Page 43 of Vegas Daddies

“Still,” I say. “It doesn’t mean we have any less work to do. We have hands in two different pies now. AliceandPeter.”

“They’re still in the early stages of planning the assassination,” Brander says. “Peter only released the statement two days ago. If they were close to taking action, there’d be no time for them tosip whisky and talk business in a strip club.” He eyes me. “Don’t be worried.”

“Well I am fucking worried,” I say, my voice louder than I intend it to be. “Clearly the two of you know squat about childhood friendships. Or anything long-term at all, for that matter.”

“Fucking hell, Lifey.”

I hold up my hands as if at gunpoint, because I kind of am. Nothing stops the heart quite like Brander’s protruding brow bone when he’s angry. “Sorry, bro, but I’m just saying. Peter might be mayor and an academic in all things politics, but he stands zero fucking chance against Vlad and his buddies.”

“Peter Dyson is on the Bratva’s hit list?” Alice shoots up.

“Uh.” I pause. Survey the other two.

Looks like I’m spokesperson for a change.

Blood drains from Alice’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“We were just…talking.”

“No,” Alice snaps. “What do you mean the Bratva want Peter dead? Why?”

“It’s okay, princess.” Brander wanders over to her. Takes her hand. “It’s nothing to?—”

“Be worried about. Yeah. You just said.” Fear glasses her eyes. Then her head whips around to me, tresses of blonde hair following her. “Lifesaver? Youknowhim?”

Shocking revelation. I’m best friends with the mayor. Does this really surprise people? It’s not like I sat next to an A-list Hollywood celebrity in biology class every day, like Tom Cruiseor Leonardo DiCaprio, and became best friends with them. Sure, Peter is the mayor of Las Vegas, but from a woman’s perspective, he’s nobody to fangirl and tense up over in response to hearing news of his planned assassination.

The guy hasn’t actually died.

“Yeah,” I respond. “I went to school with the guy. We’re good friends.”

Her face turns a new shade of white.

Match, Brander, and I all share a glance.

“Alice?” Match moves closer to her. “Are you okay?”

Stupid question to ask. She looks like she’s just seen a fucking phantom.

She clears her throat. Shakes out her hair. “Um. Yeah.” She forces a smile. “Fine.”

And that’s supposed to convince us all.

“So.” She lies back down again, elbows propped up behind her. “What’s the plan? What precautions can I take to make sure this doesn’t happen again?”

“I think,” Match says, “we’ll need one of us loitering around when it’s dark to ensure no subsequent attacks happen on you.”

“They won’t, most likely.” Brander rests his hand on her shoulder. “But none of us want to take any risks. That tattoo doesn’t just group us all together for the rest of our lives. It’s a sign of protection. We have to look out for you, and go to whatever extent necessary to make sure you’re safe.” He strokes her arm. “I mean it. There’s no need to worry.”

“But what about Peter?”

“That’s nothing you need to be concerned about,” Match says.

“Yeah,” I add. “We’ll deal with?—”

The door crashes open.

And who could possibly be standing on the other side…?

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