Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
DOMINIC
Draining what’s left in my glass, I scrape my palm across my forehead and glare. “Don’t say it.”
Milly glances up from examining her nails. After giving me the silent treatment for the last fifteen minutes, she’s primed and ready for battle. Don’t let those red-framed glasses fool you. Behind them lies a pint-sized warrior.
But I refuse to apologize for anything. Not for being here. Not for confronting Naomi Grecco. Especially not for sticking around and drinking her pimp’s booze after they both tore out of here like their asses were on fire. Neither has bothered to come back, so I haven’t bothered to care. Besides, I have both of them by the balls. They won’t say shit to me unless they’re into public humiliation.
Milly raises an eyebrow. “Don’t say what?”
My fingers tighten around my empty glass. “ I told you so .”
A ghost of a smirk curves around her wine glass. “Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.” Taking a sip, she sets it on the bar before returning her focus to her nails. “Besides, saying you’re a giant douchebag for making me spend the night in a rent-by-the-hour motel for a story you knew was bogus would be unprofessional.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
“That was something, though,” she says, and I wonder how many cocktail peanuts I’d have to shove in her mouth to shut her up. “Haven’t seen you get your clock cleaned like that in a while.”
I don’t need this. Letting out a low grunt, I signal to the purple-haired bartender for another round. “Milly, do me a favor and don’t talk to me again until I see four of you.”
Fucking women.
She rolls her eyes. “I just don’t get why you’re wasting time peddling your ass up and down the California coast, chasing one dead end after another.”
Because I’m a bitter man who acts first, thinks second, and never apologizes.
“Tragedy breeds opportunists.” I shake my head at the weight of my statement. “People will sell their souls for a buck these days.”
That’s putting it mildly. This business is an endless parade of peacocks and vultures, some preening their feathers while others pick at the carcasses of those who get in their way.
Welcome to Hollywood. Land of cannibals.
“The Romanov Estate should’ve never publicized that reward.” Scrubbing a hand down my face, I add, “They won’t find what they’re looking for. All they’re doing is dangling a million-dollar carrot in front of a pack of wolves.”
Wolves like me.
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
I tilt my chin over my shoulder. “I’m sorry?”
“Even the great Dominic McCallum can’t always be right,” she says, raking a hand through her short brown hair. “It’s not like anything you do lately makes sense.”
First of all, I don’t have to make sense when I’m trying to save our asses. Secondly, I’m not wrong, and I hate being questioned, but I’m not going to fight over it. She’s pissed and rightfully so. She’s one more missed paycheck away from the unemployment line.
Milly is loyal to a fault, but loyalty doesn’t pay the bills.
“Jesus, what do you want me to do, take a blood sample?” I yell. “She wasn’t the one.”
And not even a suitable candidate.
“Maybe you’re just looking too hard.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She meets my gaze head-on. “My grandma used to always say, when you stop looking for what you want, you find what you need.”
Wonderful. Thanks, Grandma. So, I suppose if I back out now, I’ll find a million dollars and a get out of jail free card under my pillow in the morning.
I open my mouth to tell her where she can shove her unwanted advice when the purple-haired bartender sets another glass in front of me. Picking it up, I down half ofit in one gulp, the burn significantly less jarring this time. “I didn’t get to be the best in the business by leaving things to chance,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “I dig where others won’t, so I know things others don’t. So, when I say I know she’s not our Alexandra Romanov, there’s a reason.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Which is?”
Some people never learn the meaning of “quit while you’re ahead.”
“Know why I’m the best?” When she shakes her head, I lean forward, my jaw clenching so hard the muscles in my neck strain. “Because I know when to keep my fucking mouth shut. ”
I must have won the argument because she reaches into her purse and tosses a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar. “Well, when you decide to confide in the only person left who has your back, give me a call. Until then, you can Uber your ass back to the motel.”
Grabbing a handful of cocktail peanuts, I toss one in the air, missing my mouth by a good six inches. “Drive safe.”
Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she slides off her stool. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
Nope. “Don’t worry about me.” I snort, raising my glass of Jack. “I can take care of myself. Been doing it all my life.”
Her hand lingers on my shoulder before she disappears out the front door, leaving me in silence.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt at warding off the headache brewing behind my eyes. I’m drowning in lawyer fees, court costs, and settlement decrees, all because the king of Hollywood tried to silence me and save his own ass.
Then again, when you bait a shark, you shouldn’t be shocked when he bites, and one of the biggest ones in the ocean tried to take a chunk out of my leg. Now that he’s gained a taste for my blood, he’ll keep coming back for more. I didn’t start this war, but now that I’m out of resources, I’m the only one who can end it.
Unfortunately, I can’t do it without her .
Alexandra Romanov.
I’d rather chase down anyone else. Contrary to what people think, I’m not heartless. But that’s not the way sensationalism works. The only thing the world loves more than an icon is a fallen icon, and with the fifteenth anniversary of LA’s most infamous massacre approaching, the media is jerking off to this story. Now, every crazy dickbag with an empty wallet and a set of balls is coming forward, and the race is on to find the supposed sole Romanov survivor. An eight-year-old child who disappeared from a home invasion that claimed the lives of her entire family and silenced the world.
