Page 38 of The Bratva King

“And if her son has the flu? Kids get sick, Nik. Babysitters don’t watch sick kids. It’s not an emergency.”

“I’m going.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“I want to drive myself.”

“Nik.”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” I say. “Handle the call with the gaming commission while I’m gone.”

He exhales through his nose. “Fine. Call me if you need backup for your welfare check.”

I ignore the amusement in his voice and walk toward the exit.

The address on her paperwork puts her in a rougher neighborhood. Drug dealers stand openly on the corners. Graffiti covers most surfaces, and the corner store has bars on the windows. It’s a different world from the suburbs, with its clay roofs and artificial turf lawns. Tourists see the glitz and glamour of the Strip and have no idea this kind of poverty exists five miles away.

My GPS tells me to take a left.

There she is.

She’s on the sidewalk in front of a three-story building that looks like it should be condemned. Her hands are on her hips, and Luke is behind her, staring at the sidewalk. She’s talking to a man in a white tank top and shorts with an impressive beer belly.

My first thought is that I’ve arrived in the middle of something. My second is that it’s bad. Black garbage bags sit on the sidewalk. A box and a laundry basket sit next to them.

I can read the body language from fifty feet away. They’re arguing.

I slow to a stop along the curb. Gabby reaches behind her and rests a hand on her son’s head. Protecting him. She’s always protecting him. I can see her face now, and she’s pissed. Her free hand gestures wildly. The man shrugs, then laughs.

The bags. The box. The laundry basket.

She’s been evicted.

I cut the engine and get out of the SUV.

Now, the man is leaning toward her, shouting in her face. I stalk toward them, my eyes locked on him. She doesn’t see me, but he does. He reads enough into my demeanor to step away from her.

Gabby turns. Her damp hair hangs loosely around her shoulders. She’s in jeans and a plain white shirt. She looks exhausted.

“What are you doing here?” she says.

“Who’s this?” I push my sunglasses onto my head so the man can see my eyes.

“My landlord,” she says.

“Ex-landlord,” the man sneers.

I step forward. The landlord has a very punchable face. Sweat stains the fabric beneath his arms. He’s wearing a smug look that I intend to remove.

I put myself between him and Gabby, then step forward into his space. He has to look up at me.

The smug expression falters.

“You’re the landlord.” It isn’t a question.

“That’s right.” He squares his shoulders. Brave for a man his size. “And this ain’t your business.”

I look up at the building. A water stain runs down the exterior wall. One of the second-floor balconies has a support post rotted through and replaced with what looks like a two-by-four nailed in at an angle. The place is a hovel.