Page 98 of Vegas Daddies

He’s not just chatting shit.

“Maybe you should do another,” Match says. “Just to make sure.”

“No,” says Alice. Her face is pale. “False positives aren’t a thing.”

“The lines are both clear too,” Brander says.

Match lingers in the doorway behind me, so I step aside.

He doesn’t want to face the fact.

He needs to grow some balls and wake the fuck up. This is our reality now, and as much as it pains us with anxiety, considering the Bratva are currently on everybody’s tail, it’s a blessing. Alice isn’t just some woman we slept with a couple times. She’s the cornerstone in each of our lives.

And she’s carrying our child.

It doesn’t matter whose sperm made it.

What matters is that we’re welcoming a youngster into the world who will be loved dearly by four individuals, not the standard two.

“We could make it work,” I say.

Alice’s eyes soften. God, she’s a beauty, even if her skin looks paler than the tops of the Rockies during winter. She looks like a princess. Her hair, a golden blonde, cascades long over one shoulder, and her emerald-green eyes sparkle in the evening sun. A few tears have slipped from her eyes, ones she must’ve cornered away before our arrival.

I embrace her in a hug.

Two slender arms wrap tightly around me.

“Do you wanna keep it, sweetheart?” I ask. “What’s running through your head?”

She sniffles and looks into my eyes. Like a fish, her lips open and close in an attempt to speak. It’s a difficult question, and maybe one I shouldn’t have asked, but her eyes eventually still over mine so I know she’s come to a decision.

“I think?—”

BANG!

Alice’s eyes go wide.

I whip around to see Match cocking his gun.

A black figure invites himself in, takes two more steps, and then pauses to look at each one of us. At least that’s what I think he’s doing. A balaclava conceals his face, and shielding the eyes are a pair of black Dolce and Gabbana sunnies. It’s the sort of look that wouldn’t even startle a kid, to be honest. Looks like a costume, not a disguise, with the logo bold down one of the temples. It’s something a fourteen-year-old boy would wear to impress the friends he doesn’t have at school.

And for some reason he thinks he’s got rights to swan into Peter’s house with a high neck and crossed arms like he means business.

“It’s him,” I hear Alice murmur between gritted teeth.

Match circles around to assess. Narrowing his eyes, he laughs. “It’s you from the parking lot. The Bratva apprentice. Has Vlad sent you out to do dirty work again for him? What is it this time?Let me guess…” He curls a finger under his chin. “Kidnapping Alice? Am I right in thinking this will be your fourth attempt?”

“Shut up.”

Match snorts. “Or what? You’re gonna punch me again? Fucking psycho.”

“What’s that?” The bastard lowers his hand to the pregnancy test in Brander’s hand.

Brandy slips it into his pocket.

“You. Fatty—what were you holding?”

We all laugh in unison because this guy is skin and bone and probably still has a higher body fat percentage than Brander.

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