Page 76 of Boss Daddy

“Well, I’m not about to walk into a precinct and hand them that,” I say, gesturing at the note crumpled up on the floor. “Not when I don’t know who’s on his payroll.”

“Then we don’t go to the local cops.”

I blink at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He exchanges a look with James, something silent but heavy passing between them, before turning back to me. “We go to the CBI. If that doesn’t work, we’ll go to the FBI.”

My eyes widen. “The FBI? Samuel, why the hell would the FBI care about some piece of shit gangster threatening a bartender?”

James leans against the desk, his arms crossed, watching Samuel carefully. Samuel’s grip on my hand tightens slightly.

“This isn’t just about you being a bartender, Erin,” he says. “This is about Misha. His business. His entire operation. You think this note is bad? Imagine what the FBI could do if they knew everything he’s into.”

I stare at him, my mind racing. “You really think they’ll care about a threat against me? Even with who my father is? A mobster’s daughter, turned bartender, turned target of some sleazy gangster. Doesn’t exactly scream high-priority case.”

Samuel’s gaze sharpens, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “As I said before, Erin, this is bigger than just you being his current target. It’s about taking Misha down, once and for all. The drugs. The trafficking. The corruption. You’ve seen it all firsthand. That makes you important.

“Misha’s taking this personally. That means he’s getting sloppy, careless. That also means bringing the Feds in could give them a shot at taking down someone they’ve almost certainly had their eyes on for years.”

I swallow hard. “And you think they’ll listen?”

“They’ll listen,” he asserts. “Because I’m going to make sure they do.”

“The man’s got a point,” James chimes in. “You don’t come after Samuel’s club—or his people—and expect to walk away clean.”

I glance between the two of them, my pulse pounding. This has gotten bigger than I ever imagined. But the determination inSamuel’s eyes steadies me, even as the fear claws at my chest.

“Okay,” I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let’s talk to the CBI or FBI or whoever.”

“I want you to know something,” Samuel begins, taking my hands. “You’re more than just a bartender or a mobster’s daughter, more than just a target. You’re special. And all of this bullshit will have been worth it if it’s what brought you into my life.”

There’s nothing about his tone that makes me think he’s anything less than serious. Tears form in my eyes, a smile spreading across my face. One tear trickles down, and he quickly places his thumb on my cheek, catching it and wiping it away.

“You’re an amazing woman, smart and beautiful. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

I can’t resist him any longer. I forget James is standing just a few feet away as I close the distance between Samuel and me, stepping up on my tiptoes to kiss him. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close and kissing me back.

I don’t know for a fact that I’m pregnant, but I do know I feeldifferent. I want to tell him and share my joy, worry, or confusion, or whatever the hell it is I’m feeling. Then James clears his throat, reminding me we’re not alone.

“Sorry to interrupt the moment, but we’ve got a problem to handle. There’ll be plenty of time for lovey-dovey shit once Misha’s taken care of.”

Samuel leans in and kisses me one more time, a small smirk on his lips. “Yeah. Got to get this sorted out.”

Samuel winks at me before going back to the desk and sitting down, turning his attention to a folder sitting there. “So, here’s the situation. When Misha came to me for help, I turned him down.” He opens the folder. “But I didn’t stop paying attention to him. I kept tabs, keeping track of his money laundering habits and routines. Figured it might come in handy someday.”

“Smart,” James says.

“I kept it going for about a year and a half until he finally managed to find a capable, and corrupt, finance guy to put some halfway decent security on this shit.”

He flips through the contents of the folder. It’s filled with pages and pages of documents.

“We can take him down with this,” I say, coming over to look at it. “The FBI might not care about me, but they’ll care about money laundering.”

“Yep. But it might not be Misha we’re taking down.”

“What do you mean?”

He closes the folder and leans back. “Misha’s a boss, but I’ve got a damn good feeling he’s nottheboss. He’s probably a captain in a chain of command that goes all the way to Moscow. If the FBI manages to pin him to the wall, it’s likely he’ll cut a sweetheart deal for turning on his bosses.”

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