Fallen Empire (Dirty Empire Book 4)

  Fallen Empire

  Dirty Empire, #4

  K.A. Tucker

  2021 Kathleen Tucker

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For more information, visit www.katuckerbooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover design by Shanoff Designs

  Published by K.A. Tucker

  Contents

  Fallen Empire

  1. Gabriel

  2. Mercy

  3. Gabriel

  4. Mercy

  5. Gabriel

  6. Mercy

  7. Gabriel

  8. Mercy

  9. Gabriel

  10. Mercy

  11. Gabriel

  12. Mercy

  13. Gabriel

  14. Mercy

  15. Gabriel

  16. Mercy

  17. Gabriel

  18. Mercy

  19. Gabriel

  20. Mercy

  21. Gabriel

  22. Mercy

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek - Tempt Me (The Wolf Hotel #1)

  Also By K.A. Tucker

  About the Author

  Fallen Empire

  Fallen Empire, Dirty Empire Four

  From internationally bestselling author K.A. Tucker comes the thrilling conclusion to the dark and sexy Dirty Empire series.

  Mercy Wheeler and Gabriel Easton’s sordid tale ends in Fallen Empire as Gabriel must save Mercy and escape his father’s grip once and for all.

  Fallen Empire is the fourth book in the Dirty Empire series and should be read after Sweet Mercy, Gabriel Fallen, and Dirty Empire.

  1

  Gabriel

  “Well, would you look at that. I’ll bet you thought you had that hand in the bag.” Caleb grins as he lays down a straight flush beside Cohen’s four aces. “Oh wait, you bet. A lot.”

  With a curse under his breath, the owner of the Mage Hotel and Casino sinks into his chair and scowls as his opponent rakes in the considerable pot of chips. Has he figured out yet that my brother’s been stringing him along, like a lion toying with its meal before going in for the kill? He allowed the little bald man to win five hands out of six, enough to nurture the delusion that Caleb is all talk and no skill. The growing number of chips tossed onto the table with each round is proof of it.

  But Caleb isn’t known for having patience and is tiring of this ruse. He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “Come on, Gabe. You ready to jump in and lose to me too?”

  “Not this round.” I reject his taunt with an unbothered drawl. I’ve never been able to play poker with him. He’s an arrogant prick on a regular day, but put him in a Vegas high-roller room? My fist is itching to connect with his jaw and my money’s not even in play.

  Besides, my head’s not on the game. It’s barely processing the swanky room or the armed security detail loitering around us. It’s still in the hotel lobby, on the phone, listening to our private eye Stanley inform me that it wasn’t our dear uncle Peter who rigged our private jet to explode two nights ago. It wasn’t even our family nemesis, the now-deceased Camillo Perri, or his two equally deceased sons.

  Our father’s henchman was the one lurking within the range of a security camera the night we nearly died, and Bane only takes orders from one man.

  Our father.

  I understand what Stanley was trying to tell me over that phone call, but I’m still struggling to process it. No one has ever accused Vlad Easton of being loving, but to sic his homicidal dog on us like that?

  The air in the room is tense as the dealer distributes fresh hands.

  “So, when are we gonna start playing like real men?” Caleb rearranges his cards with the stony expression he’s mastered. For all the swagger he throws around, not many can outmatch his poker face.

  “Real men play with deep pockets. What do you have in your pockets that I might want, Mr. Easton?” Cohen peers over his hand with a glint in his eye that makes me wonder if maybe he’s been playing us all along, too. At least he spent five seconds researching his opponent before he sat down in that chair, long enough to know who Mr. Green really is. But we’ve done plenty of digging on Bruce Cohen and we know he’s a sneeze away from losing his hold of this hotel thanks to his penchant for prostitutes and blow, and making terrible decisions in this very room.

  Does it bother Cohen that he’s sitting across from the son of a notorious crime boss? Is he worried what will happen if he upsets us? Nah…. This little man may be a degenerate gambler on the verge of economic collapse, but he’s dealt with his share of shady fucks. He knows exactly who we are, and I suspect he can guess how much we’re worth.

  A ballpark guess, anyway. Nobody has an actual idea except our accountant, who has made sure to bury that number where no one will ever find it.

  “Where to begin…,” Caleb drawls, sucking back a mouthful of vodka. I fight the urge to cringe. It’s ten a.m. “How about a lucrative nightclub in Phoenix—”

  “That’s not on the table.” I glare at my older brother. If this is his go-big-or-go-home strategy, I’d rather go home. The club is half mine and Caleb can only work so much magic if he gets a shitty hand.

  “Ye of little faith.” Caleb smirks. “Fine, little brother. What do you suggest I risk losing in this respectable game to this respectable gentleman?”

  “A few apartment buildings,” I say without hesitation. Our father’s properties, safely tucked away under dear Aunt Vespa’s name—Dad and Uncle Pete’s older sister who suffers from dementia and is riding out her days in a deluxe old-age home, convinced it’s still 1954. Caleb has power of attorney and deals with the property manager.

