Page 56 of Naughty Santa Daddy

Will I save her from the aftermath?

Not in the slightest.

My endgame isn’t to ease her burden. Even if she is a masterpiece. Yes, the woman who serves me this god-awful brew day after day is fucking gorgeous.

Her sun-kissed golden skin, long dark hair, strong jawline, and brown eyes any man can get lost in all come together with this undeniable allure. Add in her resilient nature, smartass mouth, and this sweetness I sense lies underneath her; it can really undo a man.

It’s more than her looks. Her stature is confident. Given the life she’s endured, at least what I’ve read from the report I was presented, it’s amazing she can still smile day in and day out. She carries herself like a woman wise beyond her years. At twenty-two, most women are finding their place in life—from getting an education, following a career path, and going out to enjoy the nightlife; things are easy at her age.

Well, for anyone but her.

Hadley has no one to lean on but herself. Day after day, she puts her feet to the floor, serving every customer who comes into this joint and doing it with a smile. She lives in a fucking shack of a trailer about five miles up the road. She drives a damn nineteen-ninety Oldsmobile Cutlass that has seen better days. Then again, she had no one to give her some help in life. She grew up in a fucked-up foster care system that didn’t bother to find her actual family. A family with roots. There isn’t one single doubt in my mind that someone would have taken her in after the tragic loss of her parents. Instead, she lived being tossed from home to home and then tossed out at eighteen. She’s had to work her way through life.

Granted, our government resources don’t run as deep as my personal reach. Given the way she was passed around from toddler years to early elementary school before landing in the system, it would be difficult for anyone to sort out where she actually came from. Stolen by a thief in the night when herparents took her on her first vacation. Leaving the security of their tribe, their world, and getting caught up in a dangerous place with an innocent infant looking like a prize for the taking. They died, and I doubt she even has the first memory of them.

Tragic.

If my life were something other than it is. In order to survive, I have to be hard. I’ve accepted it. If I were a different man, I might actually pity her. If I were a softer man, I might truly feel guilty about her life. I don’t feel anything but the need for answers and vengeance for the betrayal to my organization.

I don’t have any guilt, though. Anger, yes. Pity, no. We all have obstacles to face. I didn’t put her on this path. I’m simply here to see if I can determine how far back the bullshit goes.

I have to admit, the more I learn of her past, the more the intrigue inside me grows. I could take her out of this situation. I could give her the information I hold. I don’t. She is a means to an end, and so is this information.

That’s not on my agenda. I can give her credit for being strong, though.

It's admirable—her work ethic, her drive.

To some degree, I can almost feel bad that it all needs to come to an end. How will she handle knowing who she is? Whether I tell her or not, she’s bound to find out at some point. I don’t plan to be the one because if she’s tied to me, she’s in more danger than simply being where she is today. She’s at risk in a world she doesn’t know exists.

Frankly, I’m no one’s hero and I’m not about to become hers.

In my world, knowledge is power. And power is everything. This naïve young woman in front of me has none. She wasn’t born into this world, but there are people wanting to pull her into it. Not only are they wanting to drag her into it, but they are determined to make it happen. I didn’t make the call thatcreated this domino effect on her life and my organization. I will, however, avenge it, and she’ll never be tied to my name again.

In my world, determination is a guaranteed way to rise to power. It takes grit to make the decisions necessary to keep things in line.

Everything requires balance: good and bad, light and dark, friends and enemies.

Although I can’t say I have anyone I can call a friend, I do have people I trust.

My downfall might come from those very souls. Trust is a fickle thing. It takes patience and time to build. Yet, in the blink of an eye, the split of a second, it can be gone. This unease inside me grows with every day. Someone has crossed me—possibly for years—and she might be the ticket to tying it all together. I just haven’t sorted it all out yet. Too many pieces of the puzzle are missing.

The noise of my phone ringing pulls me from my questions about who I trust and what I should do next.

“Costa,” I answer, not bothering to look at the caller ID. If someone has this number, it isn’t a scam call. There is no reason for me not to take the call.

“We have a situation. We got a load stuck at the border.”

I fight back a growl. “Drop it. Why are you callin’ me over this shit, Emilio?”

He knows how I work. Product moving or not, if it’s tied up at the border, we drop it. Leave it for the feds and move on to the next shipment. While we have someone who works at the border, shit happens from time to time and we can’t get the load through. It’s much easier to lose one load to the feds than fight to recoup it from some locked-down fortress that the government is sure to guard. There is nothing in the shipments that can tie back to my organization. Even the drivers don’t know who they are working for or what they are carrying. They can beinterrogated for hours and they have nothing worth sharing. It will all lead the agencies on a dead-end trail. We’ve already dealt with this very scenario more than once.

“Tony, Gio, and Thomas are locked up,” Emilio informs me.

That changes everything. I lean back in the chair. Suddenly, I feel the weight of my responsibilities. The contingencies I work so hard to put in place have failed. The numbness that engulfs me in every breath eases as the anger climbs. I don’t make mistakes in my plays. My people do not fail, and they do not get caught. The space of the diner feels like a trap.

Small fucking tables. The ambiance of the place is old-school diner. Then again, what can I expect at a place named Clyde’s Country Cookin’. I need to leave. I need to beat the shit out of something and get my crew over to the border to get the three fucking stooges out of hot water. They won’t rat, but they aren’t always clever with their words and may slip. A dive joint currently dressed up in tinsel and freaking Christmas greens like it’s a damn mall Santa Claus picture backdrop against some of the walls.

It’s a staple in Uncertain, Texas. This place isn’t where I am needed now. I’ll be back tomorrow.

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