2,250Welcome to La Bellissima, my friends! The hottest hotel and casino in Las Vegas, run by the mob boss who puts the "sin" in "sin city."
I want to start with a HUGE thank you to some amazing ladies who have gone above and beyond to help me with this story. First off is Beta extraordinaire Fran (SunflowerFran), who is a master of catching errors and making my words flow. Next is my fabulous pre-reader Mary (Eternally Addicted), who's a pro at analyzing my storyline. And, of course, the literally award-winning banner prodigy Lizzie (Lizzie Paige), who created the gorgeous banner for this story.
Is everyone ready to jump into some MobWard with me? Let's do this!
EPOV
I tap my fingers across the lacquered mahogany of my desk, displeased with the report before me. Someone is using my casino as a cash cow, raking in their winnings without paying out as much as they should. Usually, we'd chalk this up to luck. But after months of the same names earning the same way, I suspect it's more than a coincidence.
"Who do you think they are?" My voice remains even, disinterested to the untrained ear, but the man panicking in front of me understands. This is the version of Edward Cullen that's most deadly.
Ben, I think his name is, lifts his hand as if to run it through his gelled black hair but then thinks better of the nervous tick and fists it by his side. "Couple of kids from California. They're in a master's program for mathematics. They learned how to count cards."
I hum. Little shits. "Why isn't Emmett here telling me this?" It's not that Ben doesn't have the information I requested; he does, but the five-foot-ten baby-faced man is what some would call a soldier- the bottom of the barrel, someone who is trying to prove themselves to me. Here, in my casino, I refer to men like him as security associates. Their captain, my brother Emmett, is the head of security.
"He's… busy?" Ben's voice cracks as my brows shoot upward. No one, I mean fucking no one, is too busy to see me when requested.
I sneer and wave Ben out of my office before he pisses himself, and I have to get my carpet steam cleaned. "Thank you, Mr. Cullen." He rushes out the door, slamming it behind him in his desire to escape.
Sighing, I rub a hand across my face and turn my chair to face the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. From the twenty-fifth floor of my hotel, one of the largest in Las Vegas, my view of the strip is incomparable. It's midday now, so the glitz and glamor of the nighttime lights are overshadowed by the desert sun, but the bustle of tourists never stops, and I watch the tiny figures of my clientele as they leave and enter the property.
Card counters. What a bunch of punks. It's not the first time I've dealt with situations like this. No, I've witnessed it all after a decade of living here and overseeing La Bellissima.
I've committed it all.
I lean across the wide expanse of my desk and hit my intercom. "Kate, track down my fucking brother."
My secretary is smart, chirping back, "Yes, sir," without further question. She knows I expect Emmett to be in my office within the hour. I'm not above taking him to our interrogation rooms downstairs and breaking out my brass knuckles if I think he's fucking around instead of working.
Flipping through the stack of papers Ben delivered, I double-check the math, growling when I see the final numbers. Five hundred sixty-seven thousand, nine-hundred fifty-five dollars in the past two months gone because of these card-counting fuckers. At least I know it's not just happening in my casino. My father told me it's happening in his two as well.
See, in Las Vegas, gambling is a family business. You have the gamblers who marry other gamblers and have kids who grow up to gamble. If we're lucky, they move to the city of sin to waste their savings because of some fantasy about winning it big. Then you've got the men like me and my father who take that money and feed into gambler's delusions.
My grandfather, Eduardo Masoni, was among the first to capitalize on this trend. A captain sent from la famiglia in New York when the desert started booming with life. "A legal way to do the illegal" is what he always said. My father, Carlisle Cullen, married into the family after Eduardo took him under his wing as an associate and then a captain. Soon, my grandfather learned that Carlisle had fallen in love with his daughter, and they were expecting me. Shotgun wedding at a Vegas chapel. How original.
Six years ago, when my grandfather passed, he split his empire, leaving two hotel casinos to my father and one to me with the expectation that I would build the Masoni-Cullen name and continue expanding. I'm making good on that expectation. My new property broke ground last month.
My intercom buzzes, and Kate says, "Emmett's on his way."
I try to cool myself down before he gets to the office, bringing my laptop to life and checking emails. But that only makes my blood pressure skyrocket. The goddamn headlining show in the Venice Theater downstairs is over budget again. I thought I made it clear to the artistic director that there would be hell to pay if he couldn't get his stage director in line. I might be making a trip to an interrogation room after all.
Knocks sound on my door as the burly shape of my brother appears on the other side of the frosted glass. "Come in," I call out, leaning back in my leather chair and steepling my fingers in front of my chest.
