“You’d need to learn how to aim properly first, sweetheart. Now, answer my questions?”
I pause, trying to recall what he asked me. “I was shooting at you because you’re breaking into my hotel room and I didn’tknow who it was. I got the gun from a store like every other American does, and I was on the floor because I figured I’d be less expected to be there when the assailant walked in. I mean, someone breaking into a hotel room in the middle of the night is going to expect their target to be in the bed. Right?”
Alfie smiles. “You’re fucking smart, you know that?”
“I know,” I tell him, because I am.
“Why do you have a gun?”
“Why do you have one?” I counter. “And, holy shit, Alfie. What happened to your face?” I reach up to touch his cheek but then pull my hand back. He’s got a line of stitches across the skin there.
“I have weapons because I have a dangerous job. And this… is just a scratch,” he says.
“There’re about ten stitches in your cheek. That’s not nothing,” I tell him.
“Why do you need a gun, Molly?” he asks again.
I move backwards on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “I’m a billionaire, Alfie. That makes me a target for a lot of people.” I shrug like it’s not a big deal. “I got my first death threat the day it went public that I had made my first billion,” I tell him. “That’s when I decided I wasn’t going to go down without a fighting chance, so I got a gun.”
His face hardens. “You get death threats?”
I nod. “Every now and then.”
“You should have security,” he says. “I can arrange for some guys to go back with you when you leave Vegas.”
I smirk. “Oh, I have a feeling I’ll be here for a little longer. I came to this city to achieve something. I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”
Alfie smirks. “You know I’m never going to let you take over my city.”
“We’ll see.”
He shakes his head. “Why do you want Vegas anyway? You have a monopoly in just about every major city in this country.”
“And London, Sydney… Oh, and I’m also currently building in the UAE and Singapore.”
“I know your accomplishments, Molly.”
“Well, did all your research about me tell you that I don’t quit?”
“It told me that you’re tenacious, incredibly brilliant, beautiful—although the photos pale in comparison to seeing you in person.”
“Flattery might get you into my panties. It will not get you into my head or my business.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I only want in your panties then.” He shrugs.
“How’d you really get those stitches?”
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” he says.
“Try me.”
“I was… interrogating a Russian pimp and his head exploded. A piece of his skull embedded itself in my cheek.”
I blink. “You’re right. Most people wouldn’t believe you. But I do.”
“You do?”
I nod. I don’t know why, but I know he’s not lying, and I’m still sitting here. “Why were you talking to him?”
