Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC): Vegas Titans Series (3 page)

Lou lead her first to the bank of elevators in the casino
lobby, which—as a function of the hotel—Romy had only used the one time. Once
inside the car, he swiped a key card from his belt, unlocking a floor below the
basement galley. The button had no marking number.

“May I ask what’s this regarding?” Romy tried, though she
couldn’t quite keep the quaver from her voice. Her head was spinning. She was
suddenly terrified: if she lost the casino job, she’d lose her space in the
Masters program—her academic scholarship only covered half of her tuition.
Without school, she’d probably have to abandon Vegas (and subsequently, the
closest things to friends she had) for some cheaper city. News of her release
would prevent her from getting another casino job, which would make her fit for
very little else outside her unfinished field. She’d have to go back to Reno.
She’d have to face the chilly horror of her foster parents, and all the bad
memories she’d tried to leave behind in that town. These possibilities were
ruinous. Life-ending. Romy looked at the floor and tried not to cry.

“Can’t tell you, kid,” Valentine sang, clearly relishing his
secret knowledge. “Who doesn’t love a surprise?”

The elevator opened onto a part of the casino Romy had never
seen before. They’d landed in a brightly lit atrium space, off which three long
hallways forked in different directions. She felt in her belly a quick,
guttural fear: she could get lost very easily in a place like this.

“I don’t have all day, buttercup,” Lou wheezed. He was
already a ways down the central hallway. The only sound she could hear, even
straining, was the squeak of her boss’ rubber soles on perfectly polished tile.
She hewed closely to him, though she was sorely tempted to sneak a peek into
the few rooms along the hallway with windowed doors. Working at a casino, one
heard all kinds of stories about things that went on in secret basements—but
were the rumors true?

After what felt like a good half a mile (Lou Valentine was
gasping as he strode), he led Romy into a second elevator. This one all but
blended into the wall, and Lou had to use both his keycard and a six-digit pass
code to summon the car. It was a tight fit, and a creaking, lengthy ride. At
last, the car doors opened right into a room. This place looked like no part of
the casino she’d worked at for two years—or for that matter, any casino she’d
ever seen. It was more like a rustic hunting lodge.

The ceiling was high, especially considering the fact that
they were several floors below the earth. The room was paneled with a dark,
lovely wood. Every few paces, there were old-timey portraits on the walls
depicting historical figure-types, though Romy didn’t recognize any of the
names. Candelabras lit the space—this was easily the dimmest room she’d ever
seen in Vegas. There were wall shelves also, each carting casino memorabilia:
antique decks of cards fanned out in glass cases, dusty stacks of chips. An old
slot machine.

They were walking towards a long table, which rested on a
bearskin rug. There were three people huddled at the far end, by the former
bear’s feet: a thin, blonde woman perched on the tip of an armchair, a
corpulent man in a velvet sporting jacket, and a muscular black man in
sunglasses. Sunglasses at night...that reminded her of Bryson. He seemed so far
away down here.

“Romy Adelaide,” pronounced the corpulent man. His voice was
scratchy and crass; he sounded like a heavy smoker. “A beautiful name for a
beautiful girl.”

“Got her to ya just the way you asked, eh Lefty?” said Lou,
practically falling onto a lush green velvet chaise. Through an almost
imperceptible shift in the room’s atmosphere, Romy could tell the large man
didn’t care for Lou either. That fact made her smile.

“Just look at you,” the man called Lefty said, addressing
Romy once more. His eyes oozed over her skin, starting at the top of her head
and working down. It was an almost sexual appraisal, but there was something
even stranger about his gaze: she briefly felt like an object, or an animal at
auction. The large man was looking at her the way you look at something you
use, or buy. She bristled in her skin. Felt the same original wave of nausea
and terror she’d felt when the first elevator had released them into the
casino’s bowels.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, my dear,” said
the man again. The room was silent but for the resonating crackle of his voice.
“And let me be the first to say: you aren’t fired.” That should have been a
great comfort, but it wasn’t. Everything about this secret lair made Romy feel
more and more like a Bond villainess. Or better yet, a hostage.