"Hey, Ed, what's up?" Emmett walks in, shoving his hands in his pockets as the door shuts behind him. I narrow my eyes, calculating the tells that let me know exactly what was more important than the meeting he had scheduled with me.
His curly brown hair is ruffled. Even with being cropped short, it's messy. His tie is slightly askew, and the second button on his shirt is undone. His tailored dress slacks are crumpled as if recently tossed into a ball, and his suit jacket is nowhere in sight.
"Were you fucking Rosalie?" I scoff. His fiancée is our head of HR, and Jesus, those two could not be more of a human resources nightmare.
He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk, and I wonder how pissed our mother would be if I pulled my Smith and Wesson from my waistband and put a bullet in his thigh.
My tongue traces over my teeth as I seethe, trying to decide what the fuck to do with him. "You sent a soldier to do your work."
"Now, wait a minute, Ed." He throws his hands up, palms out, as I glare. He's going to get the shit kicked out of him just for using that damn nickname that I hate. "Ben's an up-and-comer. I gave him the job on purpose. I wanna see what he's capable of, and I wanted to get your impression before I promoted him."
"He's a scared little pussy."
"He's useful when the ladies get out of control- got that good guy vibe. They eat it up. Remember the catfight last week near the dollar slots? He's the one that broke it up. Even ended up getting handed one of the chick's phone numbers."
"So, what," I laugh. "You want to make him head of out-of-control bitch fights?"
Emmett sits in one of the brown leather armchairs in front of my desk, no longer fearing bodily harm. "Something like that. Figured I could make him a security lead. Bitch fights being his specialty."
"I'll trust you. But next time you send someone else to do your work…"
"Yeah, got it. You wanna hear bad news from me. Wonderful." He crosses an ankle over a knee, and I realize he's missing his socks. "What are you gonna do about the card-counting math freaks?"
"Did dad tell you they're hitting him up too?" I ask. Emmett nods. "Next time they enter a Cullen casino, we're taking them to the warehouse."
"Fun. Do I get to go?" His foot drops to the floor as he leans forward, excited about the prospect of a trip to the old warehouse halfway to Lake Mead. The Masoni-Cullen family has nullified threats there for decades, but we no longer use the lake as a dumping ground. My modern methods don't leave any body parts behind to dump.
I place my palm on my desktop and level him with a look. "If you're not too busy fucking your fiancée."
"Oh, come on, Ed. You didn't see her today. Tight skirt, red lips…Jesus, the fucking blow job." He brings his fingers to his lips, kissing the tips to tell me how fucking splendid his blow job was.
My face twists in disgust. I don't want to hear anymore. "You're missing your socks."
"Casualties of war." He grins.
"We've got another issue." I ignore him and turn back to my computer, my anger flaring as I see the fifty-thousand-dollar discrepancy with Jacob Black's disastrous show downstairs. "The show is over budget again."
Emmett cocks a brow. "We need to pay them a visit."
I groan because the last thing I want to do today is visit Black. He's the kind of jackass that uses "slay queen" unironically and makes innuendos about getting into my Armani slacks. Fuck no. I've considered banging every showgirl on his stage just to get the damn message across. I'm into cunts, not cocks.
Before we go downstairs, I tell Emmett to stop by his penthouse to pull his shit together. When he returns, the second button on his shirt is undone, and I have to point it out. I also smack his cheek in warning. He can't be running around like some college kid chasing pussy. We've got a reputation to uphold.
Slipping into my suit jacket, I lock my office door and nod at Kate as we pass. She's a pretty girl, twenty-four, with nice tits, shoulder-length blond hair, and a perky nose that plastic surgeons get paid a shit ton of money to replicate. But unlike Emmett, I avoid the mess of office flings.
Our elevator quickly descends as we don't stop on guest floors, only the twenty-fifth where our offices are and the twenty-sixth for our penthouses. The doors open on the first floor into a side lobby only accessible by keycard. Emmett holds the lobby door open as I slip into my busy casino. Classic Italian decor greets me. Everything from the distressed gold accents and marble floors screams luxury. The soft glow from chandeliers overhead casts light over replications of famous paintings and statues.
I breathe deep, loving the scent of money and the expensive perfumes women wear when visiting La Bellissima. Buttoning my jacket, I pass the high roller blackjack tables. Emmett follows, his eyes missing nothing. He's my right-hand man for a reason. He's fucking observant.
