Page 83 of The Devil's Playground

I don’t know that that is where we are until I’m sitting next to Royce in a car waiting for us at the airport we flew in at. It’s a rental, which makes me question his “spur of the moment” excuse when I think about flight plans for the private plane and available rental cars that he could get at a moment’s notice.

He claims it’s part of being a fixer. No matter what, he can get his hands on anything, and if his eyes slide over to the large, black bag hanging on the grab bar behind the driver’s seat… well, I was definitely curious.

Then we drove forty minutes through the desert before eventually passing the iconic Welcome to Las Vegas sign. My heart rate kicked up as I saw the neon lights of the Strip for the first time, but Royce barely reacted to the glitz and glamour of it all.

Figured. A habitual gambler who was good at it, plus access to his boss’s private plane… this probably isn’t his first trip to Vegas. He confirms it when I ask, but then, in that sly way he has, says, “But I’ve never been where we’re going.”

Color me intrigued. Leaning back against the leather interior of the flashy car he rented, I alternated between gaping at the various buildings, casinos, and people I saw and trying to get a good read on Royce’s features.

Damn poker face. He’s not giving anything away.

It’s another twenty-five minutes, thanks to the congestion; it’s about nine by the time we pull off the main road, following the GPS on his phone to a crowded parking lot. Luckily, we find a spot, and if I have no idea why this one particular lot is so important, I go with it.

“Don’t worry about the luggage,” Royce says, pocketing the car keys. “We won’t need that until the hotel.”

Okay. So we’re not at the hotel.

Hmm.

I wait in my seat as Royce climbs out. I learned my lesson about allowing my chivalric gangster to open my door for me. It’s such a small thing for me, but it makes him happy to do it, so why not?

He’s holding onto the black bag’s hanger with one hand, offering me the other to help me out of my seat.

At my curious look, Royce chuckles. “This we will need, Nic. Trust me. I did my research. It’s better if we bring our own.”

Yeah… he’s really got me stumped now—and I stay that way as he throws his arm over my shoulders, tucking me into his side, and guiding me down one street, then another.

Within a couple of minutes, I’m staring up at two words made up of block letters and shining light bulbs: WEDDING CHAPEL.

I blink. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change what I’m seeing, either.

It’s hard to tear my stare away from the entrance to the sandstone-colored building. I do, though, and—wham—now I’m looking at a gaudy sign that looks like it belongs in front of a shopping center. It also says ‘Wedding Chapel’ on it, with a drawing above it. Then, above that, are three worlds written in a thick, italic font:

Viva Las Vegas

I’m a big musical freak. That doesn’t just extend to Broadway and showtunes. Any media that has singing and dancing in it will catch my attention. I’ve watched plenty of classic Elvis films—mainly because of my affection for musicals, and my mom’s affection for Elvis… who got it from my grandma—so I’m familiar with Viva Las Vegas, both the song and the movie.

They get married in that movie.

Over my stunned silence, I hear a zipper being tugged down. I spin back in time to see Royce opening up what I realize now is obviously a dry-cleaning bag…

“Holy shit,” I whisper. “That’s a wedding dress.”

“Correction, Nic. This is your wedding dress.”

My mouth falls open.

Royce pushes aside the garment bag, showing off the dress inside. Which is, quite obviously, a wedding dress. It’s more than, though, as I take in some of the details. I don’t know how he fit it in that bag. Once free of it, I see the thick, ruffled skirt, the intricate bodice, the close sleeves that end in even more ruffles, and I know exactly what I’m looking at.

It’s a replica of Christine’s wedding dress, the one the Phantom forces her to wear during the finale of the Broadway show.

Which means it really is my wedding dress, isn’t it?

Moving into me, Royce hoists up the dress, measuring it against my body. His smile has a self-satisfied edge to it as he nods. “Just like I thought. It should be a perfect fit.”

“How did you… where did you… what—why?”

“Remember, Nic, I’m intimately aware of every inch of your body. It was a snap to figure out the right size for you. As for why… that’s pretty obvious, don’t you think? A bride deserves the wedding dress of her dreams for her special day. Night. You know what I mean.”

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