Page 65 of Vegas Daddies

But what if we’re not?

Dotrueprotagonists wedge knives in people, shoot people dead and scald their skin?

Maybe not.

Four years ago was the last time I dug my knife into another person and hospitalized them. Although praised by the others for my work and quick response, guilt threaded through me in the days that followed. The guy could’ve had a wife for all I knew. A family. A small child that loved him so much.

That night, I dreamed of a baby girl repeating the word “Dada” until it became a crying scream. “Dada, dada,” screamed the two-year-old manifestation until my heart went into overdrive.

Now, though, looking out into the room, I feel nothing. Guilt doesn’t contort my chest the way it so often does after severely injuring another, and my breathing continues to ebb and flow steadily. Even the arm pain doesn’t bother me.

I only have two thoughts in my head.

One: Alice.

Two: How we’re going to save her.

“Hey!” Brander sticks two bloody fingers in his mouth and whistles.

The one able Russian at the bar, still trying to resuscitate his friend, turns his head. He laughs this deep, throaty cackle and returns to the floor, striding over and spitting something in Russian.

Brander replies something, Russian also.

Lifesaver cocks his brow at me.

“Where’s Alice?”

“Ha!” The guy folds his arms under his armpits and releases another cackle. “You mean Peter Dyson’s princess?”

Brander gives a curt nod.

“I was going to ask you something actually.” The man takes a step closer. Examines Brander’s face. “Well. Not ask. More of a tit for tat.” He licks a drop of blood from his lips. “We’ll forget about the nine murders and two injuries if you’d be so kind as to remove the tattoo from the princess.” He steps closer to Brander and bares his teeth. What is it with Bratva men and their wolf-like complexes? “You see, she’s ours now, which means rights have sort of been…transferred.”

I shoot up, heart thumping in my chest.

The bastard turns his head to me, exposing daggered teeth. “What are you gonna do with one working arm?” Another laugh. “Come on. Give me your best shot.”

I lurch forward, but Brander knocks me back. His hand tightens into a fist around the hot iron rod. Then he raises it. Points it horizontally, inches away from the guy’s chest. “Which one will be more painful, I wonder?” Brander tilts his head. “Straight through the chest, or up the ass?” He furls his lip in debate. “Chest, probably. I’d rather wash off blood than shit.”

The guy takes out his gun and angles it at Brander.

I tense. Weigh up what’s around me. How can I perform a surprise attack?

That’s when Lifesaver, in one fell swoop, advances forward and karate-kicks the weapon.

I dive to the floor. Catch the shotgun before the guy does with his foot.

Extreme pain ripples through my arm, so intense that I’m tempted to slip out the Takeshi and cut the limb off.

But I stop myself. There’s no need for amputation. Not yet.

I toss Lifey the shotgun, and he catches it one-handed, circling around the Russian with it cocked.

“Tell us where Alice is, or suffer the consequences.”

Another laugh erupts out of his mouth. He narrows his eyes. The well-fitted suit and golden cuff links would suggest the guy is highly respected in the syndicate. Frontline combat isn’t something he’s done in a while, I can tell, because if he was a contract killer, the bullet would’ve cut through the air and landed in Brander’s chest by now. He’s one of those who sits behind the desk orchestrating attacks instead of carrying them out. The sharp-eyed look is a little too overpronounced to be sincere. It’s an act. A facade. Behind that is an ordinary man who’s tired of killing, but the cutthroat demeanor gives the sense that he’s in too deep. There’s no going back. The Bratva is family, and it’s who he is now. I’d wager he’s a similar age to us, perhaps even slightly older.

Perhaps he’s done this dance for so long he’s tired of it now.

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