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PROLOGUE
Brooklyn 2012
Samson knew what he had to do, the same thing he’d done to plenty of other women, plenty of other times. Only this time was different—it wasn’t just any woman. It was a woman he had no business being with, a woman so far out of his league—one he could honestly care about—and that was what sucked.
It also sucked that, once again, he’d had the best sex of his life with this woman, the same as every time they tore up the sheets. Fuck, it was true. The way her body moved and meshed with his, the feel of her soft-as-silk skin, and how he fisted and dug his fingers deep into her riot of auburn curls, then capturing her sweet lips till he got his fill was never enough.
The steady pace of her breathing told Samson she’d fallen asleep after their last session of off-the-fuckin’-charts sex, but for once in his fucked up life, he would do the right thing. He’d do it in such a way that she’d not only hate him, but she’d never come back. She’d stay far away from him and the chaos and destruction he called life.
Samson rose up on his elbow for one last look to burn into his memory. Yeah, he was a dog, screwing her, then walking out, but who could blame him? It wasn’t every day you met the perfect person. It just sucked that it had to happen at the wrong damn time in the wrong damn place.
He lightly cupped her cheek and whispered, “Maybe we could’ve had something. Maybe in another time—”
Then he roughly shook Lisbeth's shoulder. “Get up.”
1
Las Vegas, NV 2022
Six months in the making, a year in the planning, and tonight Club Wicked—Where Fantasies Become Reality—would finally open. The upscale Vegas club had everything from an indoor fountain to cage dancers suspended from the vaulted ceiling. It was a long way from the back alleys of Brooklyn, making collections, breaking legs, and doing anything to make a buck.
Crazy shit for sure, and even crazier, Samson was running the show alone tonight, whereas Nick, his long-time friend and business partner, stayed in New York smoothing out bullshit, but that was a whole other story.
“That’s it, babe. Suck it deep.” Samson leaned his head against the plush couch in his executive office, three levels above the club’s main floor.
Daria, the lead bartender from their New York club, was dedicating herself to helping him work off some stress. Her pouty lips hummed around Samson’s cock while his fingers dug into her long dark hair. When his dick hit the back of Daria’s throat, he gripped the cushions, and two seconds later, he blew apart, then his whole body relaxed. Samson’s brain cleared for a blessed few minutes, floating up and above the tension of opening a multi-million-dollar nightspot one block off the Strip.
Yeah, nothing like getting head to take the edge off. It beat a line of coke any day. Okay, so nothing beat hovering up a few lines while getting a blowjob, but Samson had no intention of traveling down that road again. Those dark days of waking up in unfamiliar places and staring into unfamiliar faces were in the past, and that’s where he intended to keep them.
Daria leaned on his thighs and smiled up at him. “Big night tonight, huh?”
The notable lilt in her voice told Samson she wanted him to share, but that wouldn’t happen—especially not with Daria.
Samson zipped up and shifted, letting her know playtime was over. She leaned away from him, then, in one smooth move, raised her bangin’ body until his eyes were level with her fringed booty shorts and matching midriff top.
Daria leaned in and rested her manicured hands on Samson’s shoulders. “We still have a few minutes before we open.”
A sharp knock drew their attention to the office door opening, then Jax’s bulk filled the entry. “Ready when you are, boss.” Jax’s dark eyes swept over him and Daria, but his expression remained unreadable. Tamping down his reaction with a poker face made Jax impossible to interpret, a definite plus as a bodyguard, bouncer, and fixer of problems large and small.
Jax and Samson went way back to what was lovingly called “the old neighborhood,” a housing project in Crown Heights where gunshots rang out on the regular and reaching thirty was considered old age. While Samson could pull off the polished look when he had to, Jax’s scarred face and crooked nose made him look like he still belonged on the corner, but he was loyal and dependable, and like Nick, one of Samson’s closest friends.
Samson pushed off the sofa, forcing Daria to step back, pulled at the neck of his fitted, button-down designer shirt for the hundredth time, then jerked his chin toward the door.
She squared her shoulders, threw him her trademark smirk, and put an extra twist in her hips as she passed Jax, then strutted toward the door and slammed it behind her. Daria’s way of letting Samson know she wasn’t pleased with his dismissal.
Jax stared at the door, then joined Samson by the one-way window overlooking the club below.
“Bouncers are in place. Security’s at the door.” Jax cocked his head. “You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, just thinking.”
“The waitstaff’s waiting for your pep talk.” Jax consulted his watch. “In twenty minutes, we’ll find out if this was a mistake or a winner.”
Jax hadn’t agreed with the move to Vegas either. His logic was the same as Samson’s “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” but even he admitted earlier that the club was “fuckin’ amazing”and that they needed to put some distance between them and their mob ties in New York.
Jax glanced at the guest list on his phone.“Still amazes me these suckers are willing to throw away a shit load of cash.”
Samson surveyed the empty establishment below with a critical eye and calculated his opening the club solo. Not exactly alone if he counted Jax, the waitstaff and bartenders, the high-priced security, and the celebrity DJ, but Nick was better suited for the social aspect of this business. Samson liked the behind-the-scenes shit, backing up the bouncers when some asshole got out of control, overseeing the staff, and ensuring the liquor deliveries were on time and accurate. He wasn’t into smiling and making people feel good. Nope, that wasn’t his thing.