“My name is Edwin DiMartino, ‘Lefty’ for short. But maybe
you already knew that.”

“No. I have no idea who you are.” She admitted boldly.

“Oh, smashing! Lou, you’ve brought me a firecracker!” Lefty
DiMartino seemed delighted at this. He tilted forward in his chair and laughed
a deep belly laugh, which the blonde at his right-hand echoed with a faint
snort.

“Romy Adelaide, I know
you
because I know
everything,” Mr. DiMartino said, inclining his head towards the far wall.
Though she hadn’t noticed this coming in, a bank of HD TV monitors were
flickering quietly above the door. Each displayed scenes from the different
corners of the casino floor. Quickly, Romy confirmed Paulette’s suspicion about
the innocuous spot in the ceiling: it was a security camera, all right.

“I own The Windsor,” Mr. DiMartino said proudly, “as well as
seven other properties on the Sunset Strip. Though we’ve never met, I like to
keep a close, close watch over all my employees. I know you’re something of a
math whiz, for instance. I know you’re a veteran of the broken American
orphanage system, and the estranged foster daughter of Carl and Joanne Dickman.
I know they were cruel to you.”

She stared straight and furrowed her brow. “What are you
getting at, sir?”

“Easy, easy. I just wanted you to realize how deep my
interest in your well-being goes. I am pure of heart—” here, Mr. DiMartino
placed a thick hand over his chest, “—and I want my workers to be pure of heart
as well. Do you know what I mean?”

Lou Valentine tittered. “Look at her. 'Sposed to be a smart
cookie, standing there all slack-jawed…”

DiMartino visibly bristled. “Mr. Valentine, please. Ms.
Adelaide is my guest.” He made a small motion in the direction of the black man
in sunglasses. “Perhaps you’d like to hold off your commentary. Unless you
think my friend Titus here would enjoy your jokes? The two of you could maybe
go somewhere private, laugh it over?”

Though he might have been kidding, once again Romy felt the
air in the room constrict. Lou Valentine shut his mouth tight.

“As I was saying. What I know about you could—
does
—fill
a dossier. But mostly, I know you’re the most capable female dealer on my
blackjack tables. I know you’re well-liked. I know you’re intelligent. I know
you're trusted. And I know you’re beautiful. I think all these things and more
would make you an excellent addition to a sort of secret project I’ve been
running at the casino for years now. And where are my manners? Would you like a
drink?”

The sun was coming up out on the Strip, and here she was in
a secret casino room being propositioned by the head honcho. This was weird—but
then again, what
wasn’t
weird about this town? Romy thought back to
Bryson’s exit. He’d seemed so calm yet so brazen walking off the floor with a
tidy five grand. All her life, she’d been wishing for moments like that—moments
that felt free, that made the job of living look effortless. Without quite
articulating a decision, Romy sunk into an armchair. “I’ll have a seven and
seven, please.”

“Good. Great. I’m delighted. Now Ms. Adelaide, because
you’re intelligent, I’ve no doubt you’re curious about the details. These are
they:

My ‘VIP’ dealers work with the top of the line clients
exclusively. These men—and some women—play strict, serious blackjack and poker
in the club private quarters; rooms very much like these. They meet only on
Saturday nights. If you agree to the position, this means you’ll only work on
Saturday
nights
—leaving you a great deal more time to study for school.” Mr.
DiMartino passed her the cocktail. “Because the position demands high levels of
precision and discretion, the casino is prepared to contribute 20% of your new
income to a 401K account. Your health insurance plan will be re-evaluated.
We’ll match any and all contributions to retirement, any and all contributions
to charity, and ditto to college funds. We consider non-indentured tuition
assistance as well. You with me so far?”

Romy could only nod. She took a gulp of her drink, the
whiskey didn't burn a bit...this was the good shit.

