Well now that they've "met," I think Bella caught Edward's attention whether she wanted to or not! Wonder what Edward thought of walking in on the topless showgirl? Let's find out!

Major thanks to Fran and Mary for helping me shape this story into what it is!


EPOV

Those tits.

Mother of God, those tits.

Perky, round, and creamy with dusty pink nipples that hardened the second I walked into the room. I spend too much time analyzing what that reaction meant. Was my little showgirl as turned on as I was at the prospect of fucking in an employee restroom?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not usually one for a tryst next to a toilet, but what kind of a man would I be if I passed up a golden opportunity like that?

My cock is still at half-mast as I try to push away thoughts of bending the sexy dancer over the sink, pounding into her until she cries my name while watching her perfect tits bounce in the mirror.

And now I'm fucking hard again. Inconvenient as I'm about to meet my father to talk over this card-counting bullshit. I adjust myself in my seat and flag a waiter; the bottle of chianti on the table isn't enough for what I'm dealing with. I'm switching to scotch.

I left the casino an hour ago, trusting Emmett to watch over things while I'm gone. I'm sunk in a booth at the back of my uncle Caius's Italian joint off the strip. I say uncle- he's my grandfather's younger brother. Eighty-one and still working like a dog. He's kept Trattoria Nuova Luna open for fifty years since the days of drive-by hits and extortion. If these walls could talk… well, there'd be a lot more convictions.

Trattoria Nuova Luna is the only restaurant in Vegas that's as safe to hold meetings in as our homes and offices. Caius sweeps for recording devices daily. The booths and the hidden entrance in the back are concealed from the front dining room, protecting us from spying Feds. The place has been raided twice, and pictures of the events line the walls in a humorous display of defiance, along with signed headshots from famous clientele who have visited over the years, most of whom needed some sort of favor from us.

I move the fake votive on the table as a plate of antipasto appears. Caius doesn't let family order; he just feeds us. My mother's the same way. It's an Italian thing.

Rolling a slice of cheese with salami, I call for my father, who steps through the back entrance, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. His blonde hair, slightly salt and peppered on the sides, slicked back with his signature classic elegance. He checks the time on his platinum Rolex before heading my way.

"Good day?" he asks, hanging his suit jacket on a hook next to the table and sliding into the seat across from me.

"Always. You?"

His question is code. Something we ask each other. 'Did you make bank today?' The answer is always yes.

"Bene." He answers in Italian. He's old school like that, breaking out the language regularly. I understand most of what he says, but I'm rusty. The year studying abroad in Sicily only took me so far. "So, we have a dilemma." He dives into the antipasto, grabbing an olive while the waiter arrives with his gin and tonic.

"Do you know if it's happening to anyone other than us?" I ask, leaning back and draping an arm across the back of my seat.

My father wipes his hands of olive juice as he answers, "I'm hearing rumors. Most of the classier establishments are getting hit. I'm planning to call Garrett in the morning." His deep blue eyes harden as his jaw ticks.

I purse my lips in thought. "I don't know how we missed it. I'm bringing my table dealers in tomorrow. Going to talk to them one on one."

"You think there's someone on the inside? One of your employees taking a cut?"

"I've considered it." I nod and reach for a piece of prosciutto. "Jasper thinks we should review the tapes and see if they're hitting the same tables. If nothing else, we've got lazy dealers doing a shit job of concealing their cards."

"He requested security footage from my places this afternoon," my father admits, scowling. "He thinks they're using smartwatches to communicate."

Our lawyer, Jasper, is a man of many talents. Legal and illegal advice the like. He's also the grandson of my grandfather's right-hand man. A man sometimes referred to in federal documents as the Masoni underboss. Of course, I'm not a fan of titles, but if I were, I'd slap Jasper with the name Consigliere. Jasper is family. He's as trustworthy as Emmett or me.

My father takes a drink, tapping his glass on the table several times before placing it down. "We've got other business to discuss." He glances around the restaurant floor to ensure no ears are nearby. My spine straightens, and I lean forward, elbows on the table. "There's a shipment coming in early tomorrow night. I need you and Emmett there."

"Tomorrow's Tuesday? I thought it was coming Thursday." The collection of black-market paintings and artifacts traveling from the Middle East throws a wrench in my plans. "I'm supposed to see the show at my casino tomorrow."

My father raises his brows. "Pretty sure there's a show every night, Edward." With my fingertips, I twist my scotch on the table, leaving circles of condensation behind. "Why do you need to see the show anyway?"

