Page 25 of Vegas Daddies

He’s not looking at the pink-lace stripper anymore. He’s trying to see past her to the cluster of suited men gathered around the VIP booth opposite us.

I count five, and they all nod, brows pinched together like they’re deep into a serious council meeting. Black seems to be their favorite color too, but it’s not leather they wear. It’s Italian-tailored blazers and linen shirts, the sleeves clipped back with gold cuff links that catch the red light.

The Russian accent gives it all away.

Members of the Bratva.

“That one at the end,” Brander says with a low murmur, “is the boss. Vlad.”

He’s the tallest one, and the frown on his face is so deeply imprinted that it looks like it’s the only expression he has. Sitting, twirling sunglasses in his hands, he speaks to his team.

“What are they saying?” asks Match.

Living on the streets of Las Vegas taught Brander many skills as well as survival and brutality. Russian and Belarusian are languages he understands perfectly, and it’s worked out in our favor whenever Russian whispers have crossed our paths. They like to lurk, and they think speaking in their native language keeps them safe.

Brander narrows his eyes as Vlad continues speaking. I’ve never seen him before, but that’s because mob bosses tend to live their lives underground, ordering people around and keeping themselves out of the limelight.

The syndicate call them leaders.

We call them pussies.

I’ve never once seen Grizzly take a step back and let one of us carry out his dirty work for him. The fine-tailored suits, expensive aviator sunglasses, and nice hairdos are all fronts the Bratva wear to woo the girls and keep the suspected unsuspecting. Behind closed doors, they’re capturing people, rolling up their sleeves and doing damage until their knuckles bleed black—the same color as their hearts, if any of them even have one.

The Venom Vultures, on the other hand, do damage only when necessary, and for the greater good. We don’t cover up, and that’s because we have nothing to hide.

When the degenerates break up and return to wherever they came from, Brander turns back around to us. His gritted teeth mean it’s not good.

For me, at least.

He’s not looking at Match.

“They want Peter dead.”

“What the fuck?!”

“Lower your voice before you fucking make a scene.” Brander stares at me, waiting for silence, and then continues. “Yeah. Peter has just done a live broadcast stating plans in his new campaign to eliminate all Bratva groups in the vicinity of Las Vegas.”

“Why has the fool announced that to the public?” Match says. “His life wouldn’t be on the line if he kept his mouth shut. That’s the thing with politicians. They run their mouths to please the public, and then wonder why they get so many assassination attempts.”

I shoot Match a death glare. The man should shuthismouth before I shut it for him.

Peter isn’t just a friend I met one day. He’s the boy I used to sit next to in biology class back in junior high. The one who defended me during recess when all our classmates took a bite out of me for being “deranged,” because I thought plants had hearts.

He’s my longest friend. We lost touch after high school, going to different colleges—he went down the road of politics and I sank my teeth into biomedicine. We’ve both been busy, so our friendship has always ever been an iMessage one, shooting texts back and forth about the believability of conspiracies, and about ongoing trauma in the hospital that he’s always taken an interest in.

He met Marybeth, and then had his daughter. Tied up with work and the motorcycle club he’s always had a love-hate relationship with, I was never able to attend the christening or any family birthdays, but Idoremember hearing his daughter’s name—Al—for the first time and thinking he could’ve chosen a better one.

He’s never introduced me to his daughter, but I think that has something to do with me owning a gun and riding my Harley into danger.

There’s not much I know about his daughter, but I do know this—since Marybeth’s death, he’s become obsessed with Al’s safety. Las Vegas is a cutthroat city and I think, if he wasn’t mayor, he’d move them to somewhere quieter and with less crime.

I don’t blame him for keeping her from me.

He doesn’t want to ruin her innocent perception of the world.

And I don’t blame him. Riding with the Venom Vultures doesn’t give you the most friendly appearance.

“Are you sure he wants Peter dead?”

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