Page 87 of Vegas Daddies

“What do you want? I always knew you guys were sick, but I at least thought you’d have some courtesy and draw the line when it comes to forcing girls into hotel rooms. Fuck around with the person you actually hold a grudge toward. Not innocents.”

I expect another shove, but the guy keeps his feet firmly planted in the ground. “I got her out.” He takes a step closer. “I saved her before they had a chance to put their hands on her.”

“‘Saved her?’” I laugh. “Oh! Do you think yourself some kind of hero? Saving the pretty girl to later dump her in a strip club? Alice is harmless. Leave her be. She’s done nothing to you.”

“Alice?”

“Yes. That’s her name.” I roll my eyes. “Stupid of me to assume you know her name. But I guess you don’t share those kind of formalities, do you, when you first meet a person? You guysare more concerned with what they’re worth to you. How much money they can bring in.”

“Alice?”

Is he a fucking parrot? “Yes, Al?—”

“How do you know Alice?”

“I’m married to her. She’s my wife.”

“Your WHAT?!”

Emotional much?

Who knew Bratva members had so much going on inside. For a moment there, I thought monotone was the only voice these guys had. Clearly I’ve been proven wrong.

The man tenses his shoulders and his hands, dropped at his sides, begin to tremble.

“You alright there, man?” I ask.

“Married?” he asks again.

“Yes.”

He pounces on me. Pushes me back into the car. He can punch anywhere, break my nose and dislocate a shoulder as long as he stays clear of the left arm.

I kick back. Throw a punch at his face. Something snaps beneath the balaclava—probably his nose—but it’s not enough for him to pack in. His arm extends in regular intervals, almost robotically, like he’s been programmed to keep punching and punching until my spirit has left my body.

I slip out my phone instead of my knife.

Killing somebody here where there’s CCTV is too risky.

I expect him to divert a punch to my phone and shatter it to the ground, but he doesn’t. He’s lost his fucking mind. Punch after punch after punch. Even when I duck my head, his aim stays consistent. Fist panging against car metal instead of my head.

I ring Brander.

After a few rings—“Hello? …Match? You Okay?”

Blood spilling out of my mouth makes it a challenge to speak. I spit the excess away, and raise my voice so it’s audible over the crushing metal.

“Some assistance would be nice.”

20

BRANDER

At least weidentified the red SUV driver…

Somewhat.

The bastard got away before I managed to unveil the balaclava.

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