I stall, unable to admit to myself or my father the cause of my desire to attend the theater tomorrow night. "It's over budget. I'm trying to figure out what's going on."

"Go on Wednesday." It's a command. Non-negotiable.

I grit my teeth but nod. We need to get this art safely stored away in our hotel vaults. Mind you, not the ones we use to hold our casino's cash, but the other vaults- hidden deep within the building's foundation. They are filled with priceless stolen artifacts, military-grade weapons, and enough blackmail to topple half the governments in the world. I said our casinos were legal operations, not the rest of our ventures. The Cullens follow the law. The Masonis don't.

"Chicken Cacciatore." Our waiter announces, arriving with plates piled high with tender meat and sauce so perfectly seasoned that my mouth is watering.

"Tell Caius, grazi." My father tosses his tie over his shoulder before picking up a fork and digging in.

My lips lift in amusement as a splash of sauce hits the sleeve of his crisp white button-down. "You better watch out, or Mom's gonna kill you," I joke, pointing my knife toward the stain.

He grimaces and dips his napkin in water to try and blot it away. "Anyway, tomorrow, the drop will take a few hours. Jasper can watch over things while we're out."

"He can't watch three casinos," I argue.

"Who else do we have?"

The sides of my eyes pinch as I think over the players in my head. It's not often my father, my brother, and I are all absent. "Emmett's got an assistant that might work. Felix."

"He a captain?"

I give my father a look. He knows I don't like the old-world terminology. "Yeah. He's high up in security. We've trusted him with tasks before."

"He's thoroughly vetted through Jasper?"

"Background checks yearly, and he passed his interview solidly." My lips curl up at the memory. The interview is a process we put all our top men through that involves another associate beating the crap out of them to dig out information about the family. Felix lost a tooth during his. I gave him a hefty bonus and two weeks off paid to recover.

My father nods while he chews. "Use him."

Our conversation stalls while we stuff ourselves with Uncle Caius's cooking. I have to stop with a quarter of my plate left. Otherwise, I'll be loosening my belt and rolling out of here.

"When do you think our mathematicians will return?" I steer us back to our original topic.

"In the next week or two. They've got a pattern."

"I can't wait."

He grins because I know he's thinking the same thing I am. We want to get these fuckers alone, where we can make them pay for their cheating.

"Tomorrow. Ten o'clock." My father dots his napkin on the side of his mouth before placing it on the table and standing.

"I'll see you then." I tilt my scotch at him before taking one more sip and watch as he grabs his jacket and greets a couple of our lower-level associates across the room.

I drop a hundred on the table for the waiter before taking off, not bothering with the men my father has already acknowledged. Once I'm in my Audi, it roars to life, the engine's purr settling me as I pull onto the Vegas streets.

The sun is down, and the casino lights are on full display, flashing in every color imaginable. Usually, I wouldn't bother with the strip, taking backroads to La Bellissima, but tonight I'm feeling restless. I want to lose myself in the crowd.

Fountains erupt in an impressive water show on my right while drunk girls in high heels and short skirts pose for social media photos. It makes my thoughts wander to a different set of long, shapely legs.

I don't want to wait until Wednesday to see my Bella again.

My Bella? Christ, I'm talking about a showgirl, for fuck's sake. An employee.

I run a hand through my hair in frustration. Never have I fucked an employee. Not even once. Hell, I've gone a decade without fantasizing about fucking the women who work for me.

High-end strippers? Sure, a time or two in my early days of Vegas life. But they've got too much baggage to keep around for long.

Out-of-town women looking for a good time? Easy and no strings attached.

A bachelorette? Once. Not my finest moment. In my defense, I was as drunk as she was. My grandfather nearly disowned me for that one.

Mostly, I get my rocks off with girls looking for the same thing I am—girls like Irina Denali, an ex-model who struck it rich when her late husband kicked the bucket. It wasn't a shock. He was sixty years older than her, a sugar daddy in every sense of the word. She doesn't need money from me and doesn't want a man whose work will never allow him to be around longer than it takes to get off. It's a perfect situation.

I consider calling her. It's been a couple of months, which is probably why I've got a God damn dancer stuck in my head.

A quick fuck to get my mind off things sounds perfect.

I reach for my phone and scroll through my contacts, but my finger hovers over the screen, debating a different call… one that I suddenly need to make.

The phone rings over my Bluetooth as I grip my steering wheel and swallow hard.

"Whitlock," Jasper answers how he does everything… quickly and to the point.

"Hey, man. I need a background check." My hand slides against the wheel as I turn toward La Bellissima.

