Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ican’t kill my own mother. No matter how much I might want to right now. When I heard she approached Lailani, I was ready to wring her fucking neck. I’ve done everything I can to both keep Lailani off my mother’s radar and get my mother to leave town. I have no idea what the woman wants.
Like I said, usually, it’s money. She drops in and leaves the next day. She’s been here for weeks this time and hasn’t told me why. I went ahead and checked her accounts. She’s not dry yet. I did, however, top them off anyway in hopes she’d disappear again. That didn’t work.
I walk into my penthouse, shrug out of my jacket, and hang it on the hook by the elevator.
I need a fucking drink, something to take the edge off before I face my mother.
So I head straight to the wet bar in the living room.
I get to the halfway point when the ping of the elevator doors sounds out again, followed by the sound of heels clicking against the marble floors.
Taking a deep breath, I school my features.
I will not let my mother see how much Lailani means to me.
I will not let Lailani get twisted up in my fucked-up world.
Without saying a word, I look at my mother and then turn around and continue walking towards the wet bar.
After pouring myself a healthy dose of whiskey, I turn back to her.
“You’re not going to offer me a drink?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “Sit down.” I point to the sofa and wait for her to do as she’s instructed before dropping into the seat across from her. Neither of us says anything for what seems like hours—it’s been minutes. “What do you want?”
“You really like her,” my mother states. I don’t bother to ask her who she’s talking about.
“What do you want?” I repeat.
“I met someone,” she says.
That was the last thing I expected her to say. “What do you mean you met someone?”
“A man. I met a man,” she clarifies.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has sworn off men. I’ve never even known her to date. And if she did, she kept it from me.
“Who?” I question. All I need is a name. Whoever the fuck she’s got herself involved with is either after her money, or vice versa. My mother doesn’t love anyone other than herself—and me, in her own twisted fucking way.
“He’s… not someone you know,” she replies.
“What’s his name and where did you meet him? And again, what do you want?” I press. We both know that her dating life is not why she’s here.
“I met him on a cruise, and I really like him. We’re getting married. I want you to be there,” she tells me.
I blink. It hasn’t passed me that she still hasn’t given me this guy’s name. “Liking someone usually isn’t a reason to marry them,” I remind her. “What’s his name?”
“John.”
“Does John have a last name?” I ask.
“Don’t do that. I know you’re going to look into him and you’re not going to like what you find. But I am marrying him, and you are going to be there with your blessing,” she says.
“Why won’t I like what I find?” Now I’m more intrigued than ever.
“He’s not like you, Sammie. He’s not… He’s legit. Clean,” she says, looking out the window before adding in a much quieter voice, “He’s a detective.”
The laugh that leaves my mouth is maniacal. She has to be fucking with me. “Sure, Ma, you’ve gone and got yourself engaged to a cop.”
“I’m serious, Sammie. John wants to meet you,” she insists.
“Oh, I bet he does.” I shake my head. “This isn’t happening. You’re not marrying a goddamn fucking cop.” The glass in my hand flies across the room, hitting the wall and shattering.
“I am.”
I lift a challenging brow at her. “You’re an addict. How does that even work, living with a cop?”
“I’m clean. I’ve been clean for three months. You would know if you cared to spend two minutes with me, instead of running off to your whore,” she hisses.
My jaw tightens. I know what she’s doing. Trying to get me to react. It’s not going to work. “You’re clean?” I ask, laughing at the thought.
“I am,” my mother says.
I’m not going along with this crazy idea of hers. “You cannot marry a fucking cop, Ma. Are you forgetting just where your money comes from?”
“No. He doesn’t know anything about that. He just thinks my son owns a casino. That’s all. He doesn’t need to know anything else,” she tells me.
“You’ve fucking lost the plot.” I shake my head and pace the length of the room.
“If you don’t play nice, if you don’t come to the wedding and support me in this, I will make sure your little whore pays the price for it,” my mother spits out.
Her threats against Lailani are just as laughable as the idea of her marrying a cop.
“And just what do you think you can do to her?” I ask.
My mother’s eyes light up. “Well, I’m about to marry a detective. If John happens to get a tip off that some whore is here selling coke for say… the cartel, he will have no choice but to follow up on that.” She stands and walks towards the elevator. “You’ll be getting a formal invite in the mail.”
As soon as the metal doors close behind her, I text Louie and Carlo.
Me:
We have a problem. I’m coming to the Royal.
Louie:
In my office.
Carlo:
On my way.
This is how it’s always been with my friends. Whenever I’ve needed them, they come through for me. They don’t ask questions. They are just there, ready to do whatever the fuck it takes to solve a problem.
By the time I get to the Royal Flush, Carlo is already in Louie’s office. Jazzy is on the sofa watching something on her iPad. Stopping in front of her, I pluck one of the headphones off her ear. “How’s my favorite princess?” I ask her.
“Uncle Sammie, how many princesses do you know?” she counters.
“Mmm, just one,” I tell her.
Her smile widens. “Well, I hope one day you meet another one. Because princesses are the best.”
“They are.” I place the headphone back over her ear and stand to face Louie and Carlo. “My mother just told me she’s engaged to some detective.”
Carlo laughs. Louie squints. “Is that a joke?”
“I wish it were,” I say, leaving out the part about her threatening Lailani because neither of them knows I’m even seeing her.
“Obviously you can’t let her go ahead with it. What does she really want?” Louie asks. They know my mother as well as I do.
“She says my blessing. She wants me to attend the fucking wedding and play happy families or some bullshit.” I shake my head. This cannot be my real fucking life. “I’ll deal with it. In the meantime, we got that shipment to collect tomorrow night,” I remind them.
The door opens and Emmanuel saunters in. Jazzy sees him, jumps up, and shouts, “Tío E!”
When the fuck did she start calling him that?
It doesn’t take long to figure out Emmanuel is back in town because Charlotte’s friend Evie is supposedly visiting this weekend. Louie tells us we all have to come to dinner at his place. He needs backup to make sure Emmanuel doesn’t do anything too insane. Not that anyone can stop him.
Louie looks to Carlo. “Bring Antonia and Jazzy. He won’t go doing anything stupid if Jazzy’s there.” He gestures towards Emmanuel.
“Cool, use my daughter in place of the antipsychotics we all know he needs. Why not?” Carlo grumbles.
“After dinner, we’ll go deal with the shipment,” Louie says.
“Great. Now, I’ve gotta go home and tell my wife she’s not getting her own house,” Carlo groans.
It will never not be weird that both of my friends have wives.
Everything is changing so quickly. Carlo married Antonia under the guise of entering an arranged marriage to bring our organization together with her father’s.
We didn’t learn until just before the actual wedding that he was always in love with her.
“I’ll take Jazzy for ice cream and bring her back later,” I suggest as I push to my feet.
“Why?” Carlo questions me.
“Because I’ve got competition for the fav uncle spot, and I’m not letting these two fools beat me,” I tell him. If anyone deserves to be the favorite, it’s me.
With Jazzy’s hand in mine, we walk out of the office and across the casino floor. My gaze flicks to the reception desk. It’s as if I can tell she’s there.
“Oh, can we bring Lailani some ice cream too, Uncle Sammie?” Jazzy asks, spotting the woman who’s caught my attention. I thought she would be at home. I didn’t know she was working tonight.
“Sure can, princess.” I smile down at Jazzy. “Do you know what her favorite is?”
“Strawberry,” Jazzy says with confidence.
I should know that. Why the fuck do I not know what her favorite ice cream is?