Page 95 of A Very Daddy Christmas

With this new information and a wiretap active on both Hamilton and St. James, we leave the establishment behind and follow Hamilton back to his place. We sit on the house for a while—long enough to catch a glimpse of him arguing with his much younger wife in the kitchen—then watch as Hamilton retreats into the living room to pour himself a drink.

He gets on the phone. Instantly, Riggs’s laptop comes alive, his wiretap active.

“He’s calling St. James,” he says, then opens the line and turns up the volume.

“What do you want?” Orson asks Hamilton.

“I haven’t heard from him yet,” he says, slightly slurring his words. “Should I be worried?”

“Is that why you’re calling? You’re worried because Denaro’s giving you the silent treatment?”

“That little bitch is missing. The whole town is in an uproar,” Hamilton hisses. “I’m worried Denaro did something that’s gonna get us all in deep shit.”

“We’re already in deep shit. All Denaro’s doing now is making sure we all get out of deep shit,” Orson bluntly corrects him. “If I were you, I’d be thankful he’s not calling me. Get some sleep, sober up, and meet me at the country club tomorrow morning. The sheriff will probably be coming around to ask us questions about the woman, so we might as well get our stories straight.”

Waylan growls. “There it is.”

“Tonight has been particularly bountiful,” Riggs concludes, his gaze darkening with quiet rage. “We need to pay Orson a visit.”

We leave Hamilton to his miserable devices and drive across town to Orson’s mansion. The clock is ticking, but with no knowledge of Cora’s condition or whereabouts, it feels like it’s ticking somewhere out of our earshot. My nerves are stretched thin, and keeping my emotions under control becomes harder with each passing hour.

“We need to record this conversation,” Riggs warns me. “And we need to keep it from getting physical since Foreman deputized us.”

“I can’t promise the latter,” I mutter as we pull up in front of Orson’s majestic black iron gate. His mansion rises defiantly into the night. There’s movement on the upper floor. I spot a shadow moving lazily in the windows, a man advancing from one room to another. It makes my blood boil. “I really can’t.”

Waylan squeezes my shoulder firmly. “Brother, we need to do this right. Cora’s depending on us.”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” I snap, though I instantly regret it. “Fucking hell, man. She’s out there somewhere, scared out of her mind. Pregnant with our child. Vulnerable. In the meantime, Hamilton’s gambling while this prick is comfortably sitting on his ass, waiting for his lawyers to handle the sale and to boot Cora and Eva out of the building. I have a hard time holding on to my composure at this point.”

Riggs gives me a hard look. “We’reallhaving the same difficulty,” he reminds me. “But we cannot let our anger get the better of us, not when we’re so close to burying them deep enough they’ll never surface.”

“We do not resort to violence unless Orson strikes first,” Waylan orders and gets out of the car. “Dario needs me to stay out of prison. It’s bad enough there’s a public scandal involving Cora. I’m going to have a fucking field day with Social Services when they get wind of it. I don’t need them to come in waving my mugshot, too.”

And that’s when it hits me. A gentle reminder that my anger doesn’t belong in the front seat. There’s more at stake here than Cora’s well-being. Dario is an innocent child. I love that kid to death, and he belongs with us. If we’re to be a safe haven to anyone, we must first act like it.

Foreman deputized us for a reason. The guys are right. I need my head in the game, so I take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” I tell them as we go through the front gate, courtesy of Riggs’s lock-picking skills. “I got carried away back there.”

“It’s okay, Sebastian. We’re in this together. Trust us to pull you out of the darkness, just like we trust you,” Waylan replies. “This isn’t our first rodeo.”

“It won’t be our last, either” Riggs grumbles.

Our covert-ops experience comes in handy as we bypass Orson’s security alarm and get into the house without tripping the system. We linger on the ground floor for a short while, listening carefully as we scan our surroundings. Music pours from upstairs—a soft, mellow kind of jazz. We hear a man speaking, a woman laughing lightly.

I motion to Waylan and Riggs to go up the stairs.

We cautiously approach the source of music and giggles, mingled with subtle moans of pleasure. The bedroom door iscracked open. Riggs turns his phone recording app on. I push open the door to find a bubbly, young, naked blonde riding Orson’s lap.

Waylan can’t help but laugh.

“Oh my God!” the blonde screams and jumps off Orson, scrambling to put the nearest silk robe on. I only need a glimpse to know she isn’t his wife. Judging by the boob job and the plethora of tattoos, she’s a high-end working girl. It’s the little diamond cross pendant she wears around her neck that makes me smile.

“What is the meaning of this?” Orson growls as he covers himself with his black velvet bathrobe. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Orson, baby,” the blonde cries out. “I thought we had the house to ourselves!”

Waylan keeps laughing and snapping photos. Orson gets up and tries to stop him, but Riggs gets in the way. “You don’t want to do that,” Riggs tells him. “It’ll be considered assault, and we’ll have no choice but to respond.”

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