THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME KEEP MY LEFT HAND UNDER MY APRON WHILE SERVING HIS STEAK—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CAUGHT IT IN THE DISHWASHER DOOR,” BEFORE HE COULD EVEN SPEAK.

Victoria Sterling lay across the king-sized silk duvet, wearing a sheer ivory dressing gown, holding a crystal glass of chilled pinot grigio while browsing real estate listings on a gold-plated tablet.

The mechanical click of the master keycard in the door lock didn’t alarm her; she simply adjusted her posture, letting the silk slip off one bare shoulder, offering a practiced, alluring smile toward the doorway.

“Dominic, darling? I thought you were still downstairs entertaining the Italian delega—”

The words died in her throat.

The room seemed to lose all its heat in a single, terrifying instant.

Dominic stepped through the doorway. Behind him, standing in the shadows of the vestibule with her splinted arm held close to her chest, was me.

Victoria’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated venom.

“What is this?” Victoria demanded, sitting bolt upright, clutching the silk robe around her throat. “Dominic, why have you brought that clumsy little maid into our private quarters?”

Dominic didn’t shout. He didn’t draw a weapon.

He walked slowly across the plush white carpet, stopping at the foot of the bed.

He reached into his pocket and dropped the altered firing pin from his Colt .45 onto the silk sheets between her legs.

The tiny steel needle gleamed under the lamplight.

Victoria’s eyes darted from the metal pin to Dominic’s stone-cold face.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.

“What... what is that?”

“It’s thirty-two millimeters of carbon steel, Victoria,” Dominic said, each word falling like an iron anvil. “Filed down with diamond paste in my armory at three-thirty this afternoon.”

Victoria let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Darling, you know I don't understand firearms! Did someone make an error during your routine weapons maintenance? Why are you interrogating me about gun parts in the middle of the night?”

Dominic stepped closer, leaning forward until his face was six inches from hers.

“You told Sylvie that she caught her hand in an industrial dishwasher latch,” Dominic whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal intensity.

Victoria stiffened.

“Because that's what the head housekeeper told me!”

“Mrs. Gable was in the banquet hall arranging the floral centerpieces from two o'clock until seven,” Dominic replied evenly. “And the armory door has a high-resolution motion sensor embedded in the frame.”

He pulled a surveillance still from his breast pocket, dropping it onto the duvet beside the firing pin.

The photograph showed Victoria Sterling standing in the armory corridor, her silk gown rustling as she forcefully slammed the heavy steel security door onto my outstretched hand while Gregory Vance watched in horror from the doorway.

Victoria’s skin turned the color of curdled cream.

All the aristocratic poise, all the high-society glamour evaporated from her face in an instant, leaving behind the hollow, rat-like terror of a cornered conspirator.

“Dominic... listen to me,” she whimpered, backing away toward the headboard, clutching the pillows against her chest. “My father... my father told me you were getting too powerful! The Gaming Commission was terrified of your expansion into the northern strip! He told me that if we didn't neutralize your family, the federal authorities would shut down all our casinos!”

“Your father didn't care about the federal authorities,” Dominic said, his voice flat as a frozen lake. “Your father owes ninety million dollars to the cartel in Sonora, and he promised them my casino licenses to clear his debt.”

Victoria began to sob, tears ruining her expensive mascara, leaving black tracks down her cheeks.

“I did it for us, Dominic! I wanted us to rule the strip together! If your father's old crew was cleared out, we could have built an empire that answered to no one!”

Dominic looked down at her with pure, unmitigated disgust.

“You tried to assassinate me on my father’s road,” he said softly. “You crushed an innocent girl’s hand because she saw your treason. And you thought that wearing an engagement ring made you untouchable.”

He straightened his back, turning his head toward the door.

“Marco.”

Marco stepped into the room, holding a pair of heavy steel handcuffs.

“Take Miss Sterling to the private holding cells beneath the Bellagio vault,” Dominic ordered coldly. “Strip her of her jewelry, her phones, and her dignity. She will sit in the dark until her father arrives for the wedding tomorrow morning.”

Victoria screamed, thrashing and kicking against the sheets as Marco hauled her off the bed, but her cries were muffled as the heavy mahogany doors clicked shut behind her.

Dominic stood alone in the bedroom, staring at the shattered firing pin on the silk duvet.