4. Brie

CHAPTER 4

Brie

Frank manages to keep his shit under wraps on the way up to the suite in the elevator, but he starts talking the moment we exit onto my floor.

"Breezy, you shoulda left that to me. Now we need to discuss the next steps. You gotta tell me exactly what they were saying with all that jibber-jabber they were doing, you hear? And what you said back to them. Because the Family's interests…"

And on he goes. His words grate on my nerves, each one a reminder of the fa?ade I've maintained for years. The airhead trophy wife, now the grieving widow. It's exhausting at times, but the mask has kept me safe. Kept me wealthy.

And I know better than most how precarious the Family's position actually is right now. If Eva Novak is aware of our dwindling numbers, that means our enemies here must be, too.

I cut Frank off as politely as I can, my Southern charm slipping through as always when I need it, though I've done my best over the years to take the edge off my accent. "Frank, honey, all they were doing was discussing how they could change up the deal. Make it better for us. Now, I appreciate your escorting me up here, but I really do need some time alone now. To grieve, you understand."

His brow furrows, deepening the lines on his weathered face. "But Brie, what that woman said down there…you really do need protection. It's not safe for you to be alone right now."

I've refused all attempts of Frank to load me up with cumbersome shadows, and now I wave a hand dismissively, the diamonds on my fingers catching the light. That tall woman with dark hair and eyes who sat at the edge of the Novak Consortium group—she kept looking at them.

Kept looking at me , too.

She was completely neutral-faced, even when insulting me. Right up until she realized I understood every word. I should probably have kept my Russian language skills under wraps to see what else they planned to fuck the Colombos over on, but I couldn't resist.

"Frankie, I'll be fine," I say. "I'm just going take a bubble bath and turn in for the night, no guards needed. No one can get to this floor without a pass, anyway. Now, you go on and set up another appointment with the Novak Consortium for their revised offer. Next time I promise I'll be a good little girl and sign whatever you tell me to sign."

Before he can protest further, I step into the suite and close the door in his face.

And just like I told him, I head off to a bubble bath as I think about the meeting again. Eva Novak had enough of her people with her to staff the damn casino. All of them glaring, burly, menacing…

Except for that one woman she had in her retinue.

I've never seen a female bodyguard before, if that's what she was. The Colombos are…well, traditional is a polite way of putting it. Misogynistic fucks is more accurate. I don't mind using their blind spots against them—none of them have ever been able to tell me what to do, Terry included—but I do wonder what it would be like to have more women around me.

Women like that one Eva Novak had with her. Tall, broad shouldered, with dangerous and very blue eyes. It's rare for a woman to be taller than me. I'm on the short side for a showgirl, in fact—had to let my perfect tits do the talking back in the day—but I'm taller than the average woman.

And yet she had a few inches on me, that woman back there, with short black hair shaved on the sides in a badass style that would look ridiculous on me, make me look like?—

Like some wannabe gangster girl.

I snort at the memory. She was hot, no lie. But I don't kiss up to people who don't respect me. And she and her boss can get fucked with their overpriced offer. As if Terry hadn't run deals past me all the time to see what I thought.

I like numbers. They don't lie, not like people.

My hand has drifted between my thighs, and I resolutely remove it. Might as well wait for some eager tongue than get myself off. And with that thought, I get out of the bath and get myself ready.

I told Frank a little white lie. Bath, yes. Go to bed? Well…not alone. I need to unwind, to shed this skin for a while.

To take off the mask, like that supercilious cow Eva Novak suggested.

And I know just where to go.

An hour later, I barely recognize myself in the mirror. A black bobbed wig frames my face, my eyes dramatically lined under the thick bangs, lips a deep blood red. I've altered the shape of my eyebrows, too, which I find is the key to the perfect disguise. I give myself a critical stare and allow my reflection a small smile. It's always a thrill, this reinvention. I'm not Brie Colombo, Mafia widow.

I'm whoever I want to be. And no one will know me.

I call an Uber and then slip out of my suite, heading for the staff service stairs, the lock of which opens to my pass card. Down in the lobby I catch sight of Holden, talking sharply to a member of staff who looks like she's about to cry. He has high standards, too high sometimes. His brow furrows when he sees me, and he tries to gesture at me to wait up, but I just wave a hand and head quickly out, walk a few streets away from the casino, and flag down a taxi. I turn off my phone, the only thing I took with me in my clutch apart from my keycards and my lipstick, and I lean forward to instruct the driver where to go.

The city pulses with energy as we drive through the city, and my heart lifts in anticipation. This is my element: the glitz, the danger, the potential for anything to happen. The car stops outside an unassuming building, no sign marking what lies within, and after paying with a generous tip, I practically run to the door, where I'm challenged for the password by a pair of unfriendly eyes.

"Nectar," I say.

The door opens and the butch bouncer waves me in with an appreciative smile. I grin back and then make my way down a narrow staircase, the muffled sounds of music growing louder. It's jazz tonight, appropriate for this hidden speakeasy reimagined for the modern age.

The Secret Garden is an underground club that has moved around more than once during my time here in Vegas, and it's a bitch keeping up with the password, which changes monthly. But this private lesbian bar feels like the one place in the city where I can truly be myself. Even Terry didn't know about this place.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and the atmosphere wraps around me, carrying me along. Velvet-coated booths line the walls and an art deco bar dominates one side. Women mingle, laughing, flirting, dancing. The air is heady with perfume and possibility.

And I feel my shoulders start to relax for the first time in days.

I make my way to the bar, slide onto a stool, and order a strong Cosmopolitan. The bartender, a punk with a shaved head and a friendly smile, mixes it up for me. The first sip goes down easy, and so does the second.

Here, I'm not a Mafia widow. Not a former showgirl. Not desperate trailer trash.

I'm just another woman looking for a good time.

I'm nearly finished when the bartender sets another Cosmo in front of me. "Compliments from the end of the bar."

I look over, a smile already forming on my lips to thank my admirer. But the smile freezes as I lock eyes with a familiar face.

It's…it's her . Tall, dark-haired, dangerous-eyed.

The woman from the meeting.