"What's the name?"

"It's a new employee. Bella Swan."

He pauses. "Okay… is there a particular reason you need a show girl's background check?" He's not baiting me, but I still want to punch him in the gut for the question. "Edward, she's brand new. I want to make sure I didn't miss something. Is she causing problems?"

"No. No problems. I just found out the last girl who had her role is suing us, and I want to know we're not going to run into the same problem with her." I stop at a red light and pinch the bridge of my nose because I know it's a weak excuse.

He hums, and papers shuffle in the background. "I doubt we're going to have the same problem. The horse is out of the show. It'd be hard for this girl to get trampled."

"Can you just send her background check to me?" I bite. Who does this little pick think he is?

The fucker chuckles. "It should be in your inbox."

"Thank you." I end the call irritated and restless, pulling into the private garage of my hotel.

The iron gate closes behind me as I turn to the lower level of the lot. Only my family can access the garage where I keep my collection of sleek black luxury vehicles. I park the Audi in between my Escalade and my Maserati.

I should check in with Emmett and ensure nothing needs my immediate attention, but I don't. Instead, I take the elevator from the garage lobby to the penthouse floor. The doors open to a foyer housing a massive circular table with a fresh bouquet that's changed out daily. My shoes click against the white marble floors as I turn to the right, opening the door on the far wall.

While my brother lives across the foyer, his place isn't nearly as grand as mine. I'm in charge, after all. With eight thousand square feet, vaulted ceilings, and every modern technological application you can imagine, my home is more than I could ever need.

I shrug off my jacket and place it on the quartz kitchen countertop before I head to my immaculately clean stainless steel refrigerator and pull out a bottle of water. Of course, everything in my penthouse is immaculately clean. It's hard to make a mess when you spend no more than four hours a day at home and have a full-time cleaning staff.

The open-concept floor plan gives me a perfect view of the living room, where my electronic window shades are up, and the Vegas skyline stretches before me. But I don't have time to admire the sight. I'm here for a reason.

Taking my water, I pass the distressed wood table in my dining room and head toward my office. The doors remain locked, accessible only by thumbprint and passcode. I punch in the numbers and turn the knob, finding comfort in the scent of the hardback books and wood shelves lining the side wall. I'd love to say I'm a novel aficionado, and while I've read many of the books, the mini library was added to hide a safe room behind it.

I sit at my desk, sink into my leather chair, and fire up my laptop. I insert my security card and enter my passwords until my email sits open on the screen.

Three down, I spot the background check from Jasper and open it.

Isabella Marie Swan. Twenty-six years old. A former ballet dancer with the Seattle Ballet who arrived in Las Vegas four months ago. She's an only child. Mother is an artist and lives in Florida. Father is-

Oh, fuck my life.

I laugh, unable to help myself, while my head falls back, and I stare at the ceiling.

Her father is a fucking Fed.

And not just any Fed. He's the Special Agent in Charge of the Seattle field office with Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Now, regularly, this agency leaves us alone, but occasionally, one of our acquaintances messes up, and the ATF gets close enough to leave us scrambling.

Like last year, when the Yakuza from Japan wanted to purchase part of our weapons collection. It wasn't until the day before money transferred hands that we discovered they were under surveillance. The Masoni syndicate shut the trade down immediately.

I pull my cell from my pocket, livid that this girl even got hired. Livid that I've got the daughter of a Fed, and her spectacular tits, stuck in my mind.

"Do you know who her father is?" I seethe when Jasper answers on the second ring.

He has the audacity to laugh. "Yeah, I saw that."

"Fire her." The command leaves my gut twisting, but family has to take precedence over a piece of ass.

"Edward, slow down. We can't just fire her."

"How did she get this job in the first place?" I pick up a pen and toss it across the room. The tiny thud it makes when it lands on the carpet doesn't satisfy me.

"She's a good dancer; the show was in a pinch." I can picture the fuck-if-I-know look I'm sure Jasper has on his face. "But it won't look good if we fire her for no real reason. I'd rather her father not come digging around here."

I rub a palm over my face, tilting back in my chair. "Shit."

"She had good references from the old ballet company and the diner she works at in the mornings. I don't think she will be a problem unless you know something I don't."

"No. I know nothing about her." Other than she's sin in heels and tiny black shorts.

"I'll keep an eye on things and let you know if there are any issues with her."

"Yeah, sure."

"Edward?"

"What?"

"Don't get involved with the talent. It's a bad idea."

