“You got it.” Joey’s practically vibrating with excitement. This is his chance to prove he belongs in this family because of what he can do, not just because of who his father is.
I know the feeling.
“Start tomorrow. Check in with me every few days.”
He doesn’t even go back to his friends. Just heads straight for the door, probably already planning his strategy. Good. That’s the kind of initiative I like to see.
I settle back into my booth and take another sip of scotch, letting the burn ground me while I think through what comes next.
Lightning is a problem, but problems can be solved.
We’re in a stronger position now than we’ve been in months. Lorenzo’s alliance with the cartel has given us extra muscle. I can see Miguel Cardenas’s men scattered throughout my club tonight, and their presence on our streets has the Bratva running scared.
Or maybe they’ve just changed tactics.
I wouldn’t put it past those Russian pricks to try poisoning our territory from the inside. If they’re behind Lightning, I’ll find out. And when I do, there’s going to be hell to pay.
My cousin Dario assigned me this mess as he took on more responsibility in preparation for leading the family one day. I’m not going to let him down.
The stage lights dim as Cherry finishes her set, and the crowd erupts in appreciation. Money rains down like confetti, and I allow myself a small smile.
Business is good. The family is strong.
Which means whoever thought they could slip poison into my city just signed their own death warrant.
5
NINA
I clapand cheer as the soccer ball goes flying into the net, but my attention isn’t really on the game.
It’s on Austin, who’s bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing harder than he should be for a six-year-old who’s barely been running.
He’s been tired a lot lately. More naps than usual, asking to sit down during our walks to the park. I keep telling myself it’s just the Vegas heat, but a nagging voice in the back of my head whispers that something’s off.
“Is that your son?” the man beside me asks when Austin waves at me with less enthusiasm than I’d expect.
I smile and nod, feeling that familiar warmth I always get when someone notices Austin. “Yep.”
He points to a little red-headed boy who’s chasing a butterfly instead of the ball. “That one’s mine. Kids, huh?”
I force a smile, already half checked out.
"It looks like you're here alone," he continues. "Me too. Divorce, you know? I'm guessing you probably know how that is?"
There's open curiosity in his eyes, the kind that says he's fishing for my story. I've gotten good at recognizing that look.
“Actually, no. I’m not divorced. I’m just a single parent.”
It’s my standard response. Vague enough to shut down follow-up questions without being rude. The truth is more complicated than most people want to hear anyway.
How do you explain that your son’s father is a stranger you slept with once seven years ago?
A stranger who saved you from some very dangerous men, which meant he was probably dangerous himself. I never even tried to track him down after I found out I was pregnant. Bringing a baby into that world seemed like the worst possible idea.
I’m still lost in thoughts of the man I never should’ve slept with when Austin suddenly stumbles and hits the ground. He’s not getting back up.
Something’s wrong.
