Page 39 of Femme Fatale
Glitz, expression sour, said, “You want the money split or burned?”
“Both,” I said. “Dump half in the canal. Send the rest to the girls.”
Nines nodded, already tapping out instructions on her phone. “I’ll get the word out.”
Joker clapped me once on the back, more bruising than anything, and peeled off. Spade and Tempest did too, like wolves vanishing into the night. I waited until the room was empty, until it was only me and Demise and the slow tick of the ancient clock. The vodka on the table glistened, untouched. I pouredtwo, then pushed one across to her. She raised it, and we drank, silent. When it was done, she said, “You loved him.”
I didn’t answer. What was there to say?
She reached into her own jacket, pulled out a single round. “Hollow point,” she said. “No exit wound. If you want it to hurt, you shoot him just under the ribs. If you want it quick… aim for the eye.”
I took the bullet, rolled it in my palm. It felt heavy as a wedding ring.
“He has it coming,” Demise said. She smiled, got up, and left me to the quiet and the ghosts.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the sound of Zeke’s laugh, the heat of him behind me, but memory is a liar. All I could conjure was the hollowness of his chest, the way blood pools and spreads when a heart stops working.
At midnight, I put the bullet in my Glock, chambered it, and counted to ten. I left nothing behind when I walked out, not even a note. I had nobody to write one to.
The sky was still black. The city was still dead. But for the first time, as I rode west into the core of Vegas, I felt every nerve of myself alive, singing with hate and the promise of ending.
I was going to kill Jack Smalls.
And it wasn’t about revenge, not anymore. It was about creating a new world from the ashes of the old.
Chapter Ten
Selene
Aces Wild glowed empty, every slot and card table lit for a party nobody showed up to. My pit boss had said there’d be a slow roll after the shootout, but this was more than a hangover. This was a city holding its breath. My boots left prints on the marble, sticky where some asshole spilled whiskey, and the bartender—red-eyed, hollow, scared—didn’t even nod as I passed. Maybe he figured I wouldn’t make it to sunrise. Maybe he was right.
I moved through the dead casino in a haze of neon. The ceiling fans pushed dry air, ruffling the flags and paper decorations Glitz had set out for the planned reopening. Little banners that said WE’RE BACK, even though the only thing back was the smell of old blood under the carpet. The sound system played a canned jazz loop, some sad trumpet echoing in the void.
I took the staff corridor at the back, passing the side office where Nines sometimes crashed. The door was open, her chair empty, screens still cycling through security feeds and the last dozen hours of mayhem. I checked the feed. There was nothing but a couple of drunks at blackjack, one stripper in the corner booth, and two cocktail girls who’d probably never step inside again once the sun was up. I watched the display for a long time, waiting to see what my paranoia wanted me to see. Then I killed the monitor and kept walking.
At the end of the hall was my office. The door should have been locked, but the handle was twisted right, something I’d have missed on any other night. Every nerve in my arms woke up, skin prickling. I slid my Glock from the holster at my side, thumbed the safety, and pressed my back to the wall beside the door.
I listened. Nothing. That was bad. A trespasser would be breathing, cursing, or helping themselves to my stash of hundred-dollar chips. But inside, it was silent. I forced myself to breathe out, slow and even, then kicked the door wide.
She was waiting. War Lady.
She’d made herself at home, her boots up on my desk, hands laced behind her neck, head tilted back so the lamplight caught every inch of her platinum ponytail. She’d done her makeup for the occasion with red lipstick, smoky shadow, and cheekbones contoured so sharply that they could cut glass. She smiled, white teeth bared, as if she’d been dreaming of this exact moment.
“Selene,” she said. Her accent was all Las Vegas, but she gave my name the Mediterranean twist: Seh-LEH-nay, like it was something to be tasted. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
I leveled the gun at her head. “You got two seconds to stand up and get out.”
She didn’t move. “Put it away. If I wanted you dead, you’d be in the dumpster by now.”
I glanced at the left corner, saw her duffel on the guest chair, zipper half-open, and the glint of steel inside. She wanted me to see it. This was a display. A statement.
I kept the Glock aimed, but my voice was calm. “You here for Jack, or just yourself?”
She swung her legs off the desk, stood. In one smooth motion, she put her palms flat on the fake oak. “Both. But mostly for you.”
She wore tailored slacks, black boots with steel toes, and a shirt with a stiff collar that could have doubled as a weapon. Her arms were sleeved in ink—crescent moons, serpents, geometric tessellations, all in deep black and blue. I recognized the knuckle tattoos: BELA and KED, Russian for “white” and “hell,” a joke nobody in Nevada would get. She rolled her neck, popped it, and let her eyes slide up and down my frame.
“You look tired,” she said. “Rough week?”
