THREE
Benito “Benny” Romano parked his white Chrysler 300 outside a small run-down bungalow at the edge of Sunrise, a small community on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Across the street, a drug deal was going down between two boys, no more than fourteen, and a dealer who was only a year or two older. A mangy dog lay on the grass in front of the house, and a beaten-up pick-up truck was parked in the driveway.
Fuck. Gabe was here. He was never here on Tuesdays. Had he lost another fucking job?
He closed and locked the door and made his way through the overgrown weeds and up the sidewalk, stopping to move Daisy’s broken tricycle and pick up Mr. Tickles who had been abandoned in the dirt. Christ. He gave Ginger enough money every month to afford a decent place for her and their daughter, Daisy, in a nice area of town. But, of course, with Gabe around, she’d have other plans for that money.
“Daddy!” The screen door banged open, and Daisy flew into his arms, her long blond hair a tangled mess, and her six-year-old hands sticky with sweets.
“Hey, baby. What are you doing up so late?” He scooped her up and gave her a hug, careful not to bruise her. She was too thin, but it seemed no matter how much money he gave Ginger, Daisy never filled out.
“Are you finished catching bad guys today? Did you bring something to eat?” She wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and bounced against him. “There was only beans in the cupboard for dinner today and I had them three times already this week for dinner.”
“Ginger.” He shouted her name, both out of anger and because he knew she’d be in the bedroom with Gabe and he didn’t want that train wreck of a relationship in his face. “I got a sandwich in my bag. Daddy’ll feed you good.”
He only ever regretted his career choices when it came to Daisy. He’d been undercover with the mob four years when he met Ginger in a bar and took her home for the night. The nature of his undercover police work meant he couldn’t have a normal relationship so he lived for his one-night stands. He hadn’t expected that one night to lead to a lifelong commitment in the form of a little girl.
“Yeah.” Ginger stepped out onto the porch, and crossed her arms beneath her generous breasts, almost busting out of her hot pink tank top. Those breasts were how he’d wound up in her bed in the first place. Daisy was how he wound up in her life.
“What the fuck did you do with the money I gave you last week? Daisy says you’re only feeding her beans.”
Ginger didn’t even have the good grace to look guilty. Instead, she just shrugged. “Things are expensive. I gotta pay rent, utilities, car payments, the dog had to go to the vet…”
“You took the dog to the vet instead of feeding our child?”
“I knew she’d live. Scamper wouldn’t.” She gave him the look—that fucking look that drove him out of his mind, the look of a scheming woman who told a man she was on the pill when she wasn’t because he was the first decent man to cross her path and she wanted to keep him. “You got no right to come in here and criticize how I raise Daisy. You chose your work over raising your kid. The criminals of Vegas get to spend more time with you than her.”
He hugged Daisy to his chest. “I told you a hundred times, Ginger. It’s not the hours. It’s the danger. I’m doing stuff that could come back on you and Daisy, and I don’t want either of you to get hurt.”
She snorted a laugh. “What? You’re afraid someone’s gonna beat down our door ’cause you handed out a parking ticket? You just like to big yourself up when we both know you’re a nobody. A beat cop who’s never gotten off the street.”
One day he’d tell her the truth. He’d tell her how he’d moved up quickly through the ranks of the Las Vegas police to become a detective, and how even that wasn’t enough to feed his need for adrenaline. He’d tell her how he’d been offered an undercover job, and after it was done, he was hooked because the rush he got when he was shoulder to shoulder with the criminals, walking their walk and talking their talk, was like nothing he’d experienced before.
And he was good—damn good—able to fit into almost any social group, mimic their speech and body language, wear their clothes and drive their cars. No one had ever made him for cop, and no one ever would. He’d been undercover in the mob for ten years now, answering to another name, living another man’s life. Although he wasn’t a made man, he was a trusted associate. If they found out who he really was, they’d kill him where he stood. And then they’d go after his family—but only if there was a family to find.