Oh, I loved seeing the various responses to Bella turning Edward down. I promise she's going to give in! How could anyone resist this man for a serious amount of time?

But first, we have some pesky card counters to deal with. MobWard is ready to come out and play.

Enjoy!

EPOV

It irks me.

Usually, women are easy for me. They fall at my feet with little effort on my behalf—a wink or the charm of a well-placed smirk. My warm touch on the small of their back, and I have them in my bed within an hour. But, Bella. Well, fuck me. I would dismiss her as disinterested if I were a less determined man.

The door leading into my hotel slams behind me, and the latch snaps aggressively, mirroring the turmoil of rejection I'm fighting.

I refuse to allow Bella Swan to walk away from me.

My resolve only heightened tonight as I watched her onstage. Her minuscule costumes left my imagination running wild, while her flexibility had me calculating all the new positions I could try with her in my bedroom. Her sultry glances into the audience landed on my table more than once, and my confidence grew. Before leaving with my brother, I was positive the woman would be mine by the end of the night.

Mia Bella.

My beautiful Bella.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. Since when the fuck do I let myself get into a tangled mess over a female.

It's been too long since I've gotten laid.

Forcing myself forward, I fix my tie, knowing business isn't over for the night. My father texted earlier, saying that the card counters were back. They hit up Garett but took off when they realized they were spotted. My security is on high alert. If those fuckers as much as step into my casino, they're going to be praying for salvation.

I swipe my key card for access to the staff elevators, then select the second floor, where our security offices oversee the entirety of the property. Associates greet me as I exit into a hallway lined with our legitimate surveillance and interrogation rooms. Some of the men staffed here are legal hires who keep my casino and hotel running smoothly. Others… well, their key cards grant them access to the less legitimate offices deep in the basement.

"Mr. Cullen." Ben passes by and tips his head in my direction. Considering Emmett's recommendation, I return the gesture. Maybe I will give the guy a shot. If he's adept at calming down unruly women, who am I to stop him from fulfilling his destiny?

At the end of the hall, I scan my key card again, unlocking a door that reveals a state-of-the-art security hub manned by twenty men. They spend their days and nights overseeing hundreds of monitors filled with security footage. Not one inch of the premises is out of range or excused from my constant supervision.

"What took you so long?" Emmett asks as I grab my suit jacket from the back of a chair.

"Long line," I joke. I told him I was taking a leak, not chasing down an uninterested showgirl. I grimace to myself. Fuck that. She's got to be interested. "Any sign of the counters?"

"Not yet. I've got a couple of guys walking the strip, searching for any hint of them. You know, to keep tabs on their whereabouts. But nothing so far."

One-way windows line the wall overlooking the casino floor, so I step forward, scanning my domain, watching for signs of discontent. All I find are tourists mixed in with my regulars. A broker from New York, one of our frequent high rollers, is up ten grand in a poker game in the far corner. He's got a girl in a silver dress hanging off his arm. It's not his wife.

"You want me to patrol the floor, keep an eye out?" Emmett asks.

Shaking my head, I scan the Capri Bar, where a couple of girls flirt with the bartender. He's playing into it, probably hoping for tips or an invitation for the night. "No. They're not idiots. I'm sure they've done their homework. If they see you or me on the floor, they will run out of here before we can make our move."

He nods in understanding before rolling a chair over and placing it between the window and the monitors, where he can observe the floor from both angles. Settling in, we keep vigilant watch while we wait for word from outside the property.

It takes an hour for us to track down the bastards. Our team on the streets spot them at Ceasars, stopping at a blackjack table until they're up twenty grand and on the move again. They've got balls, thinking those of us onto their game aren't watching. Since Caesars is no longer privately owned, I call the casino's security head, filling him in on the situation. But by the time he's on the floor, the mathematician jackasses are back on the strip and headed toward The Mirage.

"You think they'll come to us?" Emmett asks, knee bouncing, ready for some action.

My lips purse as I pocket my phone and glance at the front entrance monitor. "They're not far. Caesars is going to alert The Mirage. But if the fuckers go there first, their security will get involved."

"Not fair," Emmett whines. I'd scold him, but I sympathize with the sentiment. I want the pleasure of dealing with these pricks as I see fit.

Both our phones go off with a text. Emmett's quicker to check the message. "They passed The Mirage."

My lips curve into a grin as my pulse quickens in anticipation. "Bene."

"Bene."

We mimic our father, who always responds with a "good" in Italian when he learns a plan is going as expected. Emmett rolls his neck, cracking it in the process.

