Chapter 5
NICK
Sure, the guy is a loser and just spitting bullshit, but bringing Cheryl and Portia into it takes it to the next level. I’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to lose it all. Cheryl, Portia and I have ten lost years to make up for, and I have no intentions of letting anyone fuck it up.
Since I’m not going anywhere fast, I hit Samson’s number on speed dial.
It rings a few times then, “What’s up?”
“I had a visitor in the garage from the old neighborhood.”
“Who?”
“Sal.”
“Shit, what the fuck did he want?”
“No idea.” I swerve around a car to get in a better lane. “First he shows up at the club last week, and now he’s waiting for me in the garage.”
“After all these years, he shows up in Vegas. It don’t make sense.”
I digest Samson’s words. “It also don’t add up that he’s waiting for me in the garage of Wicked, spitting out all kinds of cryptic bullshit.”
“What was he saying?”
“Calling him and I friends. Talking about the Pit in Brooklyn. He even mentioned Cheryl and Portia.”
“What the fuck?”
“Then he says I better be careful ‘cause I have enemies coming at me from all directions.”
“Big fuckin’ surprise.” Samson barks out a laugh. “You and me got a lot of enemies from the old days.”
“Just gave me a weird feeling, like he was looking through me or some shit.”
“Strange, but I’ll ask around. Maybe Jax heard something.”
“I couldn’t help thinking Frank might know something, especially since Sal ran the Pit for him before he gave it up to the Russians.”
“Give him a call. See what he knows.”
“Traffic is fucked up.” I lean on my horn as a guy cuts me off. “I’m gonna be so damn late.”
“Give Portia a hug for me.”
“Will do.”
We disconnect the call, but I can’t get Sal out of my head.
What the hell he is doing in Vegas, and why would he approach me?
It didn’t make any sense, but if he comes near me again, I’ll put an end to it even if I have to enlist the Serpents.
Keeping Portia and Cheryl safe is my main priority, and I don’t need anybody fuckin’ with it a few days before Christmas.
I pull into the school parking lot at 7:45.
Would’ve been here twenty minutes sooner if there hadn't been a shit-ton of traffic and Sal hadn’t wasted my time with bullshit.
Of course, there’s no damn parking, so I pull out, circle the block, then twist my Maserati into an illegal fire lane space, praying the whole damn school doesn’t light up on fire.
I speed-walk to the front door of the school, pull on the lever, but, of course, it’s locked.
I hit the buzzer and wait. Not my favorite thing to do.
Ten seconds later, I push the buzzer again, and a harrowing thought hits.
Everyone’s in the auditorium watching the concert, and no one’s manning the door.
I lean on the buzzer like an obnoxious fuck, but no one comes. Then my eye catches a guy pushing a garbage can on wheels. The janitor. I bang on the glass. He looks up at me, then keeps going down the hall. I bang harder, and he abandons his garbage and heads for the door.
“Can I help you?” he says through the glass.
“Can you buzz me in? I’m going to my daughter’s concert.”
He stares at me through the glass for what seems like an eternity. “Are you on the list?”
What fuckin’ list?
“I’m Nick Sinclair. My daughter, Portia, is in the fifth-grade holiday concert.” I shove my hand in my pocket, pull my license out of my wallet, and slap it against the glass.
“And your daughter’s name is Portia?”
“Right.” I flip a glance at my watch. 7:54—Fuck.
He turns and slowly, very slowly, saunters into the office before returning with a clipboard. “I see a Portia Benson, but her two guests are Cheryl Benson and Nick Santoro.”
“Fuck!” I bellow.
The janitor’s eyes widen.
I put up my palms. “Sorry.”
When I came to Vegas, I legally changed my name to Nick Sinclair, mainly so the mob would have a harder time finding me, but Cheryl joked that I’d always be Nick Santoro to her.
“Look, Portia’s my daughter. You gotta let me in.”
“I don’t have to do anything, sir. We take security very seriously here at Goodwell Academy.”
Of course we had to pick one of the top elementary schools in Vegas with security tougher than the county jail.
“And I appreciate that, but if I don’t get in to see my daughter’s concert, there’s gonna be a murder, ‘cause my wife will kill me.”
I pull a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet, and wave it in front of the glass. “Let me in, and this is yours.”
The janitor’s brow furrows, so I pull out two more hundreds and wave all three of the bills in front of the glass door.
He reaches into his pocket, extracts a key chain with at least fifty keys, pushes one into the lock, and the door springs open.
“Thanks.” So much for security. I shove the cash into his palm and wonder if I should mention to Cheryl how easily the janitor could be bought.
I jog down the long corridor leading to the auditorium and pull open the door in time to see everyone standing and applauding what must’ve been an amazing holiday concert.
“Shit!”
After more rousing applause, people file out of the rows and head toward the doors. I have no choice but to backtrack out into the corridor and wait.
I’m out three hundred bucks, I didn’t even get to see Portia, plus Cheryl is gonna bite my fuckin’ head off.
I nod and smile to some of the parents, agreeing with them that it was a wonderful show. My devious brain spins a story of not being able to find her so I stayed in the back, but the minute I see Cheryl’s face, I decide silence is the best defense.
“Where were you?” she stage-whispers.
“I stayed in the back ‘cause I couldn’t find you.” It’s worth a try.
