Page 60 of Vegas Daddies

He tenses his shoulders. Looks me square in the eye. “These criminals are too dangerous. I can’t pull out now, and I won’t stop until they’re buried. Every single one of them.”

I chance a reassuring hand on his arm. “I can’t begin to think how you feel. I’m sure Marybeth’s death still haunts you, and I know you think it’ll make you feel better if you can impose justice, but it’s in the past. Think about your daughter.”

A tear slips from his eye. “I know.”

I force a sad smile.

“I know,” he repeats. But he’s not done yet. “I know how dangerous they are.” His eyes meet mine. “Can you keep a secret?”

I’m keeping the one about me fucking your daughter pretty darn well.

“Yes. Of course.”

“I killed her.”

“Who?”

“Marybeth.” He wipes a wad of snot from his nose. “Not me personally, but it was my actions that caused her death.” He tenses his jaw. “I wanted to be mayor, it was my dream, but the other two candidates were so much stronger. I approached Vlad. I didn’t have the money, but I told him I’d pay him back.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what he and his team did exactly, but I woke up the following morning to a breaking news article on my TV detailing the passing oftwo of the most promising Vegas mayor candidates.’”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “God, I regret it so fucking much.” He’s speaking to the marble-polished floor now. “Vlad didn’t say much to me. My only instruction was tonotget into the hire car that was taking us to the Bellagio.”

He returns his gaze to me, wiping a tear from his eye. They can’t focus, eyeballs rolling up and down my face like he’s trying to work out if I’m mad at him or not. “So I didn’t. I stayed put and took some sleeping pills to knock me out. It was wrong, I knew it was, but fuck, I was so desperate. It wasn’t fair. I’d done so muchwork. A hell of a lot more than the other two. It was a last resort, and so, yeah, that morning I woke up to the news that they were dead.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Vlad’s right-hand man came knocking on my door just as the news article was wrapping up. He held a paper invoice in one hand, and had the other laid out flat waiting for the cash to hit his palm.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“I closed the door behind me. Stepped out onto the porch because Marybeth and Alice were both inside. I tell him Vlad said it was okay to pay later, but he’s not having any of it. He grabs my hand”—Peter grabs mine to demonstrate—“and peels my fingers”—he bends mine backward—“to…”

SLAP!

“Give me the invoice.” Peter lets go of my hand. “He leaves after that, and for two days I see nothing of him.” He exhales a weighty breath. Wipes tears from his eyes. “Friday comes around, and Marybeth’s gone off on her morning walk. She always goes early before the commuters hit the road.”

I shuffle uncomfortably—I don’t particularly wanna hear what comes next.

“She’s been gone ages, so I check her location on my phone. There isn’t one. That’s when I take off after her to see if she’s okay. She takes the same route every morning, out of Summerlin into the desert. I find her body on a desolate street, the one that leads out into the countryside.”

His eyes drop to the floor. “Dead like roadkill. Her eyes are wide open.” Peter widens his own to terrify me even fucking more. “She’s covered in her own blood, and it’s dried—she must’ve been there for an hour, two tops. Anyway, something catchesmy eye. A piece of paper. It’s tied around her ankle. Her fuckingankle, Law, with a string. I bend down and focus my eyes to concentrate on the text. It’s the invoice the right-hand man slapped in my palm two days before, except this one is different. The total amount billed isn’t fifty thousand dollars anymore. It’s ‘your beloved wife’ scribbled in black marker.”

Peter stares at me, waiting for me to speak, but no words come out. Finally, I know what it’s like to be speechless.

He fucked up.

And although debts have been settled with the Bratva—at least as far as I’m aware—a big one still looms over him like a black cloud. Ending the Bratva is the only way he can repay himself, truly, for what he did.

“Listen,” he says. “Please help me. You know where they base themselves, right?”

“Yes,” I say. “Brander can find that out for us. But in the meantime, I need you to stay put. Don’t leave the house. You could make things worse.”

Peter’s eyes turn a sort of gray-green. He looks nothing like Alice now.

In my eyes, the two couldn’t be further apart.

Peter’s always been the good guy. He was the guy who stuck up for me in biology, and throughout college, and never let me take it too far with the booze when I got too carried away with the vodka. He’s the hero of fucking Vegas, not the villain that slid into sin one night because of a bruised ego.

Two innocents died for him to become mayor, and the incident still remains in the books as some freak accident. Does henot feel guilty? Probably, judging from the pale face and his inability to make eye contact, but I suppose listening to public endorsements all day about how good of a mayor you are eases the pain. If you fill your head with something enough, it has the power to consume you.

This would explain why Peter, for years, has always been able to keep his smile. Maintain a good public appearance and continue wearing suits and ties every day as opposed to three-week-unwashed sweats.

He’s talked himself out of it to be a good mayor, anda goodfather.

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