"Come with me." It's time to take our actions underground. Emmett accompanies me down the security hallways, where we knock on the doors of Felix and Stefan, a security liaison with a knack for knives and blowtorches.

Without question, they rise from their desks and follow, the air around us sparking with a buzz of testosterone-fueled energy—our need to protect what's ours electric in our veins. Men like us act on instinct, not social civility.

"We gonna bring this to the warehouse?" Emmett asks under his breath after we pass a legitimate security office.

I think over the locations available to us. "No. I'm impatient tonight."

In truth, we don't get as many chances to use our warehouse or interrogation rooms as we once did. The shitheads of Vegas have learned what happens when you fuck over the Cullens, and they stay away. The chance to put our skills to use has our blood pumping and our minds reeling with creative ways to inflict pain.

"Emmett, I want you, Felix, and maybe a couple of other guys to get these assholes before they even reach a table. Bring them downstairs. I'll be waiting."

"Got it, boss." He cracks his knuckles and puffs his chest, preparing for the fun he's about to have.

We split up, Felix stays with Emmett while Stefan follows me down a side hall toward double steel doors that no one outside the Cullen family can access. I punch in a code, a combination of my mother's and grandmother's birthdays, and lean forward so the security system can scan my retina. The doors unlock with a heavy click, and we push through, continuing down to a secret elevator bank. Much like our underground vaults, the blueprints of this casino hold no evidence that these elevators exist. Our contacts from New York did the first stages of construction on La Bellissima. Our friends back home who specialize in "construction." They laid a much deeper foundation than reported to the county.

I scan my palm and fingertips at the elevator, type in a second code, and the elevator doors slide open. Stefan stands slightly behind me, hands locked in front of him, as he awaits further orders. Recalling his past performances and all the useful ways he can help me tonight, I stroke my hand across my jaw, fantasies of blood and revenge hitting a crescendo.

The ride deep into the basement of La Bellissima is too quick for a perfect plan to take shape in my mind, so I settle on winging things. Let the chips fall where they may with these card-counting fuckers. A chuckle passes through my lips at the dark undertones of my gambling humor.

We exit into a hallway lined with cinder blocks and metal doors. Fluorescent lights hang from the ceilings, casting shadows across our faces as Stefan follows me into the first room on the right. Tools consisting of everything from the basic scalpels to the more creative electric drills line the walls. We go to work, migrating to our weapons of choice.

I'm not in the mood to get overly bloody tonight. I like this suit. But I have every intention of inflicting pain. A set of brass knuckles calls to me. I do have quite a bit of aggression to work through after the sting of rejection I was hit with earlier. Flipping the knuckles in my palm, I consider a nail gun that could be quite enjoyable.

Voices echo through the basement, alerting me to the arrival of my victims. I pause, a wicked grin stretching across my face as I listen to them argue their innocence while Emmett assures them we just want to talk. He's a sick mother fucker, always playing with his prey.

"Where do you want them?" Emmett's head appears around the doorway, searching me out.

I pull the nail gun from the wall. "How many are there?"

"Five," he says, glancing over his shoulder and telling the whiny little pricks to "Shut the fuck up."

"Separate two and isolate them." We have three interrogation rooms, so we'll have to do this in stages. "Put the others in the last room. Any idea who their leader is?"

Emmett pauses, squinting and staring the assholes down. "I think so."

"We're interrogating him last." I twist back to the wall of weapons and search for a box of nails, dismissing my brother. He calls out instructions to his men, and I hear feet shuffle past the door as the card counters are led to their respective cells.

"Serrated blade or regular?" Stefan asks from the corner.

I snort, finally locating the nails and picking them from a shelf. "Do you even have to ask?"

He chuckles, collecting an array of serrated blades from his side of the room.

Doors slam shut while my men shout orders, and Emmett and Felix join us to collect their weapons. Emmett goes for a drill, sick fucker. Felix goes for pliers. At least one of our victims is losing fingernails in a mob manicure tonight.

"Who's first?" I ask, leading the way out of the storage room and across the hall.

"Some kid named Quil Ateara. Twenty-two. He has a degree in mathematics from MIT. Real stupid for a smart motherfucker," Emmett gives me a breakdown.

I nod and step aside as he opens the door to room number one—the guard inside exits, allowing my brother, Stefan, and Felix to pass. "Wait here," I demand before slipping inside, making a show of my entrance as I silently appraise the trembling frame of our suspect. The door shuts behind me, a metal clang ringing through the air as I glare at the man… no, scratch that, the boy strapped to a heavy metal chair, lit by a single hanging bulb.