Her face flattens. “I saw you walk in two minutes ago.”
“Nah, I was there the whole time.” Might as well dig the hole deeper.
“Really? I turned in my seat looking for you so many times, I think I got whiplash, so I know you just appeared two minutes ago.” We follow the herd of parents around the auditorium toward the stage entrance where we’ll pick up Portia.
“The traffic was fuckin’ crazy, then the freakin’ janitor wouldn’t let me in.”
“Why not?”
“You have me listed as Nick Santoro.” Might as well go for broke. “In a way, me being late is your fault.”
“What?”
“The janitor wouldn’t let me in ‘cause you had me listed as Nick Santoro.”
“So?”
“My license says Nick Sinclair.”
Cheryl mashes her lips together. Never a good sign. “If you had been here on time, you would’ve gone in with me, and you wouldn’t have had a problem.”
Couldn’t argue with her on that point, but . . . “You oughta change Portia’s school records to read Nick Sinclair.”
“To me, you’ll always be Nick Santoro.”
“Yeah, well, Goodwell Academy doesn’t give a shit.”
She stops at the stage door, and we wait in silence with all the other parents until Portia appears.
“You were great, baby.” Cheryl thrusts a kid-sized bouquet of roses into Portia’s arms.
I envelop my daughter in a hug. “Yeah, you were amazing.”
“What song did you like the best, Dad?”
“I liked all of them.” At least I’d be able to fool Portia.
“Did you like my solo?” she asks.
“It was unbelievable.”
Portia smiles up at me. “I didn’t have a solo.”
“You didn’t? Well, you should’ve.”
“I saw you walk in at the end of the show.”
So much for fooling my daughter. Just my luck, she turned out smart like her mama.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. There was so much traffic, and then the door to the school was locked and . . .” Plus I had to deal with a fuckin’ ghost from my past.
“It’s all right.” Portia hugs me back. “You’re here now.”
Cheryl and I exchange a look over Portia’s head. The kid is amazing, and sometimes she acts more like an adult than me or Cheryl.
We take Portia to her favorite restaurant, In-N-Out Burger on the Strip, and she keeps us amused with all the school gossip, including Mrs. Hanson almost falling off the stage, and Kyle Summers throwing up before the performance because he was so nervous.
Portia is engaging and full of life, and I credit Cheryl for all of it. The only thing I can claim is her looks. She’s got my ebony eyes, dark hair and tawny complexion, and the best part is, over the last six months, we’ve formed a strong bond.
We end the night driving down the Strip to see the Christmas decorations, then finally home.
I fold Portia in a hug before she heads up to bed. “Sorry again about missing your concert.”
“It’s okay, Dad.” She gazes up at me with eyes as dark as mine. “Really.”
“Thanks.”
Cheryl herds her up the stairs to bed, and I head to the bar in the living room.
I pour myself a double Jack Daniels and head out to the patio.
I turn on the outdoor heater and settle on the couch overlooking the pool.
Vegas nights in December are cool, but not blustery cold like New York, and usually a light jacket is all I need.
I love the way the pool lights shimmer in the darkness.
This outdoor space is my favorite place in the whole house.
Never thought growing up I would have a beautiful home like this to live in, but I always knew I wanted something better. I may not have always taken the straight route to get here, but now I would give my life to protect my family and what is mine.
I leave the slider open, hoping Cheryl joins me, ‘cause over the last few weeks we’ve both been slammed at work, plus all the holiday bullshit. Probably why we were bitchin’ at each other this morning.
A few minutes later, I get my wish. Cheryl joins me with a glass of rosé. She’s changed into sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, but it doesn’t matter what my woman wears, she’s always sexy as fuck in my eyes.
I pat the cushion next to me. “Get over here and keep me warm.”
She sips her wine and cuddles next to me.
“Sorry I was late. Shit just got crazy.” Broad statement for meeting with a promotor who could raise the club to astronomical heights and being ambushed by a loser from my past. The two parts of my complicated life crashing together.
“I was just worried Portia would feel bad.”
“She seemed fine.” I pull Cheryl closer. “She’s a good kid, and it’s all because of you.”
“She has your genes too.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been raising her.”
My little girl is whip-smart and has a natural talent when it comes to drawing and art.
“Her teacher told me she’s getting an art award after the holiday break.”
“That’s amazing.”
“It’s a secret though, so don’t say anything.” Cheryl cuddles into me. “I think I worry so much because I want her to have everything we didn’t.”
“I know, but we gotta remember she’s got two parents who love her, something we never had. Sometimes I think she’s better adjusted than we are.”
“Sometimes?” Cheryl laughs. “Most times.”
Truth. Portia is mature beyond her ten years.
I set Cheryl’s wine glass on the table, then cup her cheek. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” I cover my lips with hers, and she moans into my mouth.
“I think you need this as much as me.”
“Maybe more.”
“I may not be up with all the biodegradable hazards and gluten-free foods with no GMOs, but you know I’d give my last breath for Portia and you.”
She smiles at my attempt at a joke. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been thinking about all day?”
“About getting you naked. Sucking your sweet skin, then getting in you so deep, you’ll feel me for a week.”
She straddles me, placing her thighs on each side of mine. “Mmmm. I like the sound of that.”