Page 84 of Boss Daddy

Samuel is next to me where I sit at the bar, his hand on my upper back.

“You’re fine,” he says. “You did good.”

“My lungs feel like they’re on fire.”

“That’s because you just tackled a morbidly obese shithead and brought him to the ground.”

He gestures toward Misha, who James is currently binding with zip ties.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re getting into!” Misha snarls. “You’re goddamn dead for this!”

“Yo, Sam?” James asks, looking up. “Mind tossing me a bar rag?”

“With pleasure.”

Sam reaches over the bar and grabs a rag, throwing it to James, who neatly catches it. Misha’s still spitting curses as James stuffs the rag in his mouth, thankfully muffling him. Misha’s the lastto be tied up. The thugs are out cold, their hands bound. They’re not going anywhere.

“James, call the cops when you’re done with the trash,” Samuel says, returning his hand to my upper back.

I manage to lift a shaky hand and rasp, “Panic button. Pushed it.”

Samuel looks at me, concern etched across his face. “Are you serious?”

God, I wish he could just drop everything and wrap me in his arms. But he’s got bigger problems, namely keeping Misha pinned to the floor like the scumbag he is.

“I am. Managed to push it during the insanity.”

He smiles. “Good girl. And you made some killer moves, too. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

James saunters over to the bar, reaching for the shaker I’d used to make the martinis. He looks inside, sees there’s a little left, and tosses it back. “Never been a martini guy. But that’s damn good.”

Misha’s still struggling and yelling against the towel stuffed in his mouth. Samuel saunters over.

“You’d better shut the hell up,” he says, “before I decide to toss you in the storeroom while we wait.”

Misha spits out his gag. “Try it!” he shouts. “Whatever you do to me, I’ll do to you three times over! You and that fucking bi—”

Samuel doesn’t wait a second to respond. He reaches down and slaps Misha across the face, shutting him up and leaving a red palm mark on his cheek.

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” Samuel warns.

Misha freezes, his eyes narrowing but his body perfectly still.Finally, he seems to be learning his lesson. And God, does it feel good to see that prick squirm.

Suddenly, the front door to the club opens and two Denver PD officers burst in, their eyes widening as they take in the scene—broken furniture, blood streaked across the floor, five men tied up, four of them unconscious.

“What the hell happened here?” one of the officers demands, his hand already moving toward his radio.

Before I can open my mouth, Misha’s voice fills the air, shrill and accusatory. “Came in and they were all punching and hitting one another! I tried to break it up, but they attacked me!”

I blink, stunned at the sheer audacity of his lie. He just threw his own men under the bus without so much as a second thought.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath.

Samuel doesn’t so much as flinch. “Officers, you’ll find their weapons unloaded and on the bar. I’ll give you full access to the camera footage where you’ll see how Misha and his men started this whole thing.”

Misha’s face flushes with rage. “They’re lying! Don’t you know who I am? I’ll have your badges for this! Your bosses will hear all about it!”

The officers exchange a look—one of those silent conversations that say more than words ever could. It’s clear they know exactly who Misha is, and it’s also clear they’re aware that the situation is a lot bigger than them.

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