A growl reverberates through my chest as I end the call and slam the phone on my desk. Fucking psychic prick.

oOo

"It's hot as fucking balls out here." Emmett rips his suit jacket off, tossing it in the back of the Escalade while I adjust my tie and discreetly wipe the back of my neck. That's the thing about the desert. Even at ten pm, it's a God damn sauna.

Our father climbs from the driver's seat of his Mercedes, shutting his door behind him and checking the gun tucked into the back of his waistband. "Our truck will be here shortly."

A private jet revs its engines, preparing for take-off from the small airstrip northeast of the city. Privately owned and easily paid off, the airport is a beacon for businessmen and foreign diplomats looking to be discreet about their entrances and exits from town. The family has our own hanger on the south side of the tarmac, where we store the Cullen Corporation jet. The ample space is also perfect for nights like this, where we need to make a quick trade away from prying eyes.

My toes tap on the tarmac as I check my watch. The flight carrying our precious cargo should land in ten minutes. We need to have our trucks loaded and on their way to the casinos by eleven. The goods should be safely tucked in the vaults before midnight.

"What exactly are we getting?" Emmett asks, leaning closer so his voice doesn't carry, even though the on;y people around are pilots on the opposite side of the runway.

"A few Greek statues, relics, worth a couple hundred thousand apiece. An underground Monet that hasn't been spotted in over forty years." I crack a smile at that. Art historians worldwide would break down my doors if they had any idea what I held under my casino. "Some Egyptian jewels from a tomb excavated last year and renaissance paintings, but Dad's taking those."

Emmett whistles. "None of them are accounted for?"

"Of course not." I shake my head and side-eye him. "That's part of what makes them so valuable."

"You going to use the Egyptian stuff for the new casino?"

I rock my head from side to side, thinking over the Cleopatra-era theme for the up-and-coming property. "It'd be funny if I put them out like replicas, made a museum or something," I chuckle at the idea.

"Hilarious, Edward," my father grunts, strolling over, his phone in his palm. "Alec is pulling through the back gate now."

We turn toward the sky, where a few bright dots fly toward us, planes in a landing pattern.

"Think ours is one of them?" Emmett asks.

My father says, "Hopefully," before heading to the hangar and unlocking the side door. "Let's get this open."

Tearing our gaze from the horizon, Emmett and I follow while our father flips on the fluorescent lights inside the enormous steel structure. The hangar is large enough for two planes, but our single jet sits on one side while the other remains unoccupied, left open for our friends. I pull a switch, activating the rolling metal doors on the front of the building, watching as they lift, revealing us to anyone outside.

Two trucks pull up as the doors reach the ceiling, both unmarked, the drivers and their passengers dressed in coveralls embroidered with the name "Evergreen Linens." They enter the hangar, parking against the back wall, and the men jump out quickly to greet us.

"Mr. Cullen and… Mr. Cullens," a blonde man with a square jaw and a scar running across his temple, steps up. I'll give him credit. He holds his hand steady while we shake despite his eyes flashing between us with nerves.

"Alec, meet my sons," my father says, indicating where Emmett and I stand next to him. "Your partners will accompany them to Edward's casino after this."

"We're thrilled to be trusted with the job." I pick up on a bit of an accent when Alec speaks. Soviet bloc country, maybe.

I greet the man but then lean into my father and whisper, "Bratva?" He'd be crazy to be working with the Russian mafia.

"Pensi che io sia stupido?" He hisses. I cringe because, no, I don't think he's stupid. "These guys escaped the Bratva. That's why they're here." I nod, but my lips twist in displeasure. The Russians have recently been a point of contention between my father and me. They're showing up more and more in our city, in our hotels, and with them comes a seedy underworld I want nothing to do with.

An engine roars, and tires squeal as a plane lands, cutting its speed to a crawl after it barrels down the runway. My father, brother, and I stride to the open front of the hanger, looking out to see an unmarked, windowless jet turning in our direction.

"They're here." My father's face glows like midnight on the strip as we make way for the aircraft and usher it inside. The pilot kills the engine as I hit the controls that will lower the automatic hangar door.

"Santiago," my father greets the pilot with a handshake while the man smiles and calls to his co-pilot in flowing European Spanish.

Santiago motions for his crew to open the plane's undercarriage, where our artifacts wait. "So much to catch up on, Carlisle. And I wish we could visit for longer, but we used this stop as an excuse to refuel on our way to San Francisco."

"More lucrative business awaits?" My father's brows rise.