“Here’s the number for your new salary, which is open to
negotiation. Titus, show her.” A stone-faced Titus drew a casino cocktail
napkin from the folds of his jacket and deftly slid this across the table.
Opening the folded message, Romy almost yelped. The figure was her current
salary times
four.

“Room for growth. Nightly bonuses in the five, six figures.
And, of course I’m sure you know how well high-rollers like to tip a pretty
face.” Mr. DiMartino nodded again at the bank of monitors. So they had been
watching her all night down here—they’d seen the whole flustery Bryson
encounter. She began to blush.

“I wouldn’t be embarrassed, if I were you,” said Mr.
DiMartino. His omniscience was beginning to startle—it was like he knew what
she was thinking before she’d even articulated it to herself. “Having that kind
of power over a man is something to be cherished, if not painfully squandered.
So, Romy. Does any of this sound interesting?”

The room was silent again. Feeling the urge to make noise,
Romy shifted in her chair. She clinked the ice cubes from her drained cocktail
together in the glass. She tried to reconstruct just what had happened here,
just who these people were and what they wanted her to do.
Breathe,
Adelaide,
she willed herself.
Don’t be foolish.

“It’s a bit much. I can see that. So listen,” Mr. DiMartino
said, easing back into his puffy chair. “How about you take three days to think
it over? I’ll be back on site this Wednesday, and we can talk more details
then.”

“That would be great,” Romy breathed. She felt like she was
speaking for the first time upon waking in the morning; the desperation in her
voice surprised her. “I—I need to think about all this.”

“Yes. Think. You’re a smart girl.” Mr. DiMartino shot her a
meaningful look, and then nodded at Lou, who leapt quickly to his feet. She was
being whisked away again. “Oh, but Romy? Do remember. Whichever decision you
come to, this conversation
never happened.
You have a nice day,
sweetheart.”

He may as well have spun around in his chair, or removed a
sinister white cat from the folds of his cloak. A panting Lou shuttled them
back down the hall, up the elevator, and down the other hall, while Romy
gripped the folded cocktail napkin with the neat sum imprinted on its surface.
She had to hold on to the napkin, she knew that much. It might very well be the
only proof that tonight had ever happened.

“Come
onnnnnn
, Brysy. Give mama a little coin for the
juke box!”

Bryson turned his head towards his whiny “date” (Tiffany?
Amber? Who remembered?). He cursed himself silently. This evening, he’d broken
a cardinal Vaughn family rule: never boast in the strip club about heavy
pockets. He could perfectly picture his father, Hughie .V, leaning forward in
his beloved rocking chair to dispense his typically unsolicited, and
nonsensical sexual advice: “Broads are like dogs. They can smell fear, and they
follow money.”

“
Baaaaaaby.
I know you want to dance with me. Just a
couple bucks, eh?” Tiffany was grinding her slender hips against his groin, but
Bryson couldn’t summon the energy. He looked up at this incidental companion:
she was a tawny, scrawny redhead with close-cropped hair and long eyelashes.
Amber was pretty enough, but for once in his life, he found that his mind was
haunted by another woman: Romy Adelaide. He liked rolling her name around in
his head—
Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide…

“Here, just take fifty,” Bryson said. “And why don’t you go get
yourself some dinner?” He kissed his date on the cheek. “I’m really not feeling
up to a long night.” The woman’s face hardened at the insult, but when he
handed her the cash he could see that she wouldn’t protest further. She shot
him a last rueful smile before leaving the honky-tonk.

“AS I LIVE AND BREATHE!” hollered Rigel from down the bar.
Whenever he came through Vegas, Bryson was obliged to stop in at ‘Ricky Dee’s,’
off the boulevard. Rigel Mathers, a.k.a., Ricky Dee, “in the country parlance”,
was a longtime friend to the Devils Aces, and as good as a Vaughn brother from
back in the Reno days. Though Rigel’d left the club to start a business in the
big city, the Aces considered Ricky’s a special haven. Even if the
establishment’s proprietor was a consistent loudmouth busybody.

“You’re in no position to be shunning tail so fine,” Rigel
said, still several decibels above an indoor-voice. “That’s not the Bryson
Vaughn I know.”