We walk through the casino with purpose, eyes and heads turning toward us as patrons work to decipher the men in the expensive suits. We intimidate, I know that, but according to our mother, people, especially women, stare for other reasons. She tells us that Cullen men are gorgeous. I think that's an adjective used when describing a chick.
One thing I know for sure is Emmett's not fucking gorgeous. I guess he's good-looking enough to score a hot piece of ass like Rosalie. But the two of us are opposites in a lot of ways. The only thing similar is our height. I'm an inch shorter than him at six foot three, but where he's stocky, I'm lean. Don't get me wrong, I'm strong enough to fuck you up, I run and lift weights, and I've got biceps and defined abs, but I'm not a fucking caveman. My face is more angular, whereas his is rounder. My eyes are deep green, and his are blue. And my hair? Well, fuck. Just forget my hair.
When I was a kid, my grandmother tried to get a stylist to replicate the crazy auburn-bronze color growing from my head. She had to buy a wig to cover the orange she ended up with. My grandfather broke the stylist's hands.
Emmett slows, holding his arm out to block my path. "Check out the dude in the Tommy Bahama on our left," he whispers. I spot the man immediately. He's around seventy, with curly gray hair. He's reaching to accept a Manhattan from a cocktail waitress dressed in our signature white and gold eye-catching uniform consisting of a short skirt and lots of cleavage. But the blond in the red dress, draping herself over his shoulder, has me chuckling. The guy is wearing socks and sandals. He's some mid-western tourist who's got no idea he's about to pay five hundred dollars for half an hour with a call girl.
"You wanna put Ben on it? According to you, he's good with the ladies," I snark.
Emmett catches himself before he disrespects me by rolling his eyes. "Nah, I'll deal with this one. That's Ruby. She's a repeat offender." Say what you will about Vegas, but what happens in my casino doesn't always stay in my casino. We're known for being top of the line in everything. If you're a high roller that needs call-to-order pussy in my hotel, you're getting something a lot better than herpes-infested Ruby.
Emmett has her by the arm and is talking to his team in his earpiece before Mr. Hawaiian Shirt knows what hit him. I lean against the nearby Mediterranean-themed Capri Bar, watching the scene unfold with a satisfied smirk. Emmett drags the girl to an employee-only area and hands her off to a couple of his guys.
"She's a sweet talker, that one," he says as he rejoins me. The bartender has already placed two tumblers of McCallan on the bar top for us. My employees are well trained. "Told me she'd give me an hour free if I let her work the floor tonight."
"What are you doing with her?"
"Dropping her off at Garett's."
I snort into my drink. Garrett McAllistair is a friendly rival of ours, his hotel backs up to one of my father's, and we've dueled over clientele for years.
Pushing away from the bar, we continue past the slots, where a group of bachelorettes cheer over a one-hundred-dollar win, and walk toward the entrance of the Venice Theater. Emmett pulls out his key card, unlocking a set of double doors, allowing us entry.
It takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dark theater. Stage lights flicker as the crew rehearses cues, shouting instructions to each other. A few of the dancers are on stage, warming up and stretching. It's easy to get distracted by their long legs kicking above their heads and the tiny shorts and sports bras they practice in, but again I don't screw around with employees.
I spot Senna, the stage manager, walking up one of the aisles between a set of dining tables and lift an arm, alerting her to my presence.
"Oh. Mr. Cullen! And Mr. Cullen. Are you here to watch rehearsal?" She wrings her hands, caught off guard because it's not often we make personal visits to the theater. Fuck, I can't even remember the last time I watched a show here.
"Where's Eleazar?" I place my drink on a table and shift my sleeves, tugging on my cufflinks. It's a move that I learned years ago from my grandfather. Used subtly, it's powerful intimidation.
She sucks in a breath, eyes scanning the dimly lit audience looking for the artistic director. "He might be backstage."
I stare at her, waiting while she shoves her hands into the pockets of her black cargo pants. Her chin-length blue hair swishes when she glances toward the stage, clearly hoping Eleazer will appear out of thin air. "You maybe want to go find him?" I snap, holding my arm toward the stairs that lead to the wings. She gives us a weird bow and a "right away' before running to track down her boss.
"Well, that was fucking hilarious," Emmett says, checking out the long legs and big tits on the stage. I don't remind him that he was just fucking my head of HR- his fiancée.
Clapping and a high-pitched "Alright, ladies!" makes me turn toward the stage and cringe. Black is here.
"We've got fresh blood today." He's wearing gray sweatpants with purple leg warmers and a crop top. I'm shocked he hasn't tried to work himself into the show by now. "Y'all help her because Lordy knows I'm not slowing down for anyone!" He claps three times and barks for the girls to get in their rows.
