Dateline
Gino-Somewhere in Vegas. The Morning-ish After.
Gino woke up in a kiddie pool full of glow sticks. That wasn’t a metaphor. His mouth tasted like regret and battery acid. His eyes felt like someone had tie-dyed his corneas with glitter and sin; hair sticky. Why was it sticky? Was that frosting?
He sat up too fast. “Ow, fuck—”
Something crunched. A glow stick exploded blue across his thigh.
“Okay. Okay. Breathe. You’re alive. Probably.”
He looked around the trashed Airbnb.
People were snoring in corners. Someone had passed out face-down in a pizza. The walls were covered in neon body paint and what might’ve been... motivational quotes?
Ugh, I need to find Enzo and we need to get back. I’m sure mother hen Nico is freaking out by now.
But Enzo?
Nowhere.
Shit.
Gino stood up too fast and immediately had to sit back down. The floor tilted. Or he did.
Okay okay okay okay—
Where the fuck is Enzo.
He patted his pockets. No phone. No wallet. No dignity.
Then it hit him like a truck.
Burning Man.
The drinkable glitter.
The girl in the disco ball bikini offering “space glitter.” Enzo looking deeply, deeply unimpressed. Then... nothing.
A full blackout.
“Ohhhhhh my god, I lost the mafia don.”
Gino covered his face with both hands. “Enzo is going to fucking kill me. Or worse—his mother is going to kill me because he’s already dead. And then she’ll revive me just to kill me again.”
He stood again, wobbled, stepped directly on someone’s hand, and limped toward the front door.
“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. He probably went back to the hotel. He’s Enzo. He’s invincible.”
He paused at the door.
“…Right?”
Cue existential spiral.
Because Enzo might be invincible.
But Vegas?
Vegas fucking wasn’t.
Enzo’s Crew 7:27AM
Tension crackled inside the Vero Lux penthouse, the high-security nerve center of Enzo Marchesi’s empire.
Nico paced the marble floor; phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. “No ping. No voicemail. No burner. No sign.”
“He didn’t check in last night?” Lorenzo asked, pushing away from the sleek bar. His tie was still loose, but his tone was all business now.
“Not a word,” Nico said. “Not even to Luce.”
Dom looked up from the security monitors, expression grim. “What about Gino?”
“Worse,” Nico said flatly. “Gino’s phone is off. And his location history says he was last seen somewhere outside the goddamn Nevada desert.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“Tell me Enzo didn’t actually let Gino drag him to Burning Man,” Dom muttered.
Nico ran a hand down his face. “They left two days ago. Said it was a quick escape business.’”
“Jesus Christ.” Lorenzo stood, hands on hips. “And we let him go?”
“He said it was off-grid. No detail. No security.” Nico’s voice sharpened. “He’s never done that. Never. Not since he took the throne.”
Dom pushed back from the monitors and stood. “He should’ve checked in by now.”
Nico nodded. “And Gino’s not answering? That’s what worries me. If it was just Enzo pulling a fast one, Gino would’ve bragged by now. Posted a fire emoji selfie or something.”
“Unless someone took them both.”
The room went silent again.
Lorenzo crossed his arms. “We put the Vegas eyes on it?”
“All of ’em,” Nico confirmed. “Quiet sweep. If we get nothing by tonight…”
“…we escalate,” Dom finished grimly.
There was nothing left to say.
They weren’t just missing their boss.
They were missing the head of the Marchesi family. And wherever Gino was, that little glitter-drenched bastard was going to pay.
LOLA – 10:41 AM
The bell above the door jingled as Lola fumbled with the lock, still trying to tie her hair into a bun and swipe lip balm across her lips at the same time.
Her client was already waiting—arms crossed, foot tapping like she’d been standing there for a war crime tribunal.
“You’re like thirty minutes late,” the woman snapped, strutting inside like she owned the damn place. “I have a full-day session booked.”
And I have a Greek statue tied to my bed, actually.
Instead, she offered her most apologetic smile. “I know. I’m really sorry. There was, uh… a situation.”
