Chapter 17
BOLT
I enjoy the confusion on George Davenport’s smug face. Like the rest of them, they thought they could intimidate me. What they don’t know is it’s the Royal Bastards who do the intimidation, not this cocky asshole.
I restrain myself from tugging at the neck of my shirt again, mainly to avoid Nicoletta’s glare, but seriously, how the fuck do men wear this shit willingly? Too clean. Too controlled. Too fuckin’ uncomfortable.
I shoot my cuffs, then stop. Gotta fit in. Gotta look comfortable like every other man in a monkey suit.
Fidgeting gets you noticed.
And right now—
Not getting noticed is the only thing keeping this night from going to hell.
“Stop looking like you’re about to break someone’s neck,” Nicoletta murmurs beside me.
Her voice is soft. Polished. Like she belongs here. Because she does. I’m the outsider trying to fit in, and I don’t like the feeling.
I glance at her. Beautiful. She outshines all these other bitches without even trying. Where most of the others had to pay for the Botox, fat freezing, and fake hair, Nicoletta’s beauty is natural.
She’s a different person tonight. Definitely in her element. Powerful, sure of herself. The familiar way she addresses the staff. Always kind, and respectful, but still knowing her station. Her sharp eyes pick up on the little innuendos that pass as conversation for this crowd.
“You look like you own the place,” I mutter.
Eyes forward, she doesn’t look at me. “I was raised to.”
That lands hard, and again I’m convinced, once this night is over, she’ll be taking that rented Mercedes back to Pacific Palisades.
A bell rings, and Nicoletta places her untouched champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray.
“Time to sit for dinner,” she informs me.
When I furrow my brow, she says, “The bell means cocktail hour is over, and it’s time to be seated.”
I’m beginning to think this world has as many fuckin’ rules as the outlaw world. And screwing one of them up is dangerous, and just as deadly.
She effortlessly guides us to her father’s table. Of course, it’s up front and center.
Clark’s eyes follow me the entire time, but I pretend I don’t notice. I’d love to stare the fucker down with my usual death glare, but now isn’t the time.
We’re served a four-course dinner which seems to go on forever. Food’s not bad, but I left my fuckin’ appetite in Tijuana. Nicoletta is making a show of pushing her food around on the plate too.
After numerous boring speeches, Stuart Hinchman takes the stage. The perfect gentleman banker in his classically tailored tux, of which he probably owns many.
Fit, average height, hair graying at the temples. A man with whom you would willingly invest millions. His even, measured step brings him to the podium. He adjusts the microphone, then smiles at the crowd, comfortable knowing everyone is anxiously awaiting his next words.
“The man we’re honoring tonight needs no introduction.
He’s been a tireless worker in and around Los Angeles, always with an eye for what is best for this city.
His contributions to the board here at Riviera go unquestioned.
His ideas are always innovative, while keeping the needs of the members in mind. ”
Stuart smiles at the audience, and they applaud on cue.
“His business, The Property Real Estate Agency, is one of the premier real estate firms in Southern California, serving the community with both excellent standards and charitable donations to our city’s neediest. It’s my pleasure to bestow this year’s Humanitarian Award to a most worthy member of our club.
So, without further delay, let me bring up my good friend and golf buddy, Clark Williams.”
NICOLETTA
The crowd erupts in applause as my father heads for the stage, poised and confident, in complete control as he climbs the three stairs, then stands next to Stuart at the podium.
“Thank you, I’m honored, but since my wife was unable to attend,” his eyes zone in on me, “I’d like my daughter, Nicoletta, to join me.”
My gaze flits to Bolt. We weren’t expecting this. I grab up his hand, and he doesn’t resist as we both head to the stage, my father’s narrowed eyes never leaving us.
I’m between my father and Bolt, and if my heart beats any faster, I believe it will explode.
Stuart leans into the mic. “Before we give you the actual award, we have a presentation for the audience showing all your good works,” he raises his arm, and a screen descends from behind us, “showing exactly what kind of man you truly are.”
Bolt leans into me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Hinchman was in on it with us.”
We all turn toward the screen. My heart is pounding so hard I fear someone might hear it.
When Stuart gives the signal, the lights dim and the screen flickers to life.
At first—nothing. Then static. The crowd exchanges glances, and my breath catches in my chest. More static, then it hits.
Grainy, dark, a neon bar sign on a deserted street. My father’s Bentley pulling up, then my father, along with Stuart Hinchman, Tom Hansen and George Davenport, step out onto the cracked sidewalk.
A few people exchange confused whispers, but the room is weirdly quiet and focused on the screen. Stuart and my father exchange a glance. Confusion, panic.
On the screen, the four men enter the dimly lit bar and move through the seedy crowd to a back hallway.
