2. LEIGH

Chapter 2

LEIGH

The Diamond’s dazzling lights blur as I storm inside, anger battling with the dread twisting in my gut. The lobby hits like a whirlwind of glitz and chatter, the stifling hum of wealth grating against my already frayed nerves. I don’t give a damn about the luxury or the excited gamblers—my eyes dart across the room, searching for one man: my father .

That lying, stealing, cheating bastard had better not be in that VIP room. But as I spot the high-stakes poker area at the back, my stomach twists. Of course, he’s there . For a fleeting moment, I had hoped he’d grown a conscience and, for once, put me first. Why do I always allow myself to hope like this? It just leaves me disappointed and battling more heartache. It’s time to face facts, girl! Your father only cares about himself!

I make a beeline for the poker room, shoving through oblivious crowds. The scent of expensive perfume and cigar smoke clings to the air, making me want to gag. I move toward the poker room, but before I can burst through the door, a wall of muscle looms in my path. I look up to see a hulking bouncer glaring down at me, his arms crossed and expression stony. The low lights glint off his bald head, reminding me of a particularly unfriendly turtle.

I try to sidestep him. He mirrors my movement, not budging an inch. I sigh, my frustration bubbling over. “Look, I just need to see my father,” I say, injecting a tremor into my voice. “Please, it’s important.”

“It’s a private game, Miss. Invitation only,” he grunts, his tone flat, eyes giving away zero fucks. “And I didn’t see any women on the guest list.”

I pause, swallowing my fury. With deliberate care, I let my shoulders droop, injecting just enough vulnerability into my expression to sell my next move. “I... I don’t want to cause a scene.” I lean closer, lowering my voice into a trembling whisper. “That man over there—“ I nod toward a creep leering at a server, his eyes predatory. “He grabbed me inappropriately . I’m scared he’s going to follow me.”

The bouncer’s eyes darken as he looks toward the man. I press on, adding a quiver to my voice. “I can’t even repeat the disgusting things he said. I just... I don’t feel safe out here anymore. I need to tell my father I’m waiting in the car.”

His stance stiffens, his jaw clenching as he locks onto the offending patron. “Wait here,” he growls. “I’ll deal with him and then take you to your father.”

The moment his broad back turns, I slide through the door like a ghost, guilt clinging to me. But resolve pushes me forward. I’m here for a reason. I despise myself for this manipulation, but at least I saved some women from being harassed by that slimeball in the hideous purple suit.

The VIP room unfolds in shadows and opulence, the tension suffocating. A dozen poker tables glitter under chandeliers, each surrounded by players cloaked in wealth. My gaze darts through the crowd, hunting for one familiar silhouette. There he is—hunched over his cards, a man more devoted to the shuffle of a deck than he’s ever been to his own daughter. Rage ignites in me, sharp and consuming. How the hell did he even afford to get into a game like this? Unless my father found some new, creative way to gamble away what little we have left.

I charge forward like a pissed-off bull, my focus razor-sharp—until I slam into yet another wall of muscle, solid as stone and radiating brute-force authority.

“Jesus! Where the hell did you come from?” I snap, glaring up at the human mountain I’m sure I’d just left dealing with that creep in the tacky purple suit. How does a lumbering oaf like you move so damn fast? What, do you have rocket boots strapped to those slabs you call feet?”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but you can’t be in here,” the bouncer says, craning his neck to look out the door before fixing me with a stern gaze.

“Yet here I am!” I plant my feet, meeting his eyes with a defiant glare. We both know he could toss me out without breaking a sweat, but I’m not backing down. “Are we seriously doing this dance again?” I ask, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Excuse me?” He frowns, confusion etched across his features.

That’s when I notice the scar running down his forehead and cheek. Oh great, they’re twins—Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, guarding the gates to my father’s personal hell.

My fists curl at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I stare past the bouncer. My focus locks on my father—oblivious, consumed by his pathetic game. He sits there, oblivious to the world around him, lost in the cards and the thrill of the game. The sight of him, so engrossed in his addiction while I fight tooth and nail just to reach him, makes my blood boil. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the confrontation ahead. One way or another, I’m getting him out of here tonight.

“Look, I just need to talk to my father,” I plead, gesturing towards the man hunched over his cards, oblivious to the storm brewing behind him. My voice quivers with barely contained rage. “Then, I’ll leave.”

The bouncer’s face remains impassive, a wall of flesh and bone. “I’m sorry, Miss. House rules. Nobody is allowed to interrupt a game.” He takes a step forward, his massive frame looming over me.

My eyes dart around the lavish room, taking in the glittering chandeliers and plush carpets. A server bends low over a leering patron, her tray of hors d’oeuvres perfectly positioned to give him an eyeful. The sight makes me sick. I’ve seen this before. The loaded deck and distractions are all intended to tip the scales in the house’s favor. How could my father fall for this? He’s the one who taught me to spot these tricks.

“Miss, please don’t make me use force,” the bouncer warns, his voice tinged with weariness. “It’s a mountain of paperwork and HR interviews. I’d rather avoid the headache.”

That’s when I spot a half-empty bottle of vodka abandoned on a nearby table. My fingers twitch, and I take a few steps towards it. The bouncer mirrors my movements, a silent dance of cat and mouse.