The woman scoffed, flipping her platinum-blonde braid over her shoulder. “If I wasn’t flying out tomorrow, I’d reschedule.”
Oh please do. I’d love to go deal with my accidental hostage instead.
Lola gestured to the sanitized station and slipped on her gloves. The woman dropped into the chair with all the grace of a head cheerleader punishing the help.
“Spine tattoo, right?” Lola asked, double-checking the notes. “We’re doing the ornamental dagger with filigree?”
“And roses. Three. Not four. I don’t want it to look crowded.”
Ugh, to much talking already, my head is killing me.
She bent to grab her stencil packet and all the while Stephanie went on about how unprofessional it is to be late and how if Lola was going to be late she could have at least put herself together more.
This woman is the reason tattoo artists do inappropriate things to their clients when they’re not paying attention bitch.
She’d almost forgotten what she’d done last night. Almost.
But the reminder was loud and clear: six-foot-four of fury tied up like a birthday roast back at her apartment.
And this woman’s attitude?
THAT’S IT, she’s getting a dick right there in that bottom flower petal. Hopefully she never notices.
Lola carefully adjusted the stencil, lining it up with the curve of her client’s spine. “Let me know if it feels off.”
“No,” the woman sighed. “It’s fine. Just… get started. And don’t talk too much. I need to meditate through the pain.”
Bitch, I hope this filigree ends up looking like balls at the bottom of this shaft.
As the gun buzzed to life, her mind drifted again.
To the silk ropes. The bed. The glare.
To the way he’d said her name like he was filing it into some steel-toothed cabinet for later.
She’d left him tied up with a throw pillow under his head and a glass of water on the nightstand, the he clearly couldn’t get to.
It was a temporary solution to a very permanent oh-shit. Whey didn’t I put the beer hat on him so he could at least have something to drink while I’m gone. Why did I leave him there…?”
Because the truth was… she didn’t know what he was.
A lunatic? A conman? Some kind of fugitive?
What if he was a bounty hunter? Or an actor in some viral prank gone wrong? Or a really committed stripper whose kink show got wildly off-track? Okay. Think. He’s definitely not a stripper—too serious. Not a cop—unless it’s the really sketchy kind. Maybe a mercenary? Or some private security douche who got roofied by accident? Or... or some black-market crypto enforcer? Is that a thing? God, he probably has a guy who removes fingerprints.
She squinted at the lines she was inking.
He has the same nose and ears as Gino, maybe they’re related? Did Gino say something about his cousin working in “the family business”? Was that a euphemism for something? Something… casino-adjacent?
Her stomach flipped.
No. No way. Gino barely knew her. He just liked getting inked and flirting, but he'd mentioned a cousin, right? Some high-end suit guy who “ran things.”
Nope. Not thinking about it. Definitely not spiraling. Definitely not imagining that I might have kidnapped a casino boss-slash-money launderer.
She blinked down at the tattoo and smiled sweetly.
“Oops,” she whispered, sliding a faintly hidden phallic swirl into the bottom rose.
She adjusted the machine slightly, guiding the needle with care.
But wait. Gino did say something weird once...
A flash of memory hit her—late night tattoo session, Gino high on adrenaline and energy drinks, babbling.
"It’s a family thing," he’d said. "Big, old-school Italian business. My cousin runs most of it now. Dude’s intense. Sharp as hell. Rich as fuck. Owns half the strip, including one of the fanciest casinos. But you didn’t hear that from me, okay?”
Wait. Waitwaitwait.
Cousin. Casino. Mafia-coded intensity.
Lola blinked, needle still humming.
I didn’t just kidnap a hot guy. I kidnapped the boss’s hot guy.
She paused mid-line.
...Or the boss himself.
She swallowed, hard.
Jesus. If this turns into a mob war, I’m gonna be the dumbass on Dateline with a mugshot and a soundbite like “He just looked so symmetrical, I thought he was safe.” What are the chances of that though?
She kept tattooing, mechanically, her hands moving on autopilot while her brain unraveled like a party streamer in a wind tunnel.