Page 45 of Royally Bad

That meant it was time to meet up with them for a chat.

If Thorne is right about them trying to use her because they thought she had a personal relationship with our family, Francesca is going to feel awful.

On the way downstairs, something familiar flickered in my vision. Sammy’s purse was hanging on the back of a kitchen chair.She’d like to have that back, I’ll bet.Snatching it up, I brought it with me outside.

Hawthorne opened his car door, eyeing the purse. “New accessory. Nice.”

With a wink, I hooked it on my shoulder. “Thanks. I hope the Deep Shots like it.”

“I’m sure they will,” he said, starting the engine. “About as much as they’ll like seeing our pretty faces.”

It had been a sore spot for some time that every strip club in the city was either owned by my family or the owners were being paid by my father to follow his rules. It might sound scummy, but my dad had a good reason for being so controlling.

Rhode Island had a dirty little secret—one few knew about unless they were in the game or looking to be a part of it. You see, while everyone treated Nevada like it was some magical place that you could go to legally fuck a girl for cash ...

It wasn’t some special, unique snowflake like people expected.

My state had one hell of a law, one that allowed people to pay for play all they wanted—as long as it was behind closed doors. That meant the strip clubs couldindeedhave full-on sex in the champagne rooms. Or the bathrooms, if someone was really desperate.

But we didn’t like that law. Not me, and not my family.

We didn’t want any of the girls working the clubs to feel like they could be forced into sucking a dick for a few bucks. That lifestyle led to bad shit, and my father had worked very hard to keep the bad shit out of our city.

And so, the sore spot I mentioned.

Since we owned or controlled the clubs, it meant people couldn’t get their dicks wet. Every big gang in the area wanted to run a piece of the flesh-for-cash game, and we were stopping them.

Guess who definitely didn’t like us for this?

Right. Our friends, the Deep Shots.

All that was left for them was siphoning cash out of dive bars and illegal betting. My dad didn’t care about any of that, though. He always said that you had to let the rebels feel like they were sticking it to you somehow.

Otherwise, they actuallywould.

Hawthorne parked his car in the alley of the shit hole they called a bar. It was the kind of building that was all old brick and graffiti, no windows—no signs. It was magical that the place didn’t crumble in on itself.

The Deep Shots loved money—who didn’t?—but they were notorious for taking a cut from the businesses they controlled, then never putting anything back in to help them thrive. I wasn’t kidding when I’d told Sammy that I figured we’d been attacked out of jealousy.

We were the Badds.

And we owned this city.

Who wouldn’t hate us for that?

“Hey,” Costello said, pushing off of the filthy wall by the bar entrance. He was dressed in a leather jacket that had to be making him sweat in this heat. Like always, his face was so calm that you’d think it was October instead of humid, sticky June.

Nodding at him, I eyed the crusty stairwell that led down to the door. Barnie’s was a refurbished cellar that had been used in the glory days of Prohibition. The bar had a history, it was a place worth taking care of. The Deep Shots didn’t give a shit.

Putting my hand on my holster out of instinct, I started past Costello. His hand gripped my elbow, freezing me. “You don’t pull your gun,” he said into my ear. The heat of his breath reminded me of a wolf snarling at my throat. “Not unless I do first.”

“I’m not going to whip it out like it’s a cock-measuring contest,” I said. Staring him in the eye, I cracked a half grin. “Though, if it was, we all know it wouldn’t be fair for me to get involved.”

Costello didn’t smile. “Keep it in your pants.”

Shrugging away from him, I reached for the door. “You and Thorne just watch for anyone with a happier trigger finger than mine.” Considering that I was expecting to face the people responsible for trying to hurt Sammy ... they’d be hard-pressed to find someone edgier than me.

Barnie’s was dark—not like a shadow, but the way the underside of your dirty fridge is dark. In spite of the smoking laws, gray clouds swam through the air, searing my nose and ruining the taste in my mouth.

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