Page 56 of Vegas Daddies

What I’m seeing is more of a close call.

Except it’s more than that.

Turning off the ignition, I hop off my bike and lean it against the wall to inspect the situation. Parked askew in front of a sports BMW is a white Mercedes with a familiar license plate: 247-X41.

My heart misses several beats at once.

Alice’s car.

Before giving in to panic and calling her name, I try the car door, and it’s unlocked.

No sign of movement, even in the back seat.

What about the trunk?

Nothing.

The black BMW, practically kissing Alice’s bumper, has been locked, but that doesn’t mean I can’t smash the window and dive in.

I remove my boot.

SMASH!

These babies never disappoint.

The inside stinks of pretty-boy cologne—probably something the driver panic-sprays to alleviate the smell of all the dead bodies stored in the trunk.

Now’s not the time to make a fucking joke, Lifey.

I rifle through the middle compartment. Keys. An empty bottle of water.Aha.A booklet of some sort except…it’s in fucking Russian.

Russian…

Dread builds inside of me.

I pocket the booklet anyway and reach over to the glove box to yank the thing down. Again, more keys. Napkins and a BMW car manual. I stuff another Russian booklet in my pocket for Brander to decipher later, and slither out of the broken window before I bring attention to myself. Being discreet isn’t exactly my strong suit. That’s more Match’s kinda thing. I take a step back, minding the thousand glass shards on the road.

Fuck. Now what?

I rifle a tense hand through my hair and roll back my head to exhale a breath. We messed up. Should’ve had somebody from the club watching her twenty-four seven,notjust at night. I shut my eyes. Collectively, we should’ve known better than this. The Bratva might seem nocturnal, but they’re not. They perform business every single fucking millisecond of the day, and I don’t know why this never crossed our minds before.

No. Idoknow.

The woman scrambles our heads every time she takes off her goddamn clothes.

And now mine hurts.

Along with my chest.

I reclaim my bike and swing a leg over, restarting the engine because I need to get the fuck out of here. Now. The BMW owner has an expensive repair on their hands, and I don’t want to be on the scene when they return. The phone call to Alice will have to be made a block or two away.

Her phone was nowhere to be seen in the car, so she must have it on hand.

If the Russians haven’t taken it from her yet.

RING! RING! RING!

I press my feet to the ground and wrestle my phone out of my pocket, almost dropping the device because I can’t seem to still my fucking hands.

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