Beg Me

The silence between us is killing me.

Dasha can see how worried I am. I guess it’s written all over my face. Before we leave the bar, she leans over and says, “Cheer up. Everything is going to be fine.”

I nod and smile, but it’s difficult to imagine this going smoothly. I feel awful sitting here, tricking these men into pouring all their money into a hotel that might not ever open. It’s a crapshoot with Byron. Sometimes it works out. Other times it doesn’t.

Of course, that’s when Dasha makes the ballsiest move I’ve ever seen. While the men are talking about business and are drunk enough, Dasha reaches into her purse.

She pulls out a packet of laxatives.

My eyes widen. “No,” I mouth.

But s

he ignores me and pours the contents into Byron’s drink, sneezing loudly as a distraction.

Byron smiles and kisses her cheek. “Are you okay? We don’t want you getting sick before the big celebration.”

“I’m sorry, this bar is sort of dusty,” she says. “I’m okay now.”

Byron takes a sip from his drink. Then another.

Another.

He drains the entire glass.

My eyes are wide with horror, and I don’t know whether or not I should laugh or run.

“Okay, folks. I think we should get to the fundraiser. I should prepare my speech,” Byron says.

“Sounds like a plan,” I mutter, stepping out from my chair.

We exit the bar and walk outside into the setting sun.

“Whoa boy, my stomach feels funny,” Byron whispers to one of his men standing outside. “I might need you to take the reins for a while,” he says to me.

I turn to Dasha, lip quivering with near-laughter. Tonight is going to be a fucking train wreck. I know it. At the very least, I’ll get some entertainment out of it.

“I’ll meet you guys inside,” Byron says, holding his stomach. “Give me ten minutes!”

Yep.

Tonight is going to be one hell of a ride.

Rocco

I stand inside my old friend’s hanger, staring at the small jet. I’ve got a bad feeling in my stomach, but there’s no backing out now.

“Ricardo, did you find anything?” I ask.

“What the hell do you think?” he asks. “I’ve found a bit too much, if you know what I mean.”

“Spell it out for me,” I say, stepping onto the plane.

We’re ready to go. By the time I get there tonight, this whole thing will be blown wide open.

“He hasn’t paid his taxes for the past three years,” he says.

I grab my pistol, make sure it’s loaded, and tuck it in the back of my pants before I sit for the flight.