The bouncer’s eyes narrow as my hand closes around the bottle’s neck. His muscles tense, ready for action. “Put the bottle down, miss. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

A harsh laugh escapes my lips, surprising even me. “I’m way past regret, buddy. This is pure, unfiltered rage.” The cold glass bites into my palm as I tighten my grip. “And believe me, I won’t like what comes next, and tomorrow it’ll haunt me.” I draw a shaky breath. “You seem like a decent guy. But I’ve been trapped in this hellhole my entire life, and I’m this close—“ I hold my thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. “This close to leaving it all behind. But that bastard over there,” I jab a finger towards my father without breaking eye contact, “is about to lose everything he stole from me.”

Something flickers in the bouncer’s eyes—a hint of understanding, maybe even sympathy. I press on, my words tumbling out in a torrent. “Money I earned working two jobs while getting two degrees. Do you know how hard that was? Even harder when I was trying to keep my drunken, gambling-addict father on the straight and narrow.”

I pause, chest heaving. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I hesitate. Why am I telling him this? He doesn’t care, and I don’t need his pity. But the anger bubbling in my chest doesn’t care about logic—it demands an outlet, and before I can stop myself, the truth spills out. “So if I have to knock you out to stop him from losing everything, I will.” My voice drops to a mere-whisper, crackling with intensity. “One way or another, I’m getting to that table. But I’d prefer if you just stepped aside and—“

The bouncer touches his earpiece, cutting me off mid-sentence. I yank on his arm, indignant. “Hey!’ I yank his arm. “I wasn’t done talking.”

He holds up a finger, silencing me as he listens to the voice in his ear. When he turns back to me, there’s a glimmer of... is that amusement in his eyes?

“Looks like you don’t have to try to go through me after all,” he says, his lips twitching. “Your wish to get to your father’s table has just been granted.”

Before I can process his words, his meaty hand clamps down on my arm. He hauls me towards the table, my feet stumbling to keep up.

“What the hell?” I yelp, the vodka bottle still clutched in my free hand. “I wasn’t really going to hurt you! No need to snitch to your boss.”

My grip tightens around the bottle, pulling it to my chest like a shield. What the hell am I doing? Threatening a bouncer with a vodka bottle in a casino packed with cameras and criminals? Brilliant plan, Leigh. It was truly inspired. If the dark overlord of this fine establishment doesn’t kill me for breaking his no-violence rule, he’ll definitely get me for being a dumbass.

The bouncer remains silent, dragging me past rows of tables and gawking onlookers. I stumble along, still clutching the bottle like a lifeline.

We come to an abrupt halt, and he shoves me forward. I whirl, ready to give him a piece of my mind, but my words die in my throat when my gaze lands on my father.

The world narrows to a pinpoint. My father’s weathered face, etched with lines of vice and lost opportunities, swims into focus. Our eyes lock, and in that moment, all the years of pain and betrayal come crashing down around me. My father’s eyes fill with guilt, and he turns his head away from me.

My head snaps around, following his gaze. At the head of the table, he sits like a king on a throne—broad-shouldered, ice-blue eyes cold and calculating. The sheer force of his presence steals the air from my lungs. The man is magnetic, his aura a blend of danger and command, the kind that makes you want to run but keeps your feet rooted. He doesn’t just own the room; he consumes it. Power radiates from him, bending everything—and everyone—around him to his will.

Recognition dawns. I should have known instantly. He’s the whispered name on every lip in Vegas— Radomir Molchanov —owner of the Diamond Hotel and Casino Group and, if the rumors hold water, the puppet master of the Molchanov Bratva.

My instincts scream at me to run, to abandon this foolish mission. My inner voice, oddly reminiscent of a panicked robot from some old sci-fi show, blares: Abort, abort, Leigh Dalton, abort! But my legs won’t cooperate, rooted to the spot as my stomach performs an unwelcome acrobatic routine.

Molchanov’s ice-blue eyes are sharp as a blade, piercing through me, peeling back every secret and fear I’ve ever tried to hide. His jaw is chiseled, his lips pulled into a smirk that promises danger. Power coils around him like a second skin, daring anyone to challenge him.

In this moment, caught in Molchanov’s crosshairs, I feel small, vulnerable, and utterly underdressed in my hobo chic thrift store ensemble. The weight of my mission—confronting my father—suddenly seems trivial in the face of this new looming threat.

A whirlwind of the usual questions floods my mind upon finding that my father has once again dug himself into a dangerous hole: How deep is my father in? Is there any way out of this unscathed?

My throat constricts, and I long to take a swig from the vodka bottle clutched against me like a shield—not for thirst but for courage. Molchanov’s eyes grab mine again, holding me captive with a force that feels almost physical. His gaze drags over my body with an intensity that sends a sharp prickle across my skin, setting every nerve alight.

He doesn’t just look at me—he claims me, as if daring to exist in his world means I’m already his. The sheer arrogance twists something deep inside me, yet I can’t stop the heat blooming in my cheeks or the unwanted flutter low in my stomach.

Fear claws at my chest, but something else rises to meet it—something electric, forbidden, and all too consuming. The worst part? I don’t know whether I want to fight it or let it pull me under. I square my shoulders, forcing myself not to look away. If he’s a predator, I won’t play the prey. His controlled posture speaks volumes: nothing here happens without his command .

Despite my better judgment, something stirs within me—a forbidden allure wrapped in dark charisma. Rationality screams at me to run, but my body betrays me, goosebumps dancing across my arms. Molchanov’s smile grows. And in that moment, I know—my father isn’t the only one in trouble tonight. I am too.