Boss Daddy: Chapter 32

“Where were we?”

Misha sits on the bar stool like he owns the damn place.

His guards flank him, there’s a gun trained on me, and he’s clearly feeling a hell of a lot more confident. He reaches to the bar, taking the martini one of his guards abandoned when James hit the first goon. He brings the glass to his mouth for a slow sip.

“That’s good stuff.” He turns to me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come work for me again?” He laughs at his own joke, shaking his head.

The smirk on his face is infuriating. He’s so full of himself, so sure of his men, and so certain this fight is already over, that he didn’t even flinch when the fight broke out.

“Tell me,” Samuel says. “Who gave you this information?”

Misha shrugs. “Doesn’t look like you’re in any position to make demands,” he replies. “And it doesn’t matter. I know what she did and I want my money.”

“You’re not getting shit.”

Misha narrows his eyes. “I’m getting exactly what I came for. And if you don’t give it to me—”

What happens next happens fast.

I grab one of the bottles from behind the bar, throwing it with all my strength at the nearest goon. The bottle connects with a thunk, and he stumbles backward.

That’s all Samuel needs.

“James, move!”

I jerk my head to the side just in time to see James swing the pipe. It cracks against the other goon’s head, sending him stumbling but not dropping. My gaze snaps back just as Samuel spins, his fist connecting with the second goon’s jaw. The impact is brutal, the sound of it ringing in my ears.

The room explodes again—a blur of fists swinging and the sound of sharp grunts as the fight begins again in earnest. My heart hammers in my chest, but no one’s paying attention to me.

I duck under the bar, my fingers scrambling for the panic button. It’s hidden beneath the counter, a small, inconspicuous switch that I press hard. I don’t know if it even works—I’ve never used it before—but it’s my best shot. If the cops show up, this could end without anyone else getting hurt.

If they show up and aren’t working for Misha.

Peeking over the bar, I assess the fight. Samuel is holding his own. He doesn’t need my help. James, however, is in trouble. The guy he hit, the biggest of all the thugs, isn’t down, and now they’re both staggering. James is injured, his movements slower, less effective. I feel a surge of panic watching him struggle, but I force myself to stay put. I’m not a fighter—jumping in won’t help anyone.

“Is this really the best you guys can do?” Misha asks, watching the brawl. “Come on, I expected better than this.” He takes another sip of the martini, watching the fight like it’s a show put on for his entertainment.

Samuel takes a hard punch to the face, and my heart leaps into my throat. He counters with a jab to the goon’s nose, followed by a roundhouse punch that sends the guy crumpling to the floor. One down.

James is still struggling. He and the other thug are both woozy, their fight dragging on in a messy, desperate way. Samuel doesn’t hesitate. He rushes over to help.

Misha’s smirk falters as he realizes his men are losing. He sets his drink down and rises from the bar stool. The sight sends a chill down my spine. He turns toward me slowly.

“Stay the hell away from me!” I take a step back, but he keeps coming.

I glance toward the front of the club. If the panic button worked, the cops should be on their way. If I can get to the door, I can let them in and end this.

To do that, though, I have to pass Misha.

He’s slow, I remind myself. His size will work against him. I can make it.

I dart toward the front, but Misha surprises me. Despite his bulk, he moves fast enough to grab my hair. Pain shoots through my scalp as he yanks me back, making me stumble.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he snarls, jerking me around like I weigh nothing.

“Let her go!” Samuel’s voice is a roar, and I can see out of the corner of my eye that he and James have just dropped the final guard.

Misha ignores him. His hand fists in my hair, and before I can react, his other fist slams into my solar plexus. The pain is blinding. I double over, gasping for air. My legs give out, and I would fall to the floor if Misha weren’t holding me up by my hair.

“Freeze!” he yells at Samuel and James. “One more step, and I’ll beat her to death myself.”

Tears blur my vision as I struggle to breathe. My mind races, but through the haze of pain, I realize something.

Misha doesn’t have a gun.

My stomach cries out in pain from the punch.

The baby.

Just the thought of it is enough to ignite a rage in me I didn’t know I was capable of. With every last bit of my strength, I slam into Misha. He lets out an oof of pain, and this time, his size works against him.

Misha topples over, his hand still fisted in my hair, pulling me on top of his sweaty bulk.

Samuel is there in an instant. He forces Misha to release me, then helps me up, setting me on a bar stool. Then he plants his boot on the center of Misha’s chest, pinning him to the ground.

“Don’t move,” Samuel growls. The deadly calm in his tone makes me shiver. “Or you’re fucking dead.”

Misha doesn’t respond. His smug smirk is finally gone, replaced by a flash of fear. For the first time tonight, he doesn’t look so certain.