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He ended the call before he did any more damage.
Nineteen
DARIO
“You’ve got to do something about these sluts.”
Dario pulled apart the roll, steam breaking free and curling into the air. He reached for the butter and ignored the comment from Robert Hawk.
“They’re all over the bar at The Majestic. We’re not running a brothel, Dario.”
He looked up, meeting the older man’s sharp eyes. “They aren’t prostitutes, Robert. They’re models. We’re strict with them on that.”
Which wasn’t to say they didn’t have a stable of escorts. Two percent of last year’s bottom line had come from those girls. But that was run through a separate corporation, one that Robert Hawk didn’t have his fingers in.
“I don’t care if they’re models. They don’t belong in my casino. The men are here to play, not get distracted by skirts short enough to show their pussies.” The man snorted and lifted his glass, glaring at their waiter.
“You aren’t supposed to be at The Majestic.” Dario kept his voice mild but pinned the man with a look capable of breaking glass. “We have an agreement, one that doesn’t involve you harassing our employees or our guests.”
“I wasn’t harassing anyone.” The man sat back, shoving his glass to the side and waiting as a fresh whiskey was set down. “And it’s my damn casino. What’s the point of having one if I can’t check in on it?”
He lifted the whiskey and paused, pointing his finger in Dario’s direction. “You think you can do whatever you want, without me checking on my investment? It doesn’t work like that.”
“Your investment has tripled in value since I stepped in.” Dario cut a wedge of steak and stabbed it with his fork. “I’m not going to measure dicks with you, Robert. Just stay out of the casinos and count your millions at the end of each month.” He lifted the piece of meat to his mouth. “How’s the horse business?”
“Fuck the horses. I killed one last week. Damn thing came up limping. Worst business to be in.”
Dario took a sip of ice water. “You seem to enjoy it.”
“I enjoy winning. The rest is bullshit, a complete waste of time and money. Speaking of which, how’s my little girl?”
It was interesting, the way that Hawk viewed his only daughter. A waste of time and money was one end of his emotional spectrum toward Gwen. The other end was a maniacal possessive pride, one that insisted his daughter succeed in everything, yet never move more than a step from his control. It had taken three years and delicate maneuvering to engineer the marriage between them and the manipulation of Robert Hawk. It had been the most difficult business deal Dario had ever entered into. A business deal still very much in play.
Dario finished chewing and swallowed. “She’s good. Spent last weekend at the ranch.”
“I keep waiting for a grandchild. I’m going to be hobbling around on a walker at the current pace of your dick.”
Hawk would be dead in the ground before Gwen ever brought a child into the world. She had a hormone implant that guaranteed that.
Dario shrugged. “We’re trying. I’ve told you before about her doctor’s report.”
Robert Hawk looked away, the mention of the doctor’s report ending the conversation as quickly as it had started. There was no doctor’s report, at least not one that verified Gwen’s concerns. She hadn’t checked to see her fertility feasibility but they both doubted her ability to carry a child. Those three weeks in Mexico, the things that had been done to her twelve-year-old body…
Dario’s stomach clenched and, for the hundredth time, he considered killing the man. “Maybe you should have thought about your future grandchildren when she was in Mexico.”
The words hung between them, and Hawk’s eyes sparked with anger, a flash of rage that was quickly buttoned down and tucked away for later. Dario often wondered what happened after their meetings, if all of Dario’s pokes exploded out of Robert Hawk and onto an innocent victim. He often wondered if he should think less and shut his mouth more.
But he couldn’t keep silent about some things. Hawk’s refusal to pay a million-dollar ransom had led to Mexican kidnappers savaging his daughter. Dario had been the one to avenge that crime. It’d taken three months in that sweat-filled country to track down the assholes, ones who’d barely remembered the event until he’d reminded them. By the end of the trip, they’d remembered everything and burned and bled their way into hell.
It had felt good. It had made Gwen happy, but hadn’t brought back her innocence. Just like his recent activities hadn’t brought back Bell’s. Was it a coincidence that both of these women had such brutal pasts? Maybe that psychiatrist from Sacramento had been right, the one who had gotten drunk on mojitos and analyzed him over nachos and salsa in that airport lounge. Maybe he did have a white knight syndrome.
