Reign (Sin City Outlaws #1)(2)

“She still doesn’t get it, does she?” Felix grabs my beer, taking a swig.

Brow furrowed, I glare his way.

“I’m going to choke that bitch one of these days.”

“Zeek. I need a moment,” a familiar voice we both know all too well interrupts.

Looking at the entrance to the club, I find my uncle. He’s in an expensive-ass suit and red tie. His black hair rests on his shoulders, his Italian skin dark and flawless. He is my father’s brother, and he runs a casino across the street. My uncle has always been a powerful man. He’s smart. Vindictive. Manipulative, even. He moved to Vegas shortly after my father created the MC. Uncle Frank was a man of luck. He placed a bet, he won. Simple as that. Everyone who was anyone watched him, and bet on everything he bet on. Before anyone knew it, the Italian mob started following my uncle around, watching the bank he was making. I thought they were going to kill him, especially when he nearly made a million at one of their casinos. But they did something none of us expected—they put Uncle Frank in their pocket. My uncle was given a casino to run in the heart of Las Vegas, and a crew of ruthless men for his security. He’s untouchable. Uncle Frank is not to be messed with.

My uncle is the kind of man you think is your best friend, but he’s not. When you screw up, he’ll talk reason to you, assure you everything is fine, and you go on thinking it is. Then Cross finds you. They call him Cross ‘cause when you cross him, he’ll crucify you.

Cross is my uncle’s right-hand man. If Cross isn’t near my uncle, then he’s off doing a job for him. Cross is insane; he lives to kill, and he gets more and more creative with each one. We all are at his mercy, and the insane don’t have compassion. I mean, I’m f*cked-up, and might even be labeled insane to some degree. But Cross? He’s the real deal.

Walking across the street into the casino, we head to his office which sits on the top floor. It’s a casino and hotel. As soon as you walk in, the main floor is lined with the top games and slots with some of the finest restaurants circling them. Taking a private elevator Uncle Frank uses, we bypass all of the chaos.

Uncle Frank sits in his high-back chair behind the desk. Cross sits on the edge of the expensive mahogany desk, cleaning a gun. Cross’s short, slicked-back hair glistens against the lights. With his neck, arms, and hands heavily tattooed, he resembles an Italian gangster.

“Please, sit.” Uncle Frank gestures toward a leather chair sitting in front of his desk.

“I’ll stand.”

“Ok, stand.” Uncle Frank grabs a cigar, clipping the end. “We have a problem,” he states, his tone laced with boredom.

“We?”

“Yes. Your men are ratting, and that is a problem. However, amongst rats, there is a king. A king rat that can take down the rest of its pack and move on to another before doing the same exact thing. Do you know who that rat king is in the Sin City Outlaws?”

I don’t answer, ‘cause I feel like it’s a rhetorical question.

“Your father, that’s who.” He looks up from his cigar, his brows pinched together. Cross polishes the .45, not even acknowledging me. My mouth parts to make words, but I pause briefly. I knew it was just a matter of time before my father’s name was suggested in the reasoning behind the chaos.

“We don’t know that,” I mutter, rubbing my hands together, trying to give my father the benefit of the doubt.

He scoffs. “Really? The club has had two containers taken into evidence, one dead body dug up, and five members arrested. None of this started until your father got arrested, and coincidentally, your father knew about it all. I didn’t even know about the dead body. Look, I know the club has most of the local law enforcement in their pockets, but before too long, something will wind up in the wrong hands. And when that happens, everything comes crashing down. Can’t you feel them closing in? Do you want to go to prison?”

My head throbs with the info, and I sit in the chair. My father is a goddamn rat…

“Not to mention your father has refused to see us. That can only mean he’s hiding something.”

“They’re not letting him see anyone.” I tried to see him, figure out what the hell is going on, but I was told he was denied any visits or phone calls at this time. Sweat slips down on my spine, my frustration with the situation making me uncomfortable.

“Silly boy. We have our ways, and he refused to see us. Only a man who has something to hide would hide himself.”

Sitting forward, I rest my elbows on my knees, rubbing the back of my neck with my sweaty palm. This entire situation is f*cked-up. While my mother preached Bible verses, my father preached the rules of an Outlaw. He taught me how to conceal and destroy evidence of a crime when I was only ten. He gave me my first gun at twelve and showed me how to kill someone with one bullet at the age of thirteen. Growing up, he ingrained the club rules religiously into my brain. Rule one: snitching was never an out, unless you wanted to commit suicide. He was an Outlaw through and through; I never thought of him as a snitch, and the idea of it now… it’s sickening.

“I’m just looking out for you, Zevin. Your mother won’t, not after she and Lip are bailing on you and your father.”

My head snaps up; this is the first I’ve heard of this.

“Oh, yeah.” His face flashes with sympathy. “Your father asked your mother to take the rap for him. Help him in some way or another. She refused, and she and your brother are moving to California as we speak.”