Shaking my head to rid it of the high kick I see Black attempt, I turn to Eleazer, who's rushing up to me, wringing his hands. "Mr. Cullen, how can I help you?"
I pause momentarily, my eyes narrowing as I watch him sweat. No, seriously, there are literal beads of sweat forming under his blatant hair plugs, and I wonder if I can wait him out so long they'll drip down his toucan-beak nose. "Care to explain why you were twenty-five grand over budget last month?"
"Uh, well." He reaches up and tugs at his collar, then attempts to play it off like he's got an itch at the side of his neck. "Have you seen the show recently?"
"That's not an answer." I'm getting irritated, and I let it seep into my tone. I better get an answer quickly, or the best-case scenario for Eleazar is he's walking out of here without a job. Worst case, he's rolled out on a gurney.
"Mr. Black wanted to add those pyrotechnics, and then, of course, we had the incident with the stallion riding on stage and the showgirl who sued for negligence…."
"What the fuck?" I'm loud enough to disrupt Black's counting onstage. I make the mistake of glancing over and earn a spirit finger wave from him. Gritting my teeth, I turn back to Eleazar. "What lawsuit? Why am I just hearing about this now?"
He shifts his weight from heel to heel as if he'll somehow find a comfortable way to explain his bullshit. "It was filed yesterday. To avoid it, we tried to pay her for her time off and her medical bills."
"What the fuck happened to her?"
"The horse trampled her leg. Broke it."
"Why the fuck was there a horse?" I'm screaming now, and Emmett's fucking chuckling. I'm sure he will tell me later that the vein running through my forehead was popping out. He finds that shit hilarious.
Someone snaps, and I roll my eyes because I know exactly who it is. "The horse was an artistic decision that I stand by." Black has stopped his rehearsal to face us, propping his hand on his hip. "It is not my fault Gianna didn't know her choreography and spooked him."
"This is awesome," Emmett hisses. Someday, I will have to shoot my fucking brother so that he learns when to shut up.
"No more horses," I demand, pointing Eleazar in the face. "You pass everything new by me from now on, and you don't say yes to this asshole until something is approved, do you understand?" Eleazar nods, his face pales, and a sweat bead rolls down his temple. "As for the lawsuit, I want it on my desk immediately to get my lawyer on top of it."
Done with the fucking nonsense in this damn theater, I retrieve my drink from the table and take a deep pull. It burns, calming me with the fire rolling down my throat. Emmett tells Eleazar to scram while my eyes scan across the stage, looking for another egregious expense I need to cut.
My glass is halfway to my mouth for a second sip when I spot her. She's the shortest one up there, five-six maybe, but she's got these lines- toned legs that stretch for miles, tits that bounce alluringly with her movement, and a trim waist with a belly button piercing that sparkles when she moves in the light. Her short shorts and sports bra do little to cover her dancer's body, and for the first time in years, I think I ought to check out the show.
"The new brunette is hot." Emmett's next to me, smirking.
"Hands off." I surprise myself when I release the words in a growl.
"Hey, I'm getting married," he laughs. "I'm just saying." He throws a palm up as he turns down the aisle to head out of the theater.
I take one last glance at the siren up on stage. This time, she's looking straight back at me. There's a depth in her dark eyes that, for a moment, makes me want to drown in her. I want to know where she's from and what she's doing on a stage in Vegas because no one's dream is to end up here. But then she's looking at her feet because she kicked the chick next to her, and both are struggling to keep their footing. My brunette reaches out to catch herself but uses another girl's hair as a handle, and suddenly, all three are screaming before they hit the floor in a tangle of limbs.
Jesus, that's some funny shit.
Emmett's laughing from the doorway while I try to keep my shit together. I can hear the sound and lighting crew cracking up in the box overhead.
As I slip back into the casino, I text Kate. I need a reservation for the next show.
A/N: And who do we think that brunette showgirl may be? Hmm, tough question... ;) We're going to hear from Bella in chapter two!
*POSTING SCHEDULE*
I get this question with every new story, so I want to make sure the info gets out to everyone. Usually, I will be posting updates to the story on Thursdays, but due to a crazy move I'm in the middle of this week, I decided to go ahead and give you guys chapter one today. I'm going to post chapter two on Sunday, but after that, we'll go to the normal Thursday schedule.
Please follow, fav, and review! I would love to hear your take on this version of MobWard! I will do my best to respond to as many reviews as I can :)
See you on Sunday!