Chapter 3 - The Cold Steel in the High-Limit Lounge
Bradley Shaw hesitated on the carpet, his eyes darting toward the red-canvas dossier resting on the smoked glass.
The arrogance that had defined his fifteen years as the premier gaming litigator on the Strip began to dissolve like sugar in hot water.
“Damian, I am your outside general counsel,” Shaw stammered, pulling at his collar. “I have represented the Cross syndicate in seventy municipal hearings! You cannot treat me like an errant floor manager in front of an hourly cocktail waitress!”
“The hourly cocktail waitress is the daughter of Teresa Vance, Bradley,” Damian replied.
The room lost all warmth.
Shaw’s breath caught in his throat with a wet, choking sound.
His two armed contractors looked at each other, their hands instinctively moving toward their shoulder holsters.
Before their fingers could touch leather, the shadow behind the double doors shifted.
Marco—Damian’s chief enforcer, a six-foot-four veteran of the desert turf wars—stepped into the doorway, flanked by four men in tailored charcoal wool coats carrying suppressed tactical carbines.
Click.
The distinct, synchronized snap of four bolts chambering rounds echoed through the quiet room.
“Hands flat against your thighs,” Marco growled.
The two contractors didn't hesitate. They unclipped their holsters, laid their sidearms on the carpet, and stepped back with their palms raised flat against the mahogany paneling.
Damian walked around the glass desk with slow, predatory strides.
He stopped two inches from Bradley Shaw.
“You told me four years ago that Teresa Vance took a hundred thousand dollars in cash and fled toward the California border when her embezzlement was uncovered,” Damian whispered, his amber eyes burning with an abyss of pure retribution.
“Damian... that was the report from the state gaming investigators!” Shaw wheezed, his knees trembling violently. “I only relayed what the detectives gave me!”
“You gave the order to cut the brake lines on her sedan, Bradley,” Elena said, her voice steady and clear as glass.
Shaw snapped his head toward her, his lip curling with desperate venom. “You have no proof, you little gutter rat! You’re a university dropout who serves bourbon to degenerate card counters!”
Elena reached out.
Her fingers turned the page of the disclosure schedule to page 314.
“Appendix J, paragraph 4,” Elena read aloud, her eyes locked on Shaw. “The signature on the offshore indemnity waiver for the Jean staging yard wasn't signed by the Riviera board. It was signed by an attorney using state bar number 44108.”
She looked up at Damian.
“That is Bradley Shaw’s private bar registration. He personally authorized the lease on the tow truck that dragged my mother’s car into the desert ditch before the highway patrol arrived.”
Damian didn't shout. He didn't lose his temper.
He simply reached out his right hand, closed his calloused fingers around Shaw’s silk necktie, and twisted.
Shaw’s eyes bulged, his hands clawing uselessly at Damian’s tattooed forearms as he was lifted onto his tiptoes.
“Marco,” Damian commanded softly.
“Yes, Don Damian.”
“Take Mr. Shaw down to the subterranean vault beneath the baccarat cage. Strip his phones, his watch, and his credentials. If he attempts to swallow anything in his pockets, break both of his thumbs.”
Marco seized Shaw by the scruff of his neck, hauling him backward out of the penthouse while the attorney’s expensive loafers dragged helplessly across the marble floor.
His muffled, terrified screams faded down the private elevator shaft until the heavy doors clicked shut.
Damian turned back to Elena.
He picked up the red-canvas dossier, turning the pages under the desk lamp.
May you like
“Show me the second trap, Miss Vance.”
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