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In the meantime, I finish interrogating a particularly spirited Vegas drifter who knows a lot of shit about the Wild Seven. I walk out of my insulated back room with my fists bloodied and a cut on my jaw. It's small, something that likely won't leave a scar, but I have to begrudgingly admit that I didn't expect that vagrant to be hiding a little Exacto blade up his sleeve like that.
He's in bad shape, but he gave me what I needed: I know for a fact that the Wild Seven are to blame for the unwanted publicity of a body bag outside my casino. And I know they're here with a vengeance—he mentioned one of their leaders, someone named Ace, looking to tear down establishments like mine because he's a greedy little motherfucker.
Now I'm pissed that they're trying to stir up trouble for me in the eyes of the general public. As if I didn't already have enough reason to hunt down these hackers for attacking Loren.
At the thought of Loren, I check the time. It's after midnight, and I'm exhausted from the last three hours of handling don shit and juggling the public image of my family's casino. She's probably long since fallen asleep, but I find myself getting back into my Bugatti and leaving the parking garage to drive toward her apartments anyway.
Big Luck or some other Caputo is stationed to keep an eye on her complex at all times, but if I can't hold her in my arms, I just want to be near her proximity, just for a bit. Just to try to get that same sense of being able to breathe through my regular daily stress, which I usually have when she's with me.
I park just outside Loren's apartment complex and scowl at it again. There are approximately four streetlights in her entire parking lot, and one is burned out. Despite the late hour, someone is blasting music from a downstairs unit, and people are out smoking on their balconies while sirens blare in the distance. This isn't a good part of town.
What's keeping her here? Why didn't she move out the second she had a steady paycheck? I should put down a downpayment somewhere else to get her out of this shithole as quickly as possible. I'll call it a work perk.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I blink when I see that it's Loren herself.
"Still awake?" I answer.
She snorts on the other end. "Please. I'm not a grandmother. One in the morning isn'tthatlate, you know. I was just calling because…well, I don't know if you took care of whatever you needed to take care of, but I'm pretty sure we can't leave your Porsche parked where I live. It'll get broken into."
I eye my Porsche, which is parked nearby, and clench my teeth. "You shouldn't live in a place where decent cars are default targets. You're moving."
Loren sighs. "No, I'm not. Just come get your car before—"
As if on cue, I watch as a figure scurries away from my locked Porsche, and the car alarm goes off. They failed at breaking in, but Loren can hear the alarm on my end, too, because she cuts off with a surprised sound.
"Are...wait, are you at my apartment complex? What the fuck?"
I exit, lock my car behind me, and stride toward her apartment door. Now that I know she's awake and she knows I'm here, I have no reason to leave her be the way I probably should. "I am."
"Why?"
"You said to pick up my car."
"Right, but there's no way you showed up so quickly when—"
I hang up and knock, glaring over my shoulder at the blaring car until her door unlocks quickly, and she throws it open. When I see her again, it's immediately like a cool compress to a sunburn. Loren soothes me. Warms me until I feel I can breathe evenly again.
"Use the key fob to turn off the alarm," I advise, eyes dropping to her pajamas. She's in short shorts with an oversized tee shirt, her blond hair falling out of a messy clamp. It's absolutely charming.
But Loren's brow furrows, and she points at my jaw. "What happened here?"
I reach up to feel it, almost having forgotten the cut there, and she makes a strangled sound.
"Your fists, too? God, you're like a fucking animal. Get in here before someone decides to try jumping the first guy they've ever seen in a tailored suit—you'd probably break their kneecaps or something."
It's true. I would.
Loren lets me enter her apartment as she wrestles with the Porsche's key fob to finally turn off the alarm. As she's occupied, I look around swiftly. It's a tiny space. Old. I can tell she keeps it up as well as she can, but there's no way to polish shit, and that's what this old apartment is: shitty. Despite the small colorful decorations and homey feel here, I don't like my cherry blossom living in a place like this.
My eyes fall to a child's drawing in crayon pinned on the small fridge. It's a mess of colorful scribbles. There's a pair of small, pink shoes forgotten on the counter and a matching bow on the kitchen table beside an abandoned little bowl of macaroni and cheese.
I also spot scrapbooks. A handful of them are shelved beside photo albums near a stack of cookbooks on one of the kitchen counters. If I open those photo albums, will I learn more about Loren? She's tight-lipped about so much that the idea is tempting.
"Here," she says finally, shoving the Porsche fob into my hands and grabbing a small first-aid box from somewhere else in her apartment. Her eyes keep flicking to the back hallway as she does, and I realize that must be where her daughter is since she seems so nervous.
I again debate asking Loren about her daughter but change my mind as she pulls out the antibiotic ointment and wipes and quickly cleans up the little cut on my jaw, grumbling under her breath at me and scoffing at the blood on my fists.
"I see you make a habit of getting your fancy-ass suits all bloodied up," she huffs.
