REVEALED. Las Vegas Bastards (Part 1)

ANASTASIA

Las Vegas rewards monsters.

Tonight, I caged one.

Neon burned across the Strip, a feverish constellation of lies and longing. The city shimmered under the weight of heat and hunger, alive long past midnight, thriving on vice it no longer bothered to disguise. Here, sin was currency. Power was spectacle. And justice was usually a rumor.

Not tonight. And never for me.

The man they called untouchable was sitting in a holding cell, his empire cracked wide open, his secrets bleeding into evidence bags. The brothel king. A predator who had hidden in plain sight while the system failed girl after girl, case after case.

Two years of my life had gone into bringing him down. Two years of digging through sealed files, chasing ghosts no one wanted disturbed, coaxing testimony from women who had learned the cost of speaking too well. Everyone said it was impossible. No witnesses. No proof. No leverage.

But I found a way. I always do.

Adrenaline still hummed through my veins as I drove home, sharp and electric, the echo of victory thrumming beneath my skin. This was the kind of win that built careers and earned headlines. But more than that, it pulled girls out of the dark and gave them their lives back.

My assistant would handle the aftermath. Temporary housing, trauma care, job placement. It wasn’t justice, not really, but it was a beginning. And maybe, if the universe was finally on my side, the kind of victory that would make me a real contender for Chief Prosecutor.

The media had already crowned me the city’s new hero. “Hopeless Case Turned Victory. Anastasia Quinn Topples Crime Ring.”

They made it sound effortless. It wasn’t.

I parked outside my apartment building, the same one I had lived in for years, long before the raises and accolades. I could afford something better now. Something shinier. But I liked this place. Close to the university. Quiet. Ordinary. The air smelled like coffee grounds and old books instead of perfume and desperation.

Normal was a comfort. A shield.

I climbed the stairs, every step a reminder of how long the night had been. My heels ached, exhaustion pulling me under at last. All I wanted was a glass of wine, a captivating book, and a long, scalding shower. Maybe sleep without dreaming of courtrooms and frightened eyes.

I slid my key into the lock. The moment I stepped inside, my instincts flared. Darkness greeted me. Thick. Heavy. Wrong. No glow from the hallway light. No familiar hum, no welcoming glow. Just stillness that pressed in from all sides, coiled and waiting.

It watched.

I froze, every muscle locking into place.

I flicked the switch. Nothing.

Again. Click. Nothing.

My pulse spiked. Slow breaths. Controlled. I reached into my bag and wrapped my fingers around the grip of my Glock, the familiar weight grounding me. Safety off. Muzzle low. Careful steps.

Then I saw him.

He stood by the window, his figure carved from moonlight and shadow. Tall. Six-two, maybe. Lean muscle shifting beneath a dark shirt, every line of him precision and restraint. He did not move. Did not speak. He simply watched me, utterly at ease, like a predator unbothered by the presence of prey.

When he turned, the sharp lines of his jaw caught the light. His eyes were dark. Unreadable. Calm in a way that scraped along my nerves.

“Wrong apartment,” I said, lifting my gun. My voice came out steady, cold. “If you are here to scare me, you picked the wrong woman. What do you want?”

He did not flinch. Did not blink. When he spoke, his voice slid through the darkness, smooth and low, like smoke over silk. The kind of voice meant to tempt, not threaten.

“To end your current life.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped me. “I am happy with my life,” I said, steel-edged and unyielding. “Leave. Now.”

His gaze did not waver. There was power in it. Measured. Controlled. Unmistakably deliberate. Yet beneath the surface, something flickered. Something that did not belong on the face of a man who had come uninvited into my home.

Curiosity. Regret. Recognition.

“To end your current life,” he said again, slower this time, “Anastasia Devlin.”

The world tilted.

Devlin.

The name slammed into my chest, knocking the breath from my lungs. Dead. Buried. Forgotten. A life I had erased piece by piece, scrubbed from records, sealed beneath layers of new names and carefully constructed silence.

No one knew it. No one could.

My grip tightened on the gun, fingers numb, pulse roaring in my ears. For a split second, I forgot how to breathe. Forgot where I was. All I could hear was that name echoing in my skull, dragged from a grave I had dug myself.

Who was this man? And how did he sound so certain?

A shift of air brushed my left side, wrong in a way I couldn’t immediately name, an absence where there should have been space. My stomach dropped.

Another man stepped out of the shadows of my kitchen, as if he had been there all along and simply decided to be seen. Taller than the first. Six-four, maybe more. Broad shoulders filling the doorway, power coiled beneath his stillness.

The light caught his eyes, cool and assessing. The kind of gaze that cataloged weaknesses and never looked away.

I had not heard him, had not sensed him. Years of training screamed that I should have. And still he moved through my blind spot like he’d always belonged there.

Before I could fire, he lunged.

He moved like smoke. Silent, fast, deliberate. One second I had my gun, the next it was gone. My arm twisted behind my back until pain lanced through my shoulder. I kicked, lashed out with elbows and nails, tried to wrench myself free, but it was like trying to bend steel.

Strong. Controlled. Unyielding.

The first man grabbed my ponytail and yanked, forcing my head back so hard the world exploded into stars. I tasted blood, bit down, and spat out a curse. I was small, five-five, lean, fast, but against them, I was pinned, every movement countered before it could land.

“Blake,” the man restraining me said calmly, almost amused, “you said she would come willingly.”

“I did not know she was such a shrew, Ty,” Blake replied, a smirk threading dark humor through his voice.

Rage flared through me, hot and reckless.

The man from the window moved in, fingers still locked in my ponytail, holding me exactly where he wanted me. His presence closed in, deliberate and unhurried. “Give her Finn’s gift,” he said calmly, “before she wakes the entire building.”

A sharp sting bit into my arm. A syringe.

No.

I bucked, twisted, fought with everything I had. Muscles burned. Breath tore from my lungs. Hands crushed my wrists and shoulders, pinning me with terrifying efficiency. They moved together like this was rehearsed, perfected.

Pain flared, white and blinding. The drug hit fast. Fire raced through my veins, searing and cold all at once. My knees buckled. The floor lurched. The room fractured, splinters of color bleeding into shadow. Voices stretched into echoes.

My heartbeat slowed, heavy and distant, like it belonged to someone else. Blake caught me as I fell, his grip steady, unshakable. His face hovered above mine, those dark eyes locked on me, unreadable. Almost gentle.

Then the world went dark.

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Read this story on Galatea soon. Out on March 26th.