I just did to her, she’ll probably quit the second she leaves my suite. I point to her crumpled dress and bra on the floor. “Get dressed.” Before I do or say anything else to traumatize the girl, I leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself. Chapter 4 Sondra Well. That was interesting. My knees wobble when I stand. What will he do now? Am I free to go? I pull on my clothes with shaking hands and zip my dress all the way up, even though he’s already seen my breasts. The wet panties are in the trash bin, so I go commando. I decide the best course of action is to hold my head high and march right out of there. Because there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around to finish cleaning his suite after what just went down. I grab the doorknob and take a breath. Here goes nothing. He stands in the hallway in front of my cart, talking on his cell phone. Blocking my exit. Damn. I catch my breath again at how scary-sexy he looks—the delicious way he fills the expensive suit, his thick, dark hair that curled up at the edges, the penetrating dark eyes. He ends the call and drops his phone in his suit pocket. “Your story checked out, at least for now. I’ll be digging further.” His dark eyes glitter but the menace I sensed there before has vanished. I straighten my back, which draws his gaze down to my tits. “You won’t find anything.” The corners of his mouth curve faintly. He watches me like a lion watches prey. Hungry. Sure of himself. He shakes his head, almost ruefully. “Girl who looks like you…shouldn’t be cleaning rooms,” he mutters. I march past him, giving him a wide berth. “Yeah, you said that earlier.” The guy just totally violated me. Stripped me naked and watched me pee on his floor. I need to get the hell out of here and never come back. Forget working for the mafia. I have a life worth living…somewhere else. Somewhere far from Vegas. I push the cart, even though I never finished cleaning his bathroom. Just get the hell out, Sondra. “Hold up,” he barks. “Leave the cart. Tony will take you home.” A tap sounds at the door and a huge guy with a wire in his ear walks in. Judging by the bulge at his sides, he packs as much heat as Tacone. Fuckity fuck fuck. I step back, shaking my head. Oh hell, no. I’m not getting in a car with this guy so he can shoot me in the head and drop me off a pier. Okay, there are no piers in Las Vegas. The Hoover Dam, then. I’m not that stupid. “Relax.” Tacone must’ve seen the blood drain from my face. “You’ll get home safely. You have my word. Hold up just a minute.” He walks out of the living room and into his office. “I-I’ll just take a bus,” I call out after him and head toward the door, hoping to skirt past Tony. “That’s what I usually do.” Tony doesn’t budge from his position in front of the door. “You’re not taking the fucking bus.” Tacone sounds so scary I stop in my tracks. He returns holding an envelope, which he hands to Tony and murmurs something I didn’t hear. “Go with Tony.” It’s a command, not an option. Tony’s stood there stony-faced the whole time. Now, he lifts his chin at me. I walk to the door, trembling like a leaf. Tony opens it, ushers me through and shuts it again. I dart a glance up at the beefy man beside me. Tony drops a huge paw on my nape. “You’re okay.” Seriously? Does this guy care about my welfare? He ushers me forward into the elevator. “You hurt? Or just scared?” Every bit of my body trembles. “I’m okay.” I sound sullen. I position myself as far away from him as possible, folding my arms across my chest. Tony frowns at me. The elevator zooms down. “Boss isn’t himself. He didn’t—” The frown deepens. “Did he force you?” Okay, that’s kinda sweet. This guy really is checking up on me. But he works for Tacone, head of the crime family, so I’m not sure why he’s even asking. “What would you do if I said yes?” Dark fury comes over the guy’s face. He takes a step forward toward me. “Is that what happened?” Danger tinges the edges of his voice. I shake my head. “No. Not like you’re thinking.” I look away. “Not that. Something else.” I don’t look, but I can feel his glower still resting on me. “What would you have done if I said yes?” I ask again. I suppose my morbid curiosity about all things mafia prompts the repeated question. He presses his lips together and resumes a soldier-like stance. His signal that he’s not going to answer. When the elevator dings open, I dart forward, weaving into the throng of gamblers. Somehow, he stays right behind me. The meat-like hand drops on my nape again. “Slow down. I have orders to take you home.” “I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the bus—really.” He doesn’t remove his hand, but uses it to direct me through the crowd, which parts for his big frame and bigger presence. “I’m not gonna whack you, if that’s what you think.” I shake my head. I can’t believe we’re even having a conversation where whacking someone is involved. “Good to know.” It’s all I seem capable of saying. He takes me to another elevator—a private one he uses his keycard to get into. We arrive at the lowest floor, which appears to be the private parking area. He leads me to a limousine and opens the back door for me. “We’re going in this?” Maybe he really isn’t going to kill me. I look around at the other cars there. Limos, Bentleys, Porsches, Ferraris. Row after row of luxury cars packed the floor. Wow. Tony smiles like he thinks I’m cute. “Yeah. Get in.” “You’re as bossy as your boss,” I mutter and he grins. I do as I’m told. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if this is a death sentence or not, but I can breathe more steadily now. He doesn’t ask for my address but he drives straight to Corey’s place and pulls up along the sidewalk in front of the townhouse. A chill runs up my spine. Tacone had certainly checked up on me. Is this another way he throws his weight around? Showing me he knows where I live and how to find me? Or is this really a courtesy drop off? I push the door open the second the car stops. “Hold up.” Tony’s deep voice doesn’t have the same effect as Tacone’s. I don’t freeze. Instead, I run for the door. “I said, hold up,” he shouts, and I hear the slam of his door. “Mr. Tacone wanted me to give you something.” Hopefully not a bullet between the eyes. I fumble for my keys. No, I’m being stupid. He drove me home. The guy isn’t going to kill me. I turn around and watch him jog up the walk. He pulls the envelope Tacone handed him out of his jacket pocket and gives it to me. My name scrawls across the front in a thin, neat print. For some reason, I’m surprised at how beautiful Tacone’s handwriting is. I draw a shaky breath. “Is that it?” Tony’s eyes crinkle. “Yeah, that’s it.” I swallow. “‘Kay. Thanks.” He smirks and turns away without another word. My hands shake as I work the key into the lock. It’s over. A bad day, nothing more. I never have to go back there again. Yes, they know where I live, but they took me home safe and sound. Nothing more will come of this. I had my little taste of the mafia, just like I wanted. Tomorrow I’ll start applying for a normal job. One that doesn’t involve shady underground characters with huge, hot hands and piercing dark eyes. One without guns, or the jingle of coins in slot machines. One without Tacone. Chapter 5 Sondra Dean, Corey’s boyfriend, sits on the couch watching TV. “Hey, Sondra.” He looks a little too happy to see me. My stomach clenches, awareness of my pantyless state increasing. The guy has a habit of leering at me, and I’m afraid he’ll somehow figure out there’s nothing under my very short dress. “Hey,” I mutter. He gives me an up and down sweep of his eyes, lingering way too long on my breasts. “What’s up?” There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell him about my crazy day. Corey, yes, but not him. Unfortunately, I don’t have my own room—I crashed on their couch—so there was nowhere for me to hide. Earning enough to put the deposit on my own place is my first priority, even over getting a car that runs. I go to my suitcase in the corner and grab a change of clothes before locking myself in the bathroom. Only then do I realize I still clutch the envelope from Mr. Tacone. I stick my thumb under the flap and tear it open. Six crisp hundred-dollar bills slide out with a note of paper. I draw in my breath. For someone who has pretty much been broke, eating nothing but ramen noodles through college and grad school, it’s a lot of money. I had scholarships and assistantships in college, but that still put me below the poverty level. Adjunct teaching hasn’t exactly paid the bills, either. The note’s written in the same neat penmanship on the envelope. Sondra— Sorry for scaring you. Money doesn’t fix everything, but sometimes it helps. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. —Nico My heart skitters.Nico. He signed his first name? And apologized. Not in person, but still, it’s an apology. I hope you’ll return to work tomorrow. The image of his face leaning just inches from mine as he gripped the towel that bound me against him flashes through in my mind. My knees go weak. He wants me to return? He guessed correctly that I planned to quit and never set foot in the place again. I fan myself with the six hundred-dollar bills. Some people would take a high moral ground. Say they wouldn’t let him buy their silence or compliance or whatever. But not me. He’s right. Money does go a helluva long way to fixing things. Still, the asshole held a gun to my head. And stripped me naked. And I peed. It was the most humiliating moment of my entire life. But my sense of violation fades as I remember the way he also shoved me in the shower, toweled me off and murmured, you’re okay. I stare at the money. Six hundred dollars closer to moving off my cousin’s couch and into my own place. Six hundred dollars closer to getting another car. I can buy groceries and pay my cousin back for what she’s already spotted me. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to show up at work tomorrow. Yes, it had been utterly humiliating, but I’ll probably never see the guy again. It would save me the trouble of finding a new interim job while I figure my life out. I exhale slowly, trying to erase the vision of Tacone brushing my hair back from my face, his penetrating stare. I won’t have to see him again. And that’s a good thing. Definitely a good thing. I take a shower and exit the bathroom, unsurprised to find Dean lurking just outside it, ostensibly in the kitchen. I haven’t figured out how to tell Corey I think her boyfriend’s a lecherous, no-good cheating asshole. I don’t have any proof—just the way he looks at me, and seems way more interested in talking to me or hanging out when we’re alone. Considering I’m a magnet for cheating boyfriends, I know the vibe. I usually make it a habit not to be around when Dean is at the townhouse without Corey, but Tacone’s guy drove me home too quickly. I try to make the best of it. “Hey, Dean. You feel like driving me to the grocery store? I got paid today.” For getting strip searched. This time when the memory of Mr. Tacone’s—Nico’s—large hot hands roaming over my body flashed back, the fear is gone. A brief fantasy flickers in my mind—him peeling my panties down my legs for a different reason... "You know how much a guy like me would spend for a night with a girl like you?" Five thousand dollars! Stop thinking about him! I need to forget Nico Tacone is exactly the kind of man who makes my toes curl. Dark. Dangerous. Unpredictable. The ultimate bad boy. Yes, I’m in danger of falling to the dark side again. Big time. I need to stay strong. And stay away from this dangerous man. Nico's POV Sondra Simonson. It’s her real name. I asked security to pull everything they can find on her and bring me the file. Along with the video feed of our interaction. If she doesn’t quit, I definitely want her up in my room again. Naked. Preferably naked and willing this time, but I’d be a goddamn liar if I said I didn’t like her a little scared. There was something so appealing about the way she both trembled and got turned on when I stripped her. Or had I imagined it? I’ll find out soon enough. Where is that damn video feed? I’m like a junkie waiting for his next hit. I can’t wait to watch the video of her. I’m going to be fucking my hand all night to the sight of her pouty lips and wide blue eyes decorating my screen. A knock sounds on the door. “It’s Tony.” The deep voice of my right-hand man echoes through the door. “Yeah?” “I dropped her off.” He steps in and gives me a careful look. I know he didn’t come in here just to tell me that. He came in to find out what the hell happened. Why I sent the maid home wet and scared. He’s worried about me. My mental state is starting to crumble with the inability to sleep. He’s too smart to come out and ask me what happened. He knows I’d tell him to mind his own fucking business. But he’s made a career out of standing around me silently, serving as my bodyguard, making himself available when I do feel like confiding. He’s not family. He’s not even Italian. He’s just a big, loyal guy from Cicero who decided I was the guy he was going to follow into the bowels of hell. I guess you could say he’s the closest thing I have to a friend. If a Tacone ever really has a friend. “She’s new. I thought she looked off, so I strip searched her.” A muscle in Tony’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t say anything. Tony is absolutely a defender of women. His ma was abused by his dad pretty bad and he’s still eager to even that score with any guy who manhandles a woman. Probably even, if it came down to it, me. But I don’t usually make a habit out of mistreating women. This one was a special case. I purse my lips and shrug. “I also may have pointed a gun at her head while I was questioning her.” I tell him in case there’s some mess we need to clean up from the fallout. Hopefully Sondra won’t kick up a fuss. I don’t think she will. And for some reason that bugs the hell out of me. I have terrible taste in men. Smart, well-educated, smoking hot little number like her shouldn’t be walking around with that fatal flaw that puts her in danger. Especially not in Vegas. Except it’s probably that terrible taste that turned her supple and pliant in my arms, too. Those incredible nipples pebbled up, that pussy turned wet for me. And I hadn’t even been coming on to her. I was rough-handling her like a deranged lunatic. Fuck. Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, Nico. The lack of sleep has you paranoid.” “I know.” I run my hand through my hair. “You need to take something. Have you tried the drugs?” I have a whole shelfful of pharmaceuticals that are supposed to help me sleep, but either they don’t work or I don’t like the way they make me feel afterward. Not that I like the delirium I’m under now. “Nah. I think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” “That’s what you said last night.” I look out the wall of windows that make up my penthouse suite. “So you got her home? Was she okay?” “She was skittish. You pay her off?” The words pay her off set my teeth on edge, even though that’s exactly what I did. Still, it sounds so sordid when associated with her. It’s the same reason I don’t want to see her dealing on my floor. She shouldn’t be sullied by all the shit that goes down at this hotel casino. She shouldn’t be sullied by me. Too bad I want to dirty her in every possible way. If I were a better man, I would make certain our paths never cross again. But I’m not. I’m not a good man. I put her right back in the lion’s den. “Call the head of housekeeping, ” I ordered, "And let him know-I want Sondra be the regular penthouse suite housekeeper."