Pimple-faced and scrawny with glasses sliding down his nose, I can see the glassy tell of his watering eyes from where I stand. My lips quirk at the side as I lay my weapons on a wooden table. I discard my jacket and unclip my cufflinks. The sound of rustling fabric mixes with the sharp breaths of my captive. I take my time rolling up my sleeves and discarding my tie. When I slip the brass knuckles over my fingers and turn to face my terrified victim, I find tears streaming down his face.

"Mr. Ateara, is that correct?" I ask, crossing my arms and leaning back against the corner of the table.

He hiccups, his voice quivering as he stammers, "Y-yes, sir."

I hum mainly to elongate his suffering—to let him know I control this situation, and if he wants any chance of surviving the night, he'll do whatever I say. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Um…" His eyes dart to the doorway as if he'll find answers somewhere outside the room. This kid is used to following his leader. He's not prepared for this, for us. Good. It will be easy to get him to talk.

"Do you know who I am?" I try something easier.

He pauses, fear dancing through his expression as he looks into my eyes for a beat before dropping his gaze to my feet. "M-Mr. Cullen. You own this casino."

"Very good." I tap my fingers along my bicep, wondering where to land the first punch. I might knock him out if I start with the head. I doubt this kid has ever been in a fight. He's not going to be able to take much of a beating. "So, let's try this again. Why are you here?"

He pulls in a shuddering breath and closes his eyes. "I-I'm not talking without a lawyer."

Well, now, that's just fucking hilarious. Emmett laughs so hard I'm not sure he's breathing while I smirk in amusement.

"Son, this isn't the police station. There's no fucking lawyer here." Felix shakes his head, then looks at me hopefully, holding up his pliers. I wave him off. I want the first blow.

Stalking forward, I drop my arms and squeeze my brass knuckles between my fist. "You know what I think, Mr. Ateara? I think you and your pack of pricks have been card counting in my casino." My voice rises, and Emmett's laughter dies. We're past the point of fun and games. Now, it's time for the devil to come out and play.

"No! No! I swear we've just been lucky. We're on a winning streak. Ask Jared!"

I raise a brow at Emmett in question. He's quick to answer, "Jared's the leader."

Done with waiting, I swing my arm forward, landing a hard punch to Quil's gut. He screams in pain, loud enough to make my ears ring. Fuck me. I'm not listening to Goddamn wolf howls all night long.

"Shut the fuck up," I spit. "Is Jared the son of a bitch that put this plan together?"

"There's not a plan," Quil whimpers, but his eyes dart away, an obvious tell of an obvious lie.

I hit him again, this time in the ribs, then grab a fist full of his dark hair, forcing him to look me in the eye. "You thought you could steal from me and live to tell about it?" Spit flies from my mouth as I scream in his face. Tears leak from his eyes faster while snot collects on his top lip.

"It wasn't my idea!" He wails, "I didn't know anything about counting cards. It was Jared. I met him when I started my master's degree at Stanford, and he had this idea that would make us all money fast. He said it was legal, that there was no possibility of getting caught."

"He was wrong, wasn't he?" I laugh and step away, nodding my head toward Felix. "Pull a couple of teeth," I command, slipping the knuckles from my fingers and sitting back to watch the show.

"No! God, stop, please! I'll tell you anything you want to know." Quil squirms in his restraints, his weak muscles straining to kick off the straps. "Jared swore the worst that would happen was we'd get kicked out of a casino. It's illegal what you're doing! You can't hurt me!"

"It's illegal," I quip at Emmett as Stefan pries Quil's mouth open, and Felix clamps his pliers onto a molar. Quil's screams reach a pitch that makes me fear for my eardrums, but I know the rest of his group will be able to hear, hopefully scaring the shit out of them.

Blood rushes from his mouth when Felix and Stephan let go, two teeth dropping to the floor.

I wave my hand in disinterest. "I'm done with him. Get me the next one."

Quil is incoherent from pain, groaning, and slumped forward in his chair. Emmett retrieves the guard, keeping watch in the hallway, and the two unlatch Quil from his restraints before dragging him out of the room. Grinning, I revel in the "Oh, fuck" wail that escapes the next guy when he passes by Quil. I relish in his cries for release as he's marched toward certain disfigurement.

I pick up the nail gun. My night has only gotten started.

oOo

As I scrub red dots of blood from my neck and arms, I let the water from my shower soak over my shoulders and back, alleviating the tension of the last twelve hours. My card counters are mostly unconscious in the back of a van headed to California. Their leader is the worst of all. I chuckle at the damage we left behind—missing fingernails, a broken eye socket, and metal nails shot through each foot. We got our point across so thoroughly he vomited twice.

