“Motherfucker,” Dom growls next to me. “If he hits her one more time, I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Easy,” I clip, glancing over at Dom to see his shoulders tense, his fingers flexing with his need to pounce.
We’ve been butting heads recently due to his temperament and use of more extreme measures. He’s a ruthless renegade and a lethal one at that. Over the last few years, he’s hardened his edges, his patience dwindling, his fuse becoming shorter. At twenty-two, he’s nearly caught up to me in height—his build slightly smaller—but when he strikes, he makes sure the pain is unforgettable. I see a lot of myself in him, but we differ a lot in opinion on tactics, which has made our last few jobs more difficult.
“I’ll make a deal with you, brother.”
“I’m listening.” His eyes are zeroed in on Amelia, who’s frantically searching for a way to escape her bad company.
“You keep it together until we can get him alone, and I’ll let you give him a thorough lesson in manners on how to treat a lady. It’ll be your show tonight.”
Technically, this job is Dom’s find anyway, a tip-off from one of Elijah’s victims who was confiding tearfully to a friend at the MIT library. Not only did she spill about her ill-treatment, but she spent minutes recounting Elijah’s reckless bragging about his corporate conquests and wealth—which perked Dom’s ears. And because of that exchange, this mark fell into our laps. After some thorough research, we knew Lady Luck was on our side, which is why Sean and I met Dom in Boston to spend a few days with him before we followed Elijah out to Vegas for the fight. It’s the perfect location, a remote city in the middle of the desert with no ties to Dom’s life in Boston. Elijah will have no idea who to seek revenge on, not that he’s capable.
Just fifteen minutes in a hotel room and we’ll be half a million richer. The kicker? If caught, Elijah will take the fall no matter where the money lands or how it’s spent. That’s the perk of robbing thieves.
Elijah is precisely the kind of prick we target. His greed and misdeeds make him easy money and a job none of us will lose sleep over. Along with the half-million, we’ll gain a list of contacts and co-conspirators that will secure us a new list of targets to smoke in the future.
Dom sits next to me, posture rattling, his eyes fixed on our mark as sporadic shouts sound around us for the two men in the ring. The reigning champ is a bit larger in comparison to his contender, Lance Prescott, an up-and-comer I read about with an impressive record—a wildcard with an evident chip on his shoulder, who seems to be dancing with the devil in his eyes. And my literal money is on him. Scanning the arena, I spot Sean as he strolls up with a fresh beer and takes his seat at my right.
“All set,” he says, before sipping his beer, Elijah’s hotel keycard tucked away in his pocket as he eyes them across the ring. “Is he still fucking with her?”
Our view is obstructed by two women in spiked heels as they saunter past us, their eyes trailing over the three of us with blatant interest. I shift my attention past them to the fight as Lance nails his opposition with a sick combination, stunning him.
“Damn, man,” Sean says, elbowing me, “are you fucking asexual now, or what? I haven’t seen you with a girl since,” he snaps his fingers, “what was that chick’s name?”
“Chesty-toria,” Dom supplies with a smirk.
Sean closes his eyes. “Yeah, man. I remember those titties well.”
I roll my eyes as Sean nudges me, the foam of his beer dangerously close to spilling on my suit.
“You were what, sixteen?” Sean goads. “Seriously, man, it’s time to get a back scratch, at the very least.”
“He’s got a couple of girls in France he sees to itch it,” Dom supplies, earning my glare as he cants his head to get a view of Sean past me. “You forget Christian Louboutin here is a double agent. Maybe he prefers French women.”