Page 162 of Nest of Thieves
Vette releases a low growl, jaw clenched tight. “You want Pete to take you for a ride, Tiff?” He cuts his gaze toward the man. “You want to fuck my girl?”
“No,” Pete says quickly. “Why don’t we all calm down. It’s just a game.”
“Yeah, Vinny. It’s not Pete’s fault you suck.”
Pete takes a deep breath, as if trying not to throttle me for adding more fuel to the fire.
“Why don’t you take that pretty mouth of yours and show everyone here how good you suck.” Vette swivels in his seat. “Show them how good you take—”
Before he can finish his sentence, I throw my drink in his face.
He sputters and growls. “Fucking cunt.”
“Oh, shut up, Vinny!” I get up and shove his shoulder. “I’ll find someone who knows where the clit is.”
“Like hell you will.” Vette shoves back from the table, and the dealer calls for security before murmuring to the players.
Pete starts to rise, but I shoot him a warning look. “Don’t worry about me, Pete. I got this.”
Vette storms toward me, and I tip my head to the side, lips curling. “Hey, darling,” I purr as I draw my hand back and smack him as hard as I can.
His head whips to the side.
People gasp.
“Ma’am!”
“Security!”
“You vicious little bitch.” Vette rubs his cheek, his lust blooming around us. Citrusy and sharp.
“You like that, Vinny? You like knowing you’re a helpless little man?” I shove into his space and push him.
“Hey, guys, I think we need some time to cool—”
“Shut up, Pete,” Vette and I shout at the same time.
The guy slinks back to his chair.
“We’re done,” I seethe, poking Vette in the chest. “I’m tired of this limp dick.”
Vette’s nostrils flare and his gaze flicks over my shoulder.
Security is approaching.
“You have three seconds to run before I force you to submit.”
A lie. He’d never make me submit, but for the theatrics of the moment, I scream and storm away, shoving a few chairs over on my way.
“Come here,” Vette’s fingers glance across my arm, and I stumble away from him, kicking off my shoes in the process.
“Don’t fucking touch me, Vinny.” I swing my attention to security. There are four guys approaching us. Not enough. “Security,” I screech, pointing at Vette. “He’s trying to hurt me.”
“Shut up, Tiffany,” Vette roars.
“Fuck you.” I spin on my heels and run, evading his grabbing hands. He curses under his breath and races after me.
As with the last job, people squeal and jump out of our way. Table and chairs topple over. Chips clatter to the ground. The longer he chases me, the more security guards flood into the room. He and I race around the slots, through the tables, past the bar, and around the floor again.