In my grandfather's day, the group would have ended up buried in the desert somewhere, but I've found that missing people don't deter this behavior the same way the gruesome stories of torture do. Mathematicians across the country who think they're smarter than us will soon learn what happens when you try to fuck with the Cullens.

And what happens if they go to the cops?

The cops that are on our payroll?

Ha. Nothing.

Try to prove that my casino has secret underground levels. Try pinpointing your location the night in question after my guys create security footage showing you at another property. Good fucking luck.

I reach for my shampoo, lathering it into my hair until the suds are thick and running down my temples. The fresh scent of citrus and mint calms me and allows my thoughts to drift away from the night's activities to the legitimate business of running a casino.

Things on the floor remained uneventful while I was downstairs playing butcher. Emmett's prodigy, Ben, broke up another catfight. The kid is growing on me, I won't lie. I had to chuckle when I watched the footage. He swooped in and got one of the girls around the waist, lifting her while carrying her off as she kicked frantically, spewing curses at her crying nemesis. Turns out the girls were sisters, fighting over some schmuck they met in a club.

I'll never understand women.

Rinsing my hair, I pause because a few days ago, the idea of the opposite sex remaining a mystery didn't bother me. However, it's becoming an issue due to one woman in particular. A woman with cascading chestnut hair and doe eyes that make me desperate to see them looking up at me while she's on her knees…

I groan, my hand slapping against the charcoal-colored tile on the wall.

Why can't I get this girl out of my mind? I like fucking, don't get me wrong, but usually, the woman the pussy belongs to doesn't matter. She's a means to a satisfying end. So, why am I so damn fixated this time?

Because she won't give me the time of day…

That's it. That has to be it. I'm not trying hard enough. She's a showgirl, but I get the impression that she's classy, has morals, and doesn't jump into bed with her boss the first time he walks in on her changing.

Those fucking tits.

My cock twitches at the memory. Heavy breasts with rosebud nipples begging me to lean down and taste. I wonder if she's sweet, if she tastes like strawberry candy, like the scent that hits me each time I'm close to her. Fuck me. I'll never be able to go into a candy store without getting a hard-on again. That could be problematic.

My hand finds its way down my torso to my rapidly growing dick as images of Bella's tits bombard me. I stroke myself, moaning at the intense pleasure as I imagine sinking into her tight pussy. In my head, she's riding me while her breasts bounce, putting on a fucking show, and giving me a front-row seat. She thinks she's in control, but she's not. My hands have a bruising hold on her waist, moving her the way I want. I gain satisfaction from her body while she writhes and cries out my name.

Jesus, I want the image to be real.

I pump myself hard, my hips bucking into my palm as the movie playing becomes more vivid. Grabbing a fistful of Bella's hair, I pull her toward me, relishing the warmth of her mouth on mine. My balls tighten, and electricity runs up my spine. Her walls constrict as I swallow the groans of her release.

And I shoot my load all over the floor of my shower.

Fucking Christ.

Panting, I tug at my hair, trying to understand the detailed fantasy and the deep-seated want running through me.

I've got to fuck this girl. It's the only answer. Fuck her and get her out of my system.

The real thing won't be as good as I imagine. Once my dick gets the message that the porno it thinks it's starring in is just another meaningless hook-up, I'll be past this absurd obsession.

The water from my rain showerhead trickles to a drip as I turn off the faucet. I reach past the glass wall and grab an oversized towel to run over my body. Once dry, I tie it around my waist and step out of the steam that fills my luxury bathroom, passing into the bedroom of my penthouse. Much like my living room, a wall of windows gives me an overview of the strip, reflective from the outside so as not to invade my privacy. The gold comforter on my king-sized bed calls to me after twenty-two hours without sleep, but there's a more pressing issue that I have to deal with. So, I turn into my walk-in closet, one of two in my room.

From a drawer, I select black boxer briefs, slipping them on after dropping my towel into a hamper. One of my crisp navy Stefano Ricci suits catches my eye, and I pull it from its hanger, along with a light blue button-down and a silver tie.

I slip into a pair of Ferragamo loafers and return to the bathroom to tame my hair, although I know it will return to its usual chaos within a few hours. Studying myself in the mirror, I nod, satisfied that my appearance is the best it will get. I haven't shaved, but women like a five o'clock shadow, right? Fuck if I know.

My confidence grows with my plan as I head out of the penthouse and down to my garage. There's no need to show off this early in the morning, so I opt for a mid-tier Mercedes from my collection.