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The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now. | The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now.
AI content creation is moving fast — and most people are still stuck figuring out where to begin. If you want a simpler way to make viral content, ad creatives, and cinematic visuals… this is for you ⬇️ You do not need experience, a studio, or weeks of trial and error.All you need is a laptop, a few hours, and the right framework. Inside Step2AI, you'll learn how to: ✅ Scale your reach with viral social content, high-converting ads, and shorts ✅ Deploy Hollywood-level VFX and 3D environments that look like millions ✅ Lock in a consistent AI character that remains identical in every single frame ✅ Clone yourself with a hyper-realistic digital twin that speaks and moves for you ✅ Generate viral-ready thumbnails that break the laws of physics and the budget ✅ Master ""Prompt Architecture"" to build brand identities and logos in seconds 🪄 Step2AI was made for creators who want to use AI as a real creative advantage — without the usual complexity or cost. With AI Filmmaking, there's: ⭐️ No expensive gear required ⚙️No technical background needed 💻 Works on your laptop or phone 👉 https://steptwo.ai/cnt-cr5
Kick-start your AI journey with Coursiv 🚀
You already know English. Bitesy helps you use it better. Short coaching sessions focused on real conversations, business situations, and confidence.
You already know English. Bitesy helps you use it better. Short coaching sessions focused on real conversations, business situations, and confidence.
"Ik werk hier nu drie jaar. Wat ik het meest waardeer? Dat ik écht de tijd krijg voor een klant. Geen targets die je door gesprekken jagen, geen script dat je afwerkt. Gewoon goed advies geven aan mensen die een grote aankoop doen en daar vertrouwen bij nodig hebben." Dit is wat je hoort als je een collega van Babypark Heerlen vraagt waarom ze blijven. We zoeken iemand die hierin zichzelf herkent. Iemand met verkoopervaring in een adviesomgeving, mode, wonen, baby, sport of vergelijkbaar. Geen kassawerk, maar echt gesprek.
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On his birthday, low-profile billionaire Anthony discovers his wife is marrying another man—using his identity, money, and status. Crashing the wedding as a “nobody,” he endures public humiliation until the truth erupts: he is the real CEO and Mafia King. As lies unravel, Anthony reclaims his power, exposing betrayal and delivering ruthless revenge.
The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now. | The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now.
The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now. | The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now.
The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now. | The Certified Personal Trainer credential is hyperfixated on mediocrity. Time and recovery bandwidth are limited- training productivity must not be hampered by ineffective programming, subpar execution, or runaway prehab work. Beyond a certain point, meaningful training progress requires leaving the "safe zone", and embracing a performance-first paradigm. The Pre-Script® Level 1 course curriculum prioritizes performance as the key objective outcome: ✅ Unlock greater training bandwidth - Expand training output ✅ Never deload again - Retain constant training intensity ✅ Stop runaway corrective exercise - Maximize training productivity ✅ Build lasting mobility - Solve movement restrictions ✅ Program for consistent, unrelenting progress Pre-Script® Level 1 -- The definitive applied biomechanics & resistance training certification program. Get started now.