Page 58 of Vegas Daddies

“I’ll be ten minutes.”

I hang up before he even has time to reply, and stick the device back in my leather pants. Driving down the rest of the street induces tears for some reason, and the chest compressions worsen the further away I drive. I watch her car recede in the rearview mirror and feel tempted to pull out my hair.

Where the fuck is she?

I turn onto a new road, and my hands reach back into my pocket for my phone. I find Alice’s name and lift my phone to my ear.

Each unanswered ring digs a sharper wedge of pain into my chest.

I leave it ringing until the voicemail cuts me out, then shove the thing back in my pocket to concentrate on the upcoming intersection.Summerlinreads the road sign up ahead, a left-turning arrow below it.

Damn. It feels like it’s been a century since I last drove this way. These were the first roads I drove on when I first got my license, and the piece of road I’m now turning onto carried me, at eighteen years old, into the unknown.

At the time, that was college. My parents wanted me to stay home so they could employ me into the family investing business, but that never fizzed excitement through me like my dream of being a doctor did. It was too risky. Too expensive. “It’s always best to play safe,” they said, “because you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.” A quote that is only starting to resonate now, twenty-four years later.

I was crying on my drive out of Summerlin.

Now I’m crying on my way back in.

Peter never invites me to his place. He would sometimes message whenever he got something renovated, but the invite for me to come check it out myself never came. That, I think, has something to do with him keeping me at arms length from his “baby.”

If there’s one thing Summerlin knows how to do, it’s childhood. Mine was perfect. No cracks of real life penetrated through those huge parks, tidy streets, and all those impeccable detached houses that were made with only the finest building materials. Paradise isn’t extortionate five-star hotels and casinos on the strip. It’s Summerlin.

Summerlin shelters both children and adults alike from the harsh truths of reality, and that’s why my parents bawled their overprotective hearts out when I left on my Harley for college. Eventually, you break away from the cocoon and realize that Summerlin isn’t the world. For some, the urge to escape comesearly, but for others, it’s in retirement—my parents reached seventy and eventually decided to get out and travel the globe.

Peter, I can see, has tried to shelter Alice from the world for as long as possible, and he still does. But it’s not enough. Putting a Band-Aid on something doesn’t erase the problem.

And danger will never go away.

What Peter needs is to trust Brander, Match, and me to take care of his daughter. To protect her. He might be able to change the forecast in the world of politics, but when it comes to Russian criminals, his hands are tied.

All four of us have the same goal—to protect Alice.

If he can see what lengths we’re willing to go to protect Alice and get her back, maybe he’ll only hate me half as much.

I park up the Harley and pace down the driveway, banging on the door that opens without a second’s hesitation. Was the guy standing behind it or what?

“Come in.”

The door bangs shut behind me. It’s airy in here, the air conditioning on full. His wife Marybeth was always into dark oak, so it’s nice to see the place furnished how she would’ve liked. A photograph captures my attention, and I turn to it briefly. It’s Alice smiling for a school picture. She had braces as a kid. I stopped showing my teeth when I had those nasty things fitted, but metal bits of wire never stopped her from shining, it looks like.

I feel myself both melt and shake with panic all at the same time.

Peter stares at me, waiting.

“Show me the message,” I say.

He slips out his phone, and I read.

(702) 002-8932: Peter Dyson. You will take the Bratva elimination out of your campaign or you will never see your daughter again. Alice will be returned to you as soon as you announce that you will no longer pursue the campaign.

“Did you call the number?”

“No.”

“Good.” I stare into his eyes. I should’ve seen it before—they’re identical to Alice’s. What am I supposed to do, though? Drop the news? Terrify him even more? This campaign means the fucking world to the guy, and more. It’s justice for Marybeth. For the out-of-pocket murder that drilled a lifelong hole in his heart. Getting rid of the Bratva would be the first step in sewing bits of it back together again.

Branderdidhave a point earlier, because the Bratvadooftentimes act intentionally, but Peter isn’t one to associate himself in Russian syndicate drama. Summerlin-raised individuals don’t even know the wordBratva.The only reason theywouldis if a member came knocking on their door. It would never be the other way around.

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