“Never seen him,” the bartender says, but he’s lying. I saw it in his eyes when he glanced at the picture. The subtle shift, the instant recognition, before he closed it off. It was fast, but I caught it. His reaction only confirms my suspicions.
Bruno is here.
I consider pressing the bartender—I’m good at making people talk—but decide to wait and see what happens. I watch the bartender step away, but not before tossing a suspicious look my way. I sit at the bar, nursing my beer, and I’m only halfway through when a man grabs the seat next to mine. He’s large, muscled, with brown hair and dark eyes that would terrify law-abiding citizens. He has scruff on his jaw and tattoos up to his neck, but my eyes settle on the patch on his jacket—a chrome skull with a serpent winding through it, the Steel Sinners MC. It makes no sense that the Sinners would be here when they own their own casino, Elysium, an exclusive, members–only establishment.
“Name’s Pope,” the biker says, nodding when the bartender slides a beer his way. “I’m the president of the Steel Sinners MC. You’ve been asking about Ghost.”
“No,” I say, taking out my phone and sliding it across the bar. “I’m looking for my brother. His name is Bruno. That’s him. Do you know where I can find him?”
Pope studies the picture for a long moment—one I personally took of Bruno on a trip we took years ago, before he changed. Before he lost the light in his eyes and the easy grin he used to charm women out of their clothes. “This is Ghost,” Pope finally says. “He never mentioned having a brother.”
Something in my chest twists painfully, and I fight the urge to reach up and rub the spot. Fuck, it would have hurt less if the man had taken a gun and shot me through the heart. For all his faults—and Bruno had plenty—I’ve always loved him. It’s the only fucking reason I didn’t kill him when he deserved it. I’m not sure he ever understood that. I’m not sure anyone understood what it cost me to make that call.
Without a word, I grab a napkin and a pen from the counter and scribble my name and number on it before sliding it to Pope. “Give this to Brun…I mean, Ghost. Let him know I’m in town for one more night.” Pope glances at the napkin for a while before picking it up and sliding it into his pocket. He doesn’t assure me that he’ll pass the message to Bruno, so I let it go. I consider leaving, but there’s one question that’s been bothering me since we arrived. “Why are there so many Sinners hanging around the Bellagio when you have your own casino?”
Pope chugs the rest of his beer and stands. “Major events this weekend—the Bellagio and a couple of other casinos contracted the Sinners for additional security. People go crazy when money and alcohol are involved, and this weekend, there will be a shit ton of both.” I nod, pushing back from the bar as well, when the bartender catches Pope’s eye and stops him. The sheer panic I read on the man’s face is enough to freeze me in place. “Johnny, trouble?”
The purple-haired bartender nods. “Staff called. Problem in one of the rooms on the tenth floor, and…” his eyes flick to me for a moment. “Ghost is involved.”
Blood turns to ice in my veins. The tenth floor is where our room is—and fuck, Gabriella is up there all alone. I came down here to look for Bruno and left her alone and vulnerable to a man with a vendetta against her family.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
I’m running before Pope can react. All I can think of is what I’ll do if Bruno hurts Gabriella. I won’t spare him if he lays a finger on her. It’ll kill me to have to choose between my brother and a Rossi again.
Chapter Seven
Gabriella
A knock on the door pulls me from sleep. It’s a dull, persistent thud that echoes in the quiet hotel room, a jarring intrusion to my peaceful nap. I couldn’t have been asleep for longer than a few minutes, but when I open my eyes and the room swims into focus, the first thing I register is the light—or the lack of it. When I closed my eyes, the room had a warm, hazy glow. The heavy drapes, which Nico must have drawn shut before he left, are letting in silvers of orange and red, painting the room in a fiery apocalyptic hue. It takes a moment for my lagging brain for reality to sink in. The sun isn’t just bright, it’s setting.
Panic bubbles up in my stomach as I sit up, a cold knot forming in my chest. How long was I out? Christ, what about the exhibition—and why didn’t Nico wake me? I shove my hair from my face as I scramble across the bed to the nightstand, tapping my phone frantically. It’s only when I see the time that I breathe again.
It’s only five thirty. The art exhibition doesn’t begin until seven. I fall back against the pillow with a sigh before the knock comes again, reminding me why I’m awake now. Right.
I wonder if Nico forgot his key as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the plush carpet cushioning my feet as I stumble to the door. I don’t bother to check the peephole as I open it, so Iam genuinely shocked when I find Professor Arturo standing on the other side.
“Sir?” I say, my mind still groggy from sleep. “Uh, is there a problem?”
“I apologize for disturbing you,” the professor says, his eyes dropping to my outfit. I flush when I realize I’m wearing nothing but a sleep shirt. “I just wanted to make sure you were all set for the show and go through a couple of last-minute details with you.”
“Right,” I say, moving aside to let him in. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, water?”
“No, thank you,” he says, walking in. He stops to glance at the unmade bed, and I flush at the state of it. Christ, it feels surreal having my professor in my hotel room when it looks like this, but there’s hardly anything I can do to fix it now. He takes the couch, leaving me to perch on the edge of the bed. I fold my hands on my lap and turn to him, waiting to hear about the last-minute details, but when he doesn’t immediately speak, I rush to find something to fill the suddenly awkward silence that sets in.
“Dr. Arturo,. I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for encouraging me to enter the contest.”
“You’re a very talented artist, Gabriella. It only made sense that you’d win.”
“Thanks to you, I got to come to Vegas and show my art to so many influential people.”
“I believe you would have achieved that without my help,” he says, leaning back on the couch and settling in. “You’ll have even more opportunities when you finally move to California.”
My brows draw in confusion. “Sir?”
“You mentioned plans of moving to California when we discussed the contest. Did you change your mind already?”
Right.