Bypassing the strip, I follow Paradise Road toward the lower-end casinos, catering to middle-American men with beer guts and their overly chipper wives. At this early hour, older couples from places like Ohio and Kansas are up with the sun, walking toward the sights further down Las Vegas Boulevard. I wonder how crowded my destination will be, as most buffets and restaurants on the strip don't open for another few hours.

The sign for Carmen's Diner hovers over the fifties-style building, its flashing bulbs blending with the city and beginning to bleed into the light of day. Stopped at a light, I run my hand over my hair, the strands still damp from my shower and cooperating for the moment. When the light turns green, I stall in the empty intersection, paralyzed by indecision.

What the hell am I doing here? Chasing after a Goddamn showgirl? I have high-class women at my beck and call and a casino full of beautiful girls who would spread their legs for me in a heartbeat. All of which would say thank you when I kick them out after.

I have options. That should be enough to keep me satisfied.

But, God help me, it's not.

A Toyota rips around the corner behind me and blares its horn. I flip them off but move my foot to the accelerator, forcing myself into the parking lot.

My palm runs down my face as I think over the various ways walking into the diner could play out.

One, Bella falls for my charms, ditches her job, and willingly comes to my penthouse, where I spend the rest of the day kissing, licking, and thrusting to my heart's content.

Two, she slaps me in the face and turns me down in front of an audience.

Three, she's not even working today.

I'm hoping for option one or three as I climb from the Mercedes and lock it with the click of the key fob. The scent of grease floats through the door as I sneak in behind drunk Southerners taking advantage of their vacation.

While I wait for the country folk to be seated, I sink into the corner of the doorway, scanning the white Formica tabletops and black vinyl booths. There's a jukebox in the corner that's so cliche it makes me want to roll my eyes.

"Hey, hon. How can I help you?" A thin woman with a white streak running down her dark hair glances at me from a hostess stand as she replaces a stack of menus.

"Hello." There's gravel in my voice, fatigue making itself known, and I clear my throat to relieve it. "By any chance, is Bella working?"

My request catches her attention, and her brows lift, disappearing under her bangs as she sizes me up. "You a friend of hers?"

"From La Bellissima, yes." I stretch the truth.

"If there are more guys like you at La Bellissima, maybe I should shut down this place and get a job over there." She winks, and I smile good-naturedly, reminding myself to be charming. I might need help winning Bella over; a positive word from her coworker won't hurt. "Come on in. She should be here any minute."

I follow the woman, whose name tag reads "Carmen," to a booth in the back corner. She offers coffee, which I gladly accept, and promises she'll let Bella know I'm her VIP table as soon as she clocks in.

I settle into the booth, flipping through a menu mindlessly as I listen to conversations from nearby. A retiree with a visor perched on her head recaps the day's itinerary with the two friends she's on a "gals trip" with. They're wrapping it all up with a Michael Jackson impersonator show this evening before they fly back to Florida tomorrow.

The Southerners, who I've learned are from Tennessee, revisit their wild night spent pouring rent money into slot machines while cocktail waitresses kept them well lubricated with bottom shelf liquors. They repeat, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" multiple times.

I've decided on fried eggs with toast and hashbrowns when I catch sight of the door to the kitchen swinging open. Bella rushes through, tying her apron behind a pink diner dress. I shift in my seat as the memory of the last time I saw her in this uniform hits me. I know what's under that short button-up, and it's something I am very eager to see more of.

She pulls a notepad and pen from her apron pocket as Carmen greets her, pointing in my direction. Bella's brows dip before she looks over, eyes widening when she spots me. Quickly, she turns her back, blocking me from view, but by how she gestures with her arms and shakes her head, I get the impression she's arguing with her boss. Carmen laughs and reaches out to shove her my way before leaving to greet customers at the front.

Shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath, Bella glances at me and mutters under her breath. I'm fascinated by her every movement as she tucks her lip between her teeth and slowly approaches my table. She taps her pen against her notepad, her gaze flicking all over the restaurant before landing on mine as she pauses and forces a smile on her face. Faint hints of dark eyeliner linger under her eyes, making her appear tired and overworked. The urge to help her, lessen her stressors, and take care of her surges through me, and suddenly, this isn't just about getting laid anymore.

I can't use this woman as a quick fuck.

I don't want to use this woman as a quick fuck.

The realization both debilitates me and thrills me.

"Mr. Cullen," she says with a sigh. "What would you like for breakfast?"

Menu propped in my hands, gaze fixated on the gold flecks running through the deep chocolate of her eyes, I answer before I can think.

"You."

Well, shit. That's not what I meant to order.

A/N: I'm just saying I would definitely be on the menu for Edward Cullen to order!

So does Bella give in in chapter six? You'll find out next week ;)

See you soon!