"No, absolutely not. An alibi awaits." Santiago grins and pats my father's back as we all chuckle in understanding. There's a reason he's our go-to pilot. There's a reason he doesn't get pinched.

The crates take effort to unload and lift into the trucks. Knowing the value of the cargo they house makes the task more difficult. We quickly cover the wooden containers with boxes of tablecloths and various uniforms. If our drivers get pulled over, they'll seem like a legitimate linen supplier at first glance. If anyone snoops, Alec and his crew have never heard of the Cullens or the Masonis.

Santiago bids us a fleeting goodbye, jumping back into his plane as we raise the hangar doors again. He keeps his cover, going to refuel as Alec and his crew get their instructions to meet us in the loading docks of our casinos. They're the only deliveries scheduled for tonight, and we have men waiting, guarding the loading zones against any potential bystanders.

After closing the hangar, Emmett and I leave our father to tend to his share of the bounty while we hop in the Escalade and beeline to La Bellissima.

"Ah, shit," Emmett groans, checking over his texts while I drive.

I straighten, my mind racing with what could have happened at the hotel while we were gone. "'Ah, shit,' what?"

"Rosie's going to the show tonight with her girls. They're going to get drunk, and she's gonna end up passing out in her bed instead of mine." He pouts like a fucking toddler. I don't hold back this time, reaching over and smacking him on the head.

"Jesus, are you kidding me? We're in the middle of a fucking smuggling operation, and you're worried about getting your dick wet?"

"Hey, Ed, knock it off." He rubs at the spot I hit, grimacing. "You know what, I think? You need to worry more about getting your dick wet. When was the last time you got laid?"

My knuckles whiten from my grip on the steering wheel while I grit my teeth and jump on Interstate fifteen. "Fuck off."

"Whatever, man. I'm just saying. Those showgirls looked pretty fucking tempting yesterday."

I weigh the option of crashing the side of my SUV into the big rig on my right just to teach Emmett a lesson. Eh, who am I kidding? He won't fucking learn, and I'll just end up with a ruined car, an insurance claim with a trucking company, and the destruction of an illegal operation that was in the works for months.

"You're lucky I'm driving," I grit out and turn up the volume on the stereo to drown him out. It's punishment enough. My brother hates classical music. I find it soothing.

The rest of the drive and the unloading of the trucks goes to plan. Jasper wires fifty grand into the bank accounts of Alec and his crew while I seal my hidden vault shut. Emmett's gone the second we hit the casino, convinced he can meet with his security team and still have time to track down Rosalie before she leaves. He's determined to get her upstairs and naked.

In my security room, I scan the various screens, checking for any hint of a problem in my casino, but as Felix tells me, it's a quiet night. Birthday celebrations, girl's trips, families on vacation, and couples decked out for date night. I release him, promising a job-well-done bonus in his next check, and settle against a railing overlooking the casino floor through a one-sided mirror.

Just as I begin to watch over my domain, the doors to the Venice Theater open, revealing the smiling faces of show attendees as they gush about the performance. I'm pleased the audience is as taken by the spectacle as they are and notice that most of them filter to game tables and slot machines, unwilling for their night to be over. I tap on the glass, wondering how much of a boost we bring in on the floor after the show each night. I'll have Jasper look into it. Maybe I can stretch the performance budget. I'm not an entirely unreasonable man.

With the night settled, I nod to my security team, reminding them that I'm always a phone call away, and head toward my private elevator. As I slip past the locked door into the small, secluded lobby, I rub at my temples, the day catching up to me. I'm exhausted, a state I live almost perpetually in, as it's not uncommon for me to get no more than three to four hours of sleep a night. But the bone-deep weariness I feel now is new.

I lean against the wall inside the mirrored elevator and try to avoid my reflection as I know what I'll see. A man who looks much older than his thirty-two years. A man with no prospects of a future outside of his work. A man who, in his heart, is lonely.

Scoffing, I shake myself out of my self-loathing when the elevator dings on the twenty-sixth floor. I'm one of the most powerful men in the city, if not beyond that, with an empire my opponents would kill for. I have it all.

So why do I find myself in my office, nursing a few fingers of scotch as I watch security footage of the backstage hallways?

I try not to react when she appears on the screen, her stage makeup giving her eyes a sexy smokey glow and her lips a cherry red pout I'd love to see wrapped around my dick. I try to look away—pretend she doesn't affect me, but the pull is too strong, and I'm glued to the screen, switching camera to camera, until she climbs into her car and drives away.

I'm fucking screwed.


A/N: This man is in deep! But is Bella ready for him?

See you next week!