Page 57 of Vegas Daddies

It’s Peter.

My pulse drums loud in my chest.

After looking over my shoulder to ensure the coast is clear, I answer.

“Peter.” I straighten out my voice. “Hey.”

His heavy breathing blows static down the receiver.

I squint. “Peter?”

“I’ve just received a message.”

“From who?”

Alice. Please be Alice.

“I don’t know.”

I feel like smashing the device against the wall next to me, but I settle for slamming my palm into the bike handle to outlet my frustration.

I’ll throw something later when this hell is all over.

“What does it say?”

His breathing shakes. “Peter Dyson. You will take the Bratva elimination out of your campaign or you will never see your daughter again.”

I sit upright on the bike. Panic ripples through me at lightning speed, but I force my mind to think logically. Surrendering to emotion willnotsave Alice.

“Have you seen her?” Peter goes on.

“No, I haven’t,” I say, and I can be honest about that.

But perhaps not so much about my feelings.

“But, man, I think I’ve just found her car.”

“Her car. What do you mean? Are you sure?” Just as I think he’s done with the questioning, another shoots out. “How do you even know what her car looks like?”

“I looked it up on the computer system at the hospital. Anyway, that’s not important for now.” I hop off the bike to double-check her license plate, a shard of glass crunching underfoot.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I say, because I can’t exactly tell my mayor friend that I’ve just broken into a Russian’s limited edition BMW. “The plate of the Mercedes is 247-X41. Is that Alice’s?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then it’s hers.”

“And she’s not there?” His voice breaks.

“Sorry. No.”

“Fuck,” he heaves down the receiver. Damn. It’s been years since I last heard him curse. “What am I supposed to do?”

It’s etiquette to break the news that the Bratva have taken his daughter in person as opposed to on the phone. I return to the wall and kick a foot up onto it. “Where are you, man? I’ll come and see you.”

“Home.”

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