The whispers in the crowd grow louder. Still low, but sharper. I stand frozen in place, my pulse hammering.
“What is this?” my father growls.
“You getting what you deserve,” Bolt says.
“What is the meaning of this?” Stuart looks from the screen to my father and then to me and Bolt.
The footage continues, following them down a staircase to another door.
My father produces a card, swipes it over the keypad, and the door pops open.
They move into the room, revealing at least ten pairs of weary eyes, shining in the dim light.
Tom Hanson pulls the cord hanging from the ceiling of the small room, and the room alights with teenagers huddled together on the floor.
There are audible gasps from the audience, then a hush, then voices rising questioning and looking for answers.
My father continues to watch the screen, but the panic is gone from his eyes, and that scares me. Bolt shifts at my side, sensing it too.
My father’s lips are thin lines, and when he reaches for the microphone, I know.
“No, no, no,” I mumble.
“What is this video, Clark?” someone yells from the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says smoothly, his voice calm and effortless. “Everything you see on this video is true.”
People turn to each other with loud murmurs.
“Myself and the other gentlemen in this video were at that reprehensible bar to save those girls.”
The whispering crowd stills.
“They were being held captive by the Royal Bastards, an outlaw gang of bikers.” My father turns to Bolt and points. “Of which he is a member.”
Bolt flinches, and I grab his arm and shake my head. My father sighs dramatically into the microphone, and my stomach drops, shifting his gaze to me. All eyes follow his, and suddenly I’m the center of attention.
“Nicoletta’s been struggling for some time. Her unstable mental health has led to her making poor choices and keeping dangerous company.” His gaze falls again on Bolt.
“She blames everyone for the consequences of her recklessness. Including the tragic death of her boyfriend, Bradley Remington.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see security entering the stage from both sides.
“That’s not true.” My voice is sharp and brittle. “None of this is true, and you know it.”
“I’ve tried to protect her.” He lowers his head. “God knows I’ve tried.”
His performance is flawless. It’s his sales voice. The same timbre as when trying to convince a customer they really do need that extra tennis court.
He nods to security. “Please escort my daughter somewhere more private so we can sort this all out.”
“No,” I shout. “This is all wrong.” I point to the screen. “This is your doing. It was the Royal Bastards who found you out, not the other way around.”
My father leans into the mic again. “You see what I mean? She’s completely delusional.”
“You’re wrong, and you know it.” I point to the other men. “And they know it too.”
Stuart looks away from me. Panic rips through me as security inches closer.
“I also have reason to believe,” my father nods at Bolt, “this thug and his gang were responsible for Brad’s death. Such a wonderful young man cut down in his prime.”
The audience explodes with accusations and questions, but I don’t miss the smug smile playing across my father’s face.
The security is now flanking Bolt and me with their pistols drawn.
Bolt takes a step forward, putting me behind him, and the entire room watches this live drama unfold, instinctively knowing Bolt is not afraid of the consequences.
Clark’s voice cuts sharply at Bolt. “You’ll assault security in front of witnesses? That’s bold.”
Bolt doesn’t even look at him, still focused on the men in front of him. “I’ve done worse.”
A few gasps ripple through the ballroom.
I should be horrified. Instead, I feel pride. For the first time, someone chose me for me. Not my money. Not my family name. Just me.
My father’s mask slips enough to see the anger beneath.
“Nicoletta,” he says coldly, “tell your… guest to move.”
I step out from behind Bolt, shoulders straight. “No.”
The room goes still.
I lift my chin. “You spent my whole life deciding what I’d say. Who I’d be. Who I’d belong to.”
My father’s face hardens. “This is not the place.”
“It’s exactly the place.” I step closer to him. “You taught me appearances matter more than truth. Tonight, maybe everyone will get both.”
Clark’s voice drops. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
I meet his eyes. Unafraid of the consequences, drawing strength from Bolt’s bold move.
“No,” I say softly, “I finally do.”
The screen flickers behind us again, and the interior of Brad’s Malibu beach house appears, followed by my father and Stuart Hinchman. My father calls out for Brad on the video. The sound is sharp and somewhat distorted.
The two men search the first floor, then my father is out of the frame. When he appears again, they are taking the stairs to the second floor. The screen goes black, then pops on in Brad’s bedroom.
The audience has gone silent again, their eyes glued to the screen on stage.
Brad spins around in his bedroom, visibly surprised. The three men argue, but the sound is too distorted to hear the exact words. Then my father extracts the knife from behind him, lunges forward, and drives the blade into Brad’s stomach.
Women scream out in the audience. One woman faints, and a wave of nausea engulfs me.
I stare up at Bolt. “How did you—?” My knees weaken, and Bolt’s arm around me is the only thing keeping me upright.