DEMYEN
The poor bastard tries to drag his feet on the carpet like he's hoping the earth will swallow him whole before we reach the private security room tucked behind the glass elevator. But my men are stronger than him, and they hoist him up so only his toes skate over the plush fibers.
I hear him mutter pleas, stammer promises to leave and never come back, but I ignore him.
It's too late for that.
Bambi bids us adieu at the door; she's never had much taste or patience for what comes next. It's just as well-she needs to go check in with all our escorts in the pit.
The man is firmly seated into one of the metal chairs. Two of my men keep a hand on each of his shoulders to make sure he doesn't think running is a good idea. The others lean in the corners, every bit the silent, violent sentinels they're trained to be.
Even before I speak, the message is clear.
And it's dripping down the man's face in rivulets.
"Listen, man," he stutters, "I meant you no disrespect-"
I hold up a hand and he falls silent. "Of course not." I flash him a charming smile, but my eyes are full of venom. "You came into my house, drank my liquor, and harassed my guests. But you meant no disrespect to me specifically."
His mouth snaps shut.
"Here's the thing..." I check the message from Bambi on my smartwatch. "... Mr. Nichols. Mr. Josh Nichols. From Los Angeles as well-how lovely. We're practically neighbors."
I meet his terrified gaze, my smile still perfectly in place. His throat bobs with a terrified swallow.
"Here's the thing," I repeat. "This is a business. This is my business. And what people do under my roof is my business. So when someone like you comes in here and threatens my guests, you threaten my business."
He gulps again. It's audible in the silent room.
"And I simply can't have you threatening my business, Mr. Nichols." "I-I s-s-swear, man, I'll never-"
He grimaces in pain when both men bracing his shoulders squeeze tight. Any more pressure and they'll snap his collarbone.
"I swear, Mr. Zakrevsky! I'm out! I'll never come back!"
I steal a glance to the guard on my right, who immediately hands me the man's now-unlocked phone. I skim through the texts. Most of them are hookup requests and uncouth responses to various rejections on one dating app after another.
The truth is, this guy is hardly worth the time I'm giving him right now. The only reason why I'm even bothering is because reputation precedes performance, and the public currently milling around the Main Floor need to see the House keeps things safe and clean.
But there are far greater threats than Mr. Nichols out there. Truth is, this sad excuse for a man doesn't even register. So I do the next best thing and cut him some slack.
Notice I didn't say that I cut him loose.
"Sasha."
The guard to my left steps forward. He's intimidating with broad shoulders, a deep chest, and bald head tattooed with tribal flames near his ears. The very picture of Do not fuck with me.
"Da, pakhan?" he grunts in Russian.
I smirk. He knows the game well.
"Keep Mr. Nichols company while we decide what to do with him. And see what you can do about these dating profiles; they're atrocious."
Sasha nods and calmly sits in the chair opposite Nichols, taking the phone once I set it on the table. Nichols slumps in his chair, clearly on the verge of sobbing. He doesn't know what's about to happen to him. He doesn't know how Sasha is going to "keep him company." All his mind can do is run through the worst possible scenarios, and they're obviously terrible.
If he were anyone who mattered, they probably would be.
But I don't need the blood on my furniture, and besides-the nightmares he can conjure himself are worse than anything Sasha's brass knuckles could ever do to him. My men will make him shit his pants for an hour, then rough him up a bit, throw him into the back alley, and let him scurry back to whatever rat hole he calls home.
I give a curt nod. The rest of the men file behind each other and we exit the room together, leaving Josh Nichols to the worst hour of his life.
The curious gazes that skirt our way as we stride to the pit are exactly why I have this little protocol in place. No one knows what's going on in that room-only that Demyen Zakrevsky personally manhandled a serial sleaze who dared come into this House.
Bambi matches my smirk when she hands me her tablet at the edge of the pit. "Right on schedule."
The screen is lit with selfies and captions posted by the now-elated VIP guest as she tours her luxury suite and tries on the silk complimentary robes. Comments and likes continue to pour in as friends and family push the posts through the social media algorithms.
"And the bookings?" I accept a tumbler from a passing server and take a sip.
"Up by fifteen percent since it went viral. We'll have a busy weekend next week."
"Perfect."
Bambi flips the cover shut and tucks the tablet under her arm. "Tolya would be proud of you, you know."
The thought comes as a hard punch to my gut. My mood suddenly sours, and I resist shooting her a glare. I know she means it as a compliment. I hate how it feels more like a reminder that his empire fell into my lap through Fate's cruelest twist.
It doesn't matter that even Tolya insists I stole nothing from him. It still feels like I did.
"He'd have it twice as successful than it is now," I grumble. "With half as many idiots poisoning the bar."
Bambi rolls her eyes and makes no effort at all to hide it. "When are you going to take credit for your own success?"
I toss back the rest of the tumbler's contents and slam the glass down on a nearby table. "When I find that fucking 'key witness' and thank them myself for the opportunity." Because that's what this all boils down to.
I have everything around me, this glittering empire of dreams and diamond dust, because some snot-nosed kid lied on the stand fifteen years ago.
I shake my head before I can sink into the usual storm of rage and angst over how it's been so long and I still haven't found her. "Give me the report," I order.
Bambi sighs and pulls out her tablet and flips to a screen where the Main Floor layout is outlined in blue. Every machine is labeled according to its placement, with a running tracker of wins and losses indicating whether it's "hot" or "cold" by the second. If a machine stays hot for too long, we're alerted of a glitch so we can pull it, fix it, and minimize our losses. And if it's cold for too long...
"What's our coldest?" I peer at the screen.
Bambi taps on a section next to the pit, and an enlarged window zeroes in on the machines. "Looks like Medusa's Wrath. Only two payouts in the last hour. This one on the end has been cold for..." She frowns. "Six hours. That's odd. Want me to call in tech support?"
I shake my head. "Not yet. Funnel the wins to that machine and we'll pull later. No one's gonna touch something that icy."
Bambi nods her agreement and makes the necessary adjustments. She funnels additional funds to the glitched-up machine.
With that settled, I start another circuit of the casino floor. I'm only vaguely aware of Bambi rattling off a To-Do list as we wander. Bambi's intended praise still swirls in my head.
Tolya would be proud.
Would he, though? I have no idea how Tolya would have run things. He never got the chance to even try. Our old man was still around calling the shots and ruling with an iron fist when Tolya was arrested for a murder he never committed.
Everything hinged on the testimony of an eight-year-old little girl who swore she saw my brother gun down LVPD Detective Michael Little. To this day I can't shake the feeling that someone, somehow, skewed the facts so my brother would never see the light of day. But I can't put my finger on which one.
