Boss Daddy: Chapter 30

“Misha.”

The word comes out of my mouth dripping with venom. I want to smash a bottle, leap across the bar, and stick the pointy end into his fat neck.

One of the guards, sensing the shift in mood, raises his gun. “Keep your palms on the bar,” he says. “Or your brains will be decorating those bottles behind you.”

Misha, a pleased smile on his face, waddles over to the bar and plops onto one of the stools. His girth spills over the sides in a way that would be funny if it weren’t for the disgusting grin on his face.

The sight of him sends a cold rush of anger through me, but I straighten my spine, refusing to let him see how rattled I am.

“Alright,” Misha says, scanning the bottles as he drums his sausage fingers on the bar. “What sounds good tonight?”

As he looks around, I think about Mark. What a total prick. His betrayal completely stunned me.

Misha’s gaze shifts to me, and my skin prickles under his attention. His smile becomes more cruel, more calculated, as he gestures toward the bottles. “You,” he says, his little piggy eyes locking onto me. “Make us some drinks. You are the bartender here, aren’t you? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I freeze, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. My eyes dart to Samuel, who moves as if he’s going to make the drinks himself.

Misha raises a hand, stopping him cold. “Ah, no,” he says, shaking his head. “She can manage on her own.”

I swallow hard, every nerve screaming at me to stay by Samuel’s side, but I know what Misha’s doing. He’s trying to separate us, to prove he’s in control. My feet feel like they’re glued to the floor, but Samuel gives me a look, calm, steady, and reassuring.

“Five vodka martinis, one for me and all of my men. Nice and cold, too. Lots of olives. Get to it.”

With a shaky breath, I force my legs to move, walking toward the bottles as Misha’s eyes follow me. My stomach churns with every step, but I hold my head high. For now, I’ll play along. I’ll be the bartender he wants me to be. But I swear, the second I see an opening, Misha is going to regret this bullshit.

I glance toward the other entrance to the bar. One of the goons is standing there, not paying much attention. I could grab one of the bottles and…

Before I can do anything, one of the other guards notices my gaze. He lifts his gun and points it at my knee. “You like being able to walk, sweetheart? Then maybe you should focus on the drinks.”

The air freezes around us, and I feel Samuel step beside me, his body stiffening. In an instant, he steps in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the gun.

“Put it down,” Samuel growls. “Now.”

Misha lets out a laugh, the sound low and mocking. “Gallant as ever, Sammy. What a good little boyfriend.” He leans forward. “But let’s not play hero. My guy here? He’s got a steady hand. And if you don’t want both of you hobbling out of here, or in body bags, I suggest she does what she’s told. Five vodka martinis. Now.”

The goon smirks, moving his aim back and forth between Samuel’s head and mine. A cold spike of fear runs down my spine. “Two heads, two shots. Easy peasy.”

I pull in a shaky breath, stepping out from behind Samuel before things can escalate further. “It’s fine,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll make the drinks.”

“Smart girl,” Misha says, waving a hand toward the bottles. “Now, show me those bartending skills.” He nods to the guard, who lowers the gun.

I grab my bar towel and throw it over my shoulder. My hands are shaking, but I force them to steady as I glance at the bottles of vodka. I grab the Gray Goose—Misha likes the top-of-the-line stuff.

Next, I grab the vermouth. As I start pouring, a plan forms in the back of my mind. If I slipped just a little bit of the cleaner under the counter into his drink, it’d probably make him sick and maybe buy us some time. But one of Misha’s men standing close by, his beady eyes locked on me. Watching. The idea dies before it fully forms. Damn it.

I focus on the task at hand, working quickly to keep my nerves from showing. As I shake the martini, Misha speaks. “And for you, Samuel? Your usual?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Samuel regard Misha with an expression of pure disdain.

“What was it again?” Misha asks, drumming his fingers and looking away in thought. “Whiskey, neat? You’d always drink the same thing during our little meetings.”

“Nothing for me,” Samuel says, his tone clipped.

I finish making the first martini, then another, and another.

Misha eyes his with a sneer, but I don’t wait for him to speak. My thoughts are racing, my stomach twisting as the reality of the situation settles in. My hand brushes over my abdomen almost instinctively, and for a moment, I’m consumed by the possibility of a life growing inside me.

I can’t let this go badly. I have to protect Samuel, myself, and possibly a baby.

Steeling myself, I lift my chin and look directly at Misha. “So,” I say, “why do you have such a bug up your ass about me?”

The sneer on his face falters for a split second before returning wider. He laughs, slow and deliberate, as if I’ve amused him.

“Right to it,” he says, raising his glass in a mock toast. “I like that.”

I don’t flinch, my gaze never leaving his. Let him laugh. Let him sneer. He might think he’s in control, but I’m not going to let him see my fear.

Not tonight.