Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
I saw everything.
Now, I dance for the Devil of Vegas.
I’m Isla Hart, a ballet dancer about to get my big break—until one wrong turn backstage lands me as an unwilling witness to murder. He’s Vincent Moretti, ice-blooded king of the Vegas Strip, but he doesn’t silence me. Instead, he locks me in his glass-walled penthouse above the city, surrounded by silk sheets, steel rules, and a view of his empire.
He demands obedience.
I plan an escape.
But the most untouchable man in Nevada soon discovers his one fatal weakness—me.
Meanwhile…
Gangs circle.
A dirty cop digs.
Rivals close in for blood.
If I give my heart to this monster, I could destroy him… or watch Las Vegas burn.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
ISLA
I'm late.
The word pounds through my head with each slap of my shoes against the pavement. Twenty-three minutes until curtain. My first major solo at the Grand Vegas Theatre, and I'm racing through the streets in nothing but a rhinestone covered tutu and tights.
I should have grabbed my coat. The thought stings almost as much as the October wind cutting through the thin fabric. But Madame Durant's voice echoes in my mind: Punctuality is the courtesy of kings and the discipline of dancers. I'd lost track of time warming up in my apartment, too nervous to eat, too anxious to sit still.
Now I'm paying for it. The rhinestones on my costume catch the neon lights of the strip, making me shimmer like a beacon. Look at me, they seem to scream. Young woman, alone, practically naked.
I quicken my pace, my dance bag bouncing against my hip. The theatre glows just ahead, its art deco marquee promising safety. Fifteen minutes now. I can make it.
"Hey, baby."
The voice slithers from the shadows of an alley, stopping me cold. "You a dancer or something? Bring that pretty body of yours over here and you can dance for me."
I keep walking, practically breaking into a run. But footsteps follow—heavy, persistent.
"Hey, slow down, princess." A second voice joins the first. "You got time for a private dance with us, don't you?"
"No, I'm late and people are expecting me and I—" The words tumble out as I try to outpace them. The theatre doors gleam ahead. Just another hundred feet. Fifty. Twenty—
A hand clamps onto my shoulder, spinning me around. The world tilts. My knees hit the concrete hard, tearing through my tights. My dance bag skitters across the pavement, spilling ribbons and rosin.
"Come on now, sweetheart." The first man looms over me, his friend closing in from the side. His backhand catches me across the mouth before I can scream. I taste copper. "We just wanna have a little fun, then you can go, okay?"
He grabs my wrist, pulling me up towards him. I wrench against him with everything I have, but he's too strong. This can't be happening. Not tonight. Not when everything I've worked for is just minutes away—
"I suggest you lowlifes crawl back under the rock you came from before I make you regret it."
The voice cuts through the night with surgical precision. Madame Durant stands ten feet away, streetlights turning her gray hair silver, her cane gripped in one weathered hand. She looks like what she is—a ballet instructor in her late fifties, maybe five-foot-four in heels.
She looks like nothing.
She looks like prey.
But both men freeze. The one holding me actually takes a step back.
"Sorry, ma'am." The words tumble out like a child caught stealing. They let me go so fast I stumble. "We didn't mean—"
"Leave." One word. Quiet. Final.
They melt back into the shadows without another word, heads lowered, shoulders hunched. As if they know something I don't.
"Come along, Isla." Madame Durant retrieves my scattered belongings with surprising grace. "You're late, and now we need to get you cleaned up."
Inside the theatre, she guides me to my dressing room with brisk efficiency. "Let me see." Cool fingers tilt my chin, examining my split lip. "Not too bad. The stage makeup will cover it."
"Madame, how did you—"
"I heard you call out." She dabs at the blood with a tissue. "Though I don't recall you screaming."
She's right. I hadn't screamed. The realization sends a chill down my spine.
"You should be more careful, child." Something flickers in her eyes—knowledge, perhaps. Or a warning. "This city, this life we've chosen... There is always danger lurking. Some perceive it more readily than others."
"Five minutes to curtain, Isla!" The stage manager's voice echoes down the hall.
Madame smooths the bodice of my tutu with practiced hands and hands me another pair of tights. "You deserve this moment. You've worked hard, sacrificed much. Now go out there and show them what you're made of. Make it all look effortless."
I nod, pushing down the tremor in my hands, the ache in my knees. The show must go on. It always does.
The stage swallows me in darkness. I find my mark by muscle memory alone, arms in preparatory position, chin lifted. Waiting.
The music begins—Tchaikovsky's violin crying out my entrance. The curtain rises. Light floods my world.
And I dance.
The audience disappears. The fear evaporates. There is only movement and music, the perfect marriage of athletic precision and artistic expression. Every leap defies gravity. Every turn defies time. This is what I was born for. This is why I endure.
My variation builds to its climax—a series of fouettés into a sequence of pirouettes. Ten rotations from a single preparation. I've done it a thousand times in rehearsal, but never when it mattered. Never with scouts from the major companies watching. Never with my entire future balanced on the knife's edge of a single turn.