  Caleb’s blue eyes flash to mine, and a curious frown zags across his forehead. I know what he’s thinking: that Dad would kill us if Caleb lost those assets in a game of poker. But considering he’s already given the order to kill us, I guess that’s a moot point. Not that Caleb knows about that small detail yet.

  But Vlad Easton didn’t actually intend to kill his sons, did he? If that was the goal, Bane would have waited until we were snug in our seats before he flipped the trigger. No…. That display had to be a warning: be good little sons, fall in line for big bad Vlad. Now that he’s behind bars until the end of his days, he’s hellbent on seeing his delightful legacy—a drug empire—continue on in this world, with us taking it over. We’ve avoided and sidestepped the dirtiest parts of the family business up until now. He thinks he can scare us into compliance.

  That, or he’s being a spiteful prick and wants to piss us off. If that’s the case, he has succeeded in the latter. Caleb’s liable to choke the last few years out of him on the spot when he hears about this.

  But how pissed is Dad going to be when he finds out his grand plan of an alliance with the Perris to ward off the cartel will never happen, now that three out of five Perris are dead and the other two are as eager to carry on their family’s illicit business as we are?

  “And what could I possibly want with apartment buildings? I assume in Phoenix, no less,” Cohen asks, shifting his cards around in his hand.

  Ye
ah, he’s definitely done some homework on us.

  Cohen smooths a palm over his shiny forehead as he studies his cards with a puckered frown. He has a terrible poker face. With just the hands I’ve watched, I can tell he has a flush of some sort and he’s going to pretend he doesn’t. No wonder the guy is up to his eyeballs in debt that he’s forged at this table.

  “It’s not the buildings per say, but the property. They’re Scottsdale prime real estate. Developers are knocking on our door every week.” Caleb folds his hand in a tidy bundle, thumbs crossed. To anyone else, it means nothing. To me, it means he can’t lose. Royal flush, probably. “You of all people understand the value of prime real estate, given you’re a majority owner of this fine establishment and all. How do you feel about your investment here, by the way?”

  Cohen bursts out in laughter. It’s a reedy, sniffling sound. “You’ve got brass, I’ll give you that. And you don’t give up easily. Do you know how many conversations I’ve have just like this one?”

  “Gabe.” Farley’s deep, grumbling voice fills my ear, pulling my attention away from the game. The bodyguard’s face is grim. Then again, it’s always grim.

  “What is it?”

  His square jaw tenses. “We had a visitor this morning.”

  My stomach tenses. “Our tails are finally wagging?” We’ve had federal agents on us since we left Phoenix, the morning after our plane went boom. Either they’re amateurs, or they’re not trying to hide the fact that they’re monitoring us. Normally we wouldn’t bat an eye at having shadows because we’re not dumb enough to get caught, but after last night’s unplanned massacre and emergency cleanup in our penthouse suite, the last thing we need are any of them sniffing around.

  Our contacts within the department have confirmed that they’ve discovered the staged scene out in the desert, but there’s no way they’ve identified the bodies yet. There isn’t any proof that those men were in our penthouse suite last night—nothing that could produce a search warrant this quickly, anyway. The Perris came in through the service elevator and the security camera footage was wiped. Plus, Merrick’s cleaner was top notch.

  Farley shakes his head. “It’s got nothing to do with them.” The flash of apprehension in his eyes—almost like the giant wall of muscle is afraid to tell me—makes my insides twist. “It’s Mercy.”

  2

  Mercy

  The cargo van hits another deep pothole. I grit my teeth against the harsh jolt that rattles my bones, but I don’t dare release a sound.

  I don’t want my abductor to know I’m awake.

  Our route has grown increasingly bumpy since I regained consciousness, maybe twenty minutes ago. I can’t guess how long it’s been since I opened the bathroom door in the hotel room and the man with the hideous scar across his face jabbed me in the neck with a needle. I blacked out and woke up lying on my side, still in my robe, with my arms bound behind my back, a sharp binding cutting into my wrists to keep them together.

  Through the grimy back windows, the sun shines, hinting at daytime, but it was morning when he took me. We could be many hours from Vegas by now. Sweat clings to my skin, the stifling heat suffocating. I assume we’re still in the desert, but the desert is a vast place.

  And I’m in deep trouble.

  Who is this guy, besides someone dangerous? And how did he get into a penthouse guarded by Gabriel’s men? No one goes up that elevator unless they’ve been permitted, and I doubt Farley would give this creep a hall pass.

  The service entrance. I’ll bet that’s how he made his way in. They smuggled three dead bodies out of there last night using the same route. This guy either knows the hotel well or pulled information from one of the staff. I cringe at the thought of how.

