Wild Card (Vegas Underground 8)

“What do you want me to do?”

I suck in a long, shaky breath. I’m blanking out. Leaving my body.

When I don’t answer, he says, “I’m trying to figure out if killing him will just traumatize you more.”

“Maybe.” I force the word across my lips. “Can you just beat him up?”

“Oh, I’ll make him sorry he was born, doll. Give me his name.”

My body starts to shake.

He holds me tighter. “I don’t want make this worse, bella. I just want you to be free.”

“Do it. Do it for me. I want you to.” The shaking comes on harder. But I’m in my body, experiencing it.

It’s a release of some kind. Like I’m shaking off every unwanted touch. Every cruelty I endured. It’s some kind of rebirth as the fissured part of me I’ve been trying to keep together finally cracks apart.

“His name,” he repeats in my ear.

“Andy Watson. My foster father.” The room itself opens up and I drop into an abyss, free-falling through shame and awareness. Falling and falling and falling.

Until I land, squarely in Paolo’s arms. Safe in bed. Protected. Defended.

Soon to be avenged.

“I love you, Paolo Tacone,” I say into the darkness.

He kisses my neck and squeezes me even tighter. “You’re my wildfire. I’m not gonna let anyone put out your light. Not ever.”

Paolo

Ravil Baranov, the boss of the bratva, lives near Gio in a high-rise apartment downtown on Lake Michigan. Actually, from what I gather, his entire cell inhabits the building, making it a Russian fortress.

Even the front door guy is covered in tattoos and greets us with a thick accent. Vlad speaks to him in Russian and we’re both patted down.

I didn’t wear a piece or even the brass knuckles I used to put Andy Watson in the hospital Monday. I made sure Caitlin’s former foster dad will never touch another child. Not if he wants to live.

I haven’t seen Caitlin since our flight home Sunday where she officially joined the Mile High club. She needed time to catch up on her work after being away all weekend, and I’ve been following up on the promises I made to her.

We take the elevator up to the top floor where we’re patted down again by two surly tattooed men.

Ravil takes his security seriously. I respect that.

When we’re finally led in, the head of the Russian bratva greets us in a sweater and a pair of jeans. His tattoos show on his knuckles and up his neck. The Russians use ink to mark every crime they commit. Every murder, every theft. Every act documented for their cell to see. Those with the most ink are the most dangerous.

He says something curt to Vlad and doesn’t greet me at all. He just eyes me speculatively and says, “You asked for meeting. Why?”

“I’m looking for information about the death of a low-life thief by the name of Lake West. Used to do a little business with both of us, I believe. I have no beef with his killer, I’m just making sure he’s really dead.”

Ravil’s brows shoot up. I surprised him with the last part. “Killed by Tacone Family. That’s what I heard.” He shrugs. “You know something different?”

“I don’t think we did it. But that’s the word on the street. Thing is—there was no body discovered, so I’m wondering if it was faked. He owe you money?”

Ravil considers me for a minute before he nods slowly. “He was moving electronics for us. Your outfit was buyer. There was a double-cross and you killed him. We never got our money. We were new in town. We didn’t want war with Tacones, so we didn’t register complaint. West was dead, what could we do?”

I nod. The pieces are starting to come together. I have to say, I’d hoped Ravil would tell me they’d killed Lake West, but to me it all points to a faked death.

Except who would abandon his children for a lousy truck of stolen goods?

That man had better be dead or I’ll make him wish he were when I find him.

Caitlin

I roll out of bed and run for the bathroom, but when I get there, I just dry heave.

Ugh. Three days I’ve been nauseous. This is getting so old.

I haven’t had a drop to drink since Friday night at the Bellissimo, I really don’t understand…

Oh fuck.

I yank open the drawer under the sink and stare at my packet of pills.

Sugar pills. Five gone. I should be bleeding now.

Dizzy, I throw the toilet seat down and sit on it.

Holy, holy crap.

I’m pregnant.

And it must be the hormones that make me feel like bursting into tears rather than dropping out of my body.

I gulp in my breath and release it slowly. Remember I have a pregnancy test under the sink from the last time I had a scare. It was a two-pack. I pull it out and pee on the stick.