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“Yes.” He nods slowly as he stares at the thick file on the conference table as if in thought. “There are a few things you could do to help lower the amount of the damages.”
“Like what?”
“You’ll have to keep your public image squeaky clean from now until the trial.”
“You think I’m capable of squeaky clean?” I mutter. While Warwick wouldn’t bend any rule for fear of losing his law license, he’s not stupid. He knows where my family’s wealth comes from, and it’s not from selling Girl Scout cookies. My girls sell something even more addictive—pussy. Not just pussy, but fantasies, the dirtier the better. Whatever it is that gets you off, at the right price of course. And there’s a big ass, walk-in safe at my estate that houses all the dirty deeds of the most prominent businessmen and politicians, not just in the state but the entire country.
Peering at me over the top of his glasses, Warwick says, “I mean you’ll need to lay low, get some good PR to combat the bad boy pimp image.”
“I own the biggest brothel empire in the world, how exactly do you propose I clean up my image?”
The first thing I did when my father died, and I inherited his money, was to build a casino. I needed something that was my own, something separate from the goddamn whore houses.
The old man shrugs his shoulders under his suit jacket. “You could take a wife.”
“Take a wife?” I grit out through my clenched teeth. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? How will tying myself to a woman who spends all my money help the situation?”
“A good woman can make even the worst man want to be better.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t want to be better for some woman.”
Sighing, he says, “A jury will be less inclined to bankrupt you if you have a wife and family to support.”
“A wife and…wow.” I scrape my fingers over my raspy jaw, feeling like I’ve been blindsided. Having a beautiful trophy wife on my arm is no big deal. I can handle a wife if she’s hot, obedient, and the union is also beneficial to me, like marrying my rival Dante Salvato’s oldest daughter. But becoming a father is not something I’ve given any thought to whatsoever.
“Other than working on your image, identifying who planted the bomb could take some of the heat off you during the trial. The police still don’t have any leads, do they?”
“No. They never fingered anyone as the bomber. Kozlov or Petrov were no doubt the ones who paid for the assassination attempt, but there’s no proof. And neither of them have been seen or heard from in months.” I’m sure Dante made certain they will never be seen or heard from again.
“Which means you’re left holding the bag of shit. Or in this case, holding all the body bags of those poor souls who died.”
“Fuck.” Running my fingers through my short hair, I tell Warwick, “I was supposed to marry a rival’s daughter, as a peace offering between us. But it’s been on hold for months now.”
I’ve known for a while now that Dante Salvato’s daughter Madison ran away. Fucking fled the city, probably the state, just to avoid having to marry me. And the bastard has been lying to me about it this whole time.
“Find the bomber, take a wife, pretend you’re using your second chance at life to fall madly in love.” The bastard gives me an impossible to-do list like any of that shit is going to be easy. “The media will eat it up if you look more like a family man than a ruthless pimp, and we can show the jury you were also a victim if you can find who tried to kill you.”
He keeps saying take a wife like it’s that easy to pluck one out of the sky. And god knows I want to find the person responsible to make them pay.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell my attorney.
“Good. And hire a reputable PR person. They’ll cost less by the hour than my firm. Which reminds me, I’ll need another two million to bill my time and expenses against preparing for trial,” he says, not even bothering to get up from his chair to show me out.
“You’ll have your money by the end of the day,” I promise him as I start to the door.
“Great.” My hand is on the doorknob when he adds, “One other thing.”
“What?” I ask him over my shoulder.
“Try to keep your brother out of trouble. The next DWI he gets could end with someone else in a body bag.”
“I’ll try,” I respond with a heavy sigh.
My half-brother is a twenty-one-year-old walking disaster. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s been arrested for assaults or wrecking the newest sports car I bought him. Flynn probably would’ve benefited from a little more of my father’s tough love before he died. Now he’s a spoiled little prick, which is another headache I don’t need.
Later that night, while I’m lying in bed wide awake, I think over Warwick’s advice. But what else is new? I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since before the bombing.
I checked in with all three of my PIs today, and nobody had any new leads on finding Madison Salvato or any evidence to help identify the bomber. None of the security videos show when exactly the bomb was planted and not a shred of DNA survived the blast. And Madison, well, she could be anywhere in the fucking world.