“People change, Ricky.”

“You know you don’t have to call me that. What’s gotten in
to you?”

Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide, Romy Adelaide…
“It’s
nothing. I just have a lot of work to do.”

Rigel snorted. “Since when have you ever had work to do,
son?”

“Since the Big Man put me on a casino case.”

“A CASINO CASE?!”

“Lower your voice!” Bryson flicked his bottle top in the
direction of his friend. “Can you keep a secret, Rick? For real this time?”

Rigel’s face readjusted. Loud though he might be, Bryson
knew a good friend when he had one. “You can trust me. I won’t breathe a word.”

Bryson swallowed. “The Aces got wind of something strange
going on up at The Windsor.”

“Funny money changing hands?”

“Exactly.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be one of Lefty DiMartino’s joints?
Guy is B-A-D.”

“Yup.”

“Guy’s like a modern day Al Capone.”

“Yup.”

“So what are you gonna do to him?”

“Get as close as possible,” Bryson said. He lifted a
cigarette from the inside of his jacket and placed it between his lips. “Suss
out the scene. Went by there today to get a lay of the land. See if I still
remember how to...well, shall we say ‘
improve my odds with astute
mathematics
.’”

“Goddamn card-counting sonofabitch!” Rigel yelled. Several
customers glanced up from their beers. “And I’m guessing your little feathery
fixture, she’s just a perk? Of this so-called JOB?”

“I didn’t even know the lady’s name, sir.” Bryson inhaled
deeply. A moment of silence passed between the friends.

“You do seem preoccupied.”

“Well…”

“I mean, outside of
work
. You should get back out
there, find yourself a nice woman. Or two. Or three,” Rigel started a titter
which evolved quickly into a guffaw. Then he fondled his wedding ring. “Don’t
know what
I’d
do without Stacy. Just remember, B, when you’re chasing
road and toppling the mafia—love of a good woman. That’s the
hardest
thing
to find.”

Bryson stubbed out his cigarette in a lone glass ashtray. He
placed several crisp bills on the bar, picked up his coat and slid on his
sunglasses before grinning at his friend. “I know it,” he said. “Or in any
case, I’m beginning to.”

He’d recognized her immediately, of course—but the look on
her face as she’d searched to place him in her memory had been too much to pass
up. That was the same face she’d made the day after he hadn’t shown up for some
stupid science class project back in high school: a face full of longing and
hope and confusion. He’d never once been with a woman who made faces so
complex, who allowed the world to keep them so very puzzled.

Of course in high school he’d been a cad of the highest
degree—but he had noticed her. He’d noticed her blonde hair, natural and
shining while the other girls’ were mini-Marilyns, made from a bottle. He’d
noticed her full pink lips which never seemed to smile; the world was likely
too puzzling a thing for a girl like her to smile about. He’d been distantly
aware of her tragic childhood, which seemed to make her brains and guile the
more impressive. He could also recall now plenty of time spent staring at the
heavy-looking scoops of her breasts.

He didn’t date complicated girls. He didn’t really date at
all. He was Bryson Vaughn, of the Devils Aces: women came his way freely, and
he loved them in equal measure the way he loved bodies in general. But there
was something about Romy Adelaide, the blackjack dealer at The Windsor. There
was something about her inquisitive eyes the color of lake water, and her trim
hips wobbling nervously above a thick ass and long, long legs. He wanted her for
longer than a single night. He wanted to smell her and taste her and lick her
and tease her through mornings and afternoons and evenings uncountable, because
something about her face said he’d never be bored with a woman like her. And
so, with a grand new resolution, Bryson Vaughn pledged to topple The Windsor.
He wanted to save beautiful Romy Adelaide from all her tortures, and then he
wanted to have her, and then he wanted to keep her.

Bryson kicked away his bike’s kickstand, and let the revving
engine soothe what had become a massive erection pushing against his slacks. He
took a deep breath of the dirty city air before shoving off into the night.