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To take off the mask, like that supercilious cow Eva Novak suggested.
And I know just where to go.
An hour later, I barely recognize myself in the mirror. A black bobbed wig frames my face, my eyes dramatically lined under the thick bangs, lips a deep blood red. I’ve altered the shape of my eyebrows, too, which I find is the key to the perfect disguise. I give myself a critical stare and allow my reflection a small smile. It’s always a thrill, this reinvention. I’m not Brie Colombo, Mafia widow.
I’m whoever I want to be. And no one will know me.
I call an Uber and then slip out of my suite, heading for the staff service stairs, the lock of which opens to my pass card. Down in the lobby I catch sight of Holden, talking sharply to a member of staff who looks like she’s about to cry. He has high standards,toohigh sometimes. His brow furrows when he sees me, and he tries to gesture at me to wait up, but I just wave a hand and head quickly out, walk a few streets away from the casino, and flag down a taxi. I turn off my phone, the only thing I took with me in my clutch apart from my keycards and my lipstick, and I lean forward to instruct the driver where to go.
The city pulses with energy as we drive through the city, and my heart lifts in anticipation.Thisis my element: the glitz, the danger, the potential for anything to happen. The car stops outside an unassuming building, no sign marking what lies within, and after paying with a generous tip, I practically run to the door, where I’m challenged for the password by a pair of unfriendly eyes.
“Nectar,” I say.
The door opens and the butch bouncer waves me in with an appreciative smile. I grin back and then make my way down a narrow staircase, the muffled sounds of music growing louder. It’s jazz tonight, appropriate for this hidden speakeasy reimagined for the modern age.
The Secret Garden is an underground club that has moved around more than once during my time here in Vegas, and it’s a bitch keeping up with the password, which changes monthly. But this private lesbian bar feels like the one place in the city where I can truly be myself. Even Terry didn’t know about this place.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and the atmosphere wraps around me, carrying me along. Velvet-coated booths line the walls and an art deco bar dominates one side. Women mingle, laughing, flirting, dancing. The air is heady with perfume and possibility.
And I feel my shoulders start to relax for the first time in days.
I make my way to the bar, slide onto a stool, and order a strong Cosmopolitan. The bartender, a punk with a shaved head and a friendly smile, mixes it up for me. The first sip goes down easy, and so does the second.
Here, I’m not a Mafia widow. Not a former showgirl. Not desperate trailer trash.
I’m just another woman looking for a good time.
I’m nearly finished when the bartender sets another Cosmo in front of me. “Compliments from the end of the bar.”
I look over, a smile already forming on my lips to thank my admirer. But the smile freezes as I lock eyes with a familiar face.
It’s…it’sher. Tall, dark-haired, dangerous-eyed.
The woman from the meeting.
CHAPTER 5
Nik
The tall brunettecaught my attention from the moment she walked in, and I wasn’t the only one dazzled. Dressed in shimmering gold with a fringed hem, she was an amusing homage to the flapper era that this place, the Secret Garden, also plays at. But it’s only now, as she looks fully at me, that I recognize her. She’s wearing a wig and she’s done something to her face, made herself up differently, but those unique, jade-green eyes…I stared at them hard enough during the meeting that I’d know them anywhere.
Brie fucking Colombo.
For a moment, we just stare at each other as I watch fear bloom in those eyes, and a flicker of satisfaction courses through me. She’s beencaught. Whatever she’s doing, she knows she’s being a naughty girl.
Eva will reward me for this information. But as I try to keep my triumphant smile down, I see something else in the widow’s face that gives me pause.
A vulnerability that wasn’t present in the meeting room.
Better find out what she’s doing here. Perhaps I’m making assumptions. Hell, maybeshe’splayingme. I make my way toward her slowly, like she’s some skittish animal, but she’s unable to look away from me.
“I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this,” I say when I reach her.
Fear flashes full across her face, but she masks it quickly. “What the hell areyoudoing here?” she hisses, leaning in close. The scent of her perfume—something smoky and expensive—washes over me. “Did you follow me?”
“I was here before you arrived,” I point out. “So didyoufollowme?” We regard each other warily for a moment. I’m acutely aware of how close she is, of the warmth emanating from her body, and I find myself thawing slightly. “Mrs. Colombo?—”
“Keep your voice down,” she says at once, glancing around uneasily. “And tell me why you’re here.”