Until the lure of a payout caused a ripple effect that flashed dollar signs in even the most pious of eyes. Suddenly everyone traded their morality in favor of cold hard cash. Forget death; money is the great equalizer.
And here I am, lighting a torch and joining the witch hunt. Not in the name of honor, but in the shadow of greed. Because in sifting through a hundred lies, there could be one truth.
And that truth is a debt I owe the devil.
Cursing, I fish my phone from my pocket. Pulling up the ride share app, I schedule a car to pick my ass up now while I can still see. I scroll down, filling in all pertinent information, cringing as I type in the location.
The G-Spot.
Yes, that’s actually the name of this place. I wish I were kidding. Supposedly, it’s named because gin is the house special. I don’t buy it, either. The place is a dank hole in the wall. No, hole in the wall is too generous. It’s a barely lit crack that smells like stale beer and faded dreams.
You know, if faded dreams had a smell.
And trust me, if they did, the G-Spot would be full of it.
After the GPS populates the address, I schedule a car for an hour and a half from now and close out the app.
Clock’s ticking.
My gaze lands back on the girl with the purple hair and resting bitch face standing behind the bar. “You got any more Jack back there? ”
She doesn’t glance up as she swipes a rag across the bar. “Yep.”
“You plan on pouring it today?”
“Sure. I’ll serve it to you in the same place you keep your manners—the shitter.”
Swallowing the instinct to flip this girl off and walk out, I pull out a few bills from my wallet and toss them on the bar. “Look, lady, I’ve had a real bitch of a day, so if you don’t mind, put a lid on the comedy show and keep ’em coming.”
Her heavily lined eyes shift toward the crumbled bills and then slowly rise until they settle back on me. “You got a little something on your face.”
“A scowl?”
“A handprint. Unless you want another one to match, I suggest you kill the attitude.”
I suppose that’s meant to be a warning. Or hell, maybe it’s a come-on. With this girl, I have a feeling there’s not much of a distinction. I smirk and motion toward a table a few feet behind me. “You can send my drink over there.” I don’t wait for a response. Scooping my wallet off the counter, I shove it in my pocket to the sound of a muffled snicker.
Muttering to myself, I make my way to the table and claim a seat. Nobody cares I’m here because nobody knows my face. Unlike most of Hollywood, I’m all right with that. In fact, I’ve spent the better part of a decade ensuring I stayed out of the spotlight.
Until now.
“Goddamn it.” I pull out a pack of smokes and give it a shake, finding one last cigarette hiding in the corner. The damn thing is between my lips before I remember I promised Milly I’d quit.
Fuck it. I’ll quit tomorrow .
Flicking the lighter, I inhale slowly, making sure every bit of toxic smoke fills my lungs, but I’m so on edge even nicotine can’t settle me. I need to sober the hell up and figure out my next step. Which, if something doesn’t change in the next few days, will be bankruptcy.
Groaning, I scrub a hand down my face, days-worth of stubble scraping my palm. This whole Romanov scheme I’ve been running is nothing but a Hail Mary pass to an empty end zone. A last-ditch effort to save my own ass. Naomi Grecco was the fifth useless con to try and pass herself off as the missing heiress, and I’m not sure if I can stomach a sixth.
It’s turned into an obsession, and I don’t even know why. Is it still about the money? Hell, I don’t know anymore. I’ve done nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe Alexandra Romanov for weeks now. I’ve pinned my future on a faceless woman.
Well, not entirely faceless , a voice in my head says.
And therein lies the problem.
Reaching in my pocket, I pull out the worn photo. The ritual is far too familiar, and as I stare at it, I begin to wonder if I should just light the damn thing on fire and be done with it. But I won’t. As many times as I’ve studied it, I still haven’t found an answer.
How the hell is this girl going to save me when she couldn’t even save herself?
Letting out a rough sigh, I refold it and shove it in my pocket when a jolt of electricity pings down my spine. The minute I glance up, I see why.
The bar is crowded, but it doesn’t matter. This woman’s presence would render a room full of people invisible, a fact proven by the way my eyes track her every movement as she walks from table to table, those tight black shorts hugging her lush little body .
It’s only when she moves closer, and I get a better look at her face, that live wire snakes and twists around my neck. I can’t look away. Not from the messy, dark ponytail spilling down her back. Not from her straight-off-the-farm face. And not from, ugh, I roll my eyes, those ugly teal Chucks on her feet.
About as far removed as you can get from the type that usually captures my attention. But here I am, gawking at a waitress trapped in a shitty uniform and an apron.
God, I need sleep.
Cursing again, I suck as much life out of my cigarette as I can and rub my forehead. I need to get laid. Preferably before this shit drives me into an early grave.
Which is exactly where I’m headed. I accepted it a long time ago. There’s never been a chance of redemption for me. I know how the real world works, and it’s not pretty. To get ahead in life, you have to play dirty. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t, but I’m sure as hell not going to beg anyone for anything.
Especially Luciano Ricci, a man who doesn’t care if I rot in prison or in the ground. He made that perfectly clear when he turned his back on me.
So, once again, I’m on my own.
“Fuck playing by the rules,” I grumble.
It takes a minute to register the glass of whiskey sitting in front of me.
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”