  Does Gabriel know I’ve been kidnapped yet? Or will he be so tied up with trying to buy the Mage all day that he doesn’t realize I’m gone until much later? Will he think I left? Woke up to a change of heart about him and this sordid life after last night’s bloodbath?

  And where are Moe and Michelle? They stayed behind with me in the penthouse. Do they know I’m gone? My kidnapper would have had to get through Moe to reach me, and Gabriel said the bodyguard was the best at what he does.

  Not as good as this guy, apparently.

  Did he kill Moe?

  Is he going to kill me?

  An odd, numb feeling courses through my veins.

  The van takes a sharp right turn and then the road gets rougher, my shoulder and hip aching with each thump against the rigid metal floor. I get a moment’s respite when we stop, just long enough for the driver to hop out. I strain to listen to a clank of metal and jangle of chain, and then he’s climbing back in, slamming the door shut with a hollow thud. The van chugs forward once again.

  “You can stop pretendin’. I know you’re awake,” a deep, croaky male voice calls out, bitter humor lacing his words.

  I stiffen but don’t respond.

  “I’d put you at a buck twenty. A woman your size would have woken up about a half hour ago, even without the bumpy ride.”

  I swallow against my trepidation and feign a calm tone. “What’d you give me?”

  “A sedative. Don’t worry, you won’t be drowsy for too much longer.”

  Because that’s what I’m worried about. Though, having a clear head is better for thinking, and I need to think if I’m going to devise an escape plan. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere no one will ever find you.”

  Does he believe that or is he just trying to scare me? If so, he has succeeded. A chill runs along my spine.

  This couldn’t have been a random kidnapping. It was too well planned. It must have something to do with Gabriel’s uncle. He failed at blowing up the plane, so he’s going a different route. But why take me? Why not wait in the room for the guys and end them?

  Something doesn’t add up.

  Maybe it has nothing to do with the uncle. Maybe it’s this cartel that Agent Lewis was talking about. Do they plan on holding me for ransom in exchange for territory? Do cartels do that sort of thing?

  I know it’s not the Perris, for obvious reasons.

  What if this is something entirely different that Gabriel and his family are involved in, something I don’t know about? How many enemies do the Eastons have, and why would someone go to all this trouble?

  At least this guy is answering my questions, which means he might give me something of use. I force the tremor from my voice. “You’re making a big mistake. Do you realize who I’m with?”

  He snorts. “Why do you think you’re in this mess? It’s because of who you’re with that you’re here.”

  “And do you have any idea what he’ll do to you when he finds you?” He doesn’t sound at all concerned.

  “Like I said, he ain’t finding us. And you should be more worried ‘bout yourself than what happens to me.” The van comes to a skidding halt and the engine cuts off.

  My panic swells as I listen to the man hop out of the driver’s side. His shoes drag across gritty ground as he rounds the van. The back doors open with a yawning creak, and I cringe against the blinding sunlight that streams in. It’s quickly forgotten though, when strong hands seize my ankles and drag me out. I scream and attempt to break free of his grip, but it’s all in vain. I’ll never fend him off, bound the way I am.

  His fists lock around my biceps, and he hoists me to my feet. It allows me a better vantage point of my current situation. My eyes dart around, trying to gather as much information on my surroundings as I can, even in my foggy state of shock and my hunched position.

  A single-wide mobile home sits ahead of me, its faded beige vinyl walls camouflaged in the sand. Maybe fifty feet away is a three-door metal garage with a green roof. Beyond it is nothing but flat desert, broken up by prickly vegetation and, in the far distance, low mountains.

  Where are we? Nevada? Arizona? New Mexico?

  A ten-foot-high chain-link fence capped with barbed wire circles the perimeter of
what I assume is this man’s compound. A battered green pickup truck sits off to one side, dusty and baking in the hot sun, its tires flat. Beside it, the top of a well juts out from the ground. A bucket sits next to it. To my right are solar panels, angled up to collect the sun’s rays, along with multiple satellites to gather various signals. Along the side of the garage, in what might be the only slip of shade anywhere, is a line of plastic and metal drums, and several raised garden beds with tomatoes and green beans.

  If I had to guess, I’d say this guy could survive out here on his own for months without ever making a run for supplies.

  My gut tenses. How long will I survive out here?

  “Get goin’.” He shoves me forward and I stumble, the desert scalding beneath my bare feet. The tie on my robe has loosened, leaving the two sides hanging open and myself exposed. I’m too frightened to be embarrassed. Still, I’m thankful he’s behind me as he goads me forward, up the metal steps and through the door that he reaches around me to open. He left it unlocked. I guess there was no need to secure it, what with our remote location and the barbed wire.

  The air inside the trailer is stifling, the windows all sealed, the blinds closed to shut out the sun—or the outside world from the dark things happening inside. It’s sparsely decorated and old, but tidy, and overwhelmingly clean. My nose furls at the overpowering scent of bleach.