Page 86 of Vegas Daddies

And he’s not walking away.

But straight toward me.

I look to the left.

To the right.

My chest shudders.

Wasn’t it a red SUV that Alice was thrown in?

By Bratva?

Jesus fucking Christ, why do I have to be injured when this happens. I roll down the sleeve of my jacket, wincing. Thankfully, it’s not my dominant side, and I can still aim fine.

A Takeshi is the weapon I chose tonight.

Guns are easier—it makes life ten times easier being able to do damage from a distance, but those babies attract a whole lot of attention, and when there’s blue lights and sirens, it’s game over.

I come up into a crouched position, my back pressed up against the vehicle I’ve been hiding behind. Do I wait for him, or let him come to me?Decisions, decisions.

His body moves out from behind the neighboring vehicle.

Ah, I guess he chose for me.

A knife shines faintly from his pocket, the blade winking. Strange for a Bratva to expose a weapon. Surprise attacks tend to be their forte. Normally they keep their weapons tucked away to avoid preemption.

Still, he hasn’t tried anything.

Is he gonna?

Is he even Bratva?

It’s like we’re in a staring contest.

But I wouldn’t even call it that—the balaclava pulled over his face makes it difficult to see even his eyes. They’re there, open and watching, but the blank expression has me second-guessing, thinking I’ve somehow hallucinated the whole interaction.

Finally, after a painful minute of silence, he laughs. “Why were you hiding from me?”

“Why are you staring at me?” I counter.

“Because you look ridiculous.” Another laugh. “An old man like you shouldn’t be suited up in leather. You should be at home, sitting in your armchair. Calling for assistance because you can’t stand up to take yourself to the bathroom for a piss.”

Is he finished?

Besides, thirty-five is not fucking old.

Has this boy even graduated high school?

I stand up. “Respect your elders, boy. What are you doing snooping around here, hm? Who are you anyway? Vlad’s little pet?” Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Has he let you out for the night to piss? I suggest you take yourself over there”—I gesture to the red SUV parked across the lot—“to cock up your leg.”

He pushes me into a car, the metal banging.

I give credit where it’s due—for a sophomore, he’s strong.

But not strong enough.

I kick back. Consider slipping my knife to finish him off for being such a conceited little bitch, but questions need to be answered first before I start dicing.

---