A Very Daddy Christmas (Lucky Lady Reverse Harems)

Chapter 30

30

Sebastian

“ I t’s been twenty-four hours since anyone has seen or heard from Cora,” I tell Sheriff Foreman.

Eva offered to take care of Dario while we run around like headless chicken, desperately looking for Cora. We’ve been unable to locate Denaro, and we can’t get anywhere near Hamilton or St. James without them calling the cops on us.

It’s painfully quiet, even in the sheriff’s station.

Foreman looks up from his phone, comfortably seated behind his desk.

“We’re going to file a missing person’s report,” he says. “She’s probably just upset about this whole sex scandal thing.”

“It’s like you haven’t heard a single word we’ve said,” Waylan snaps.

Foreman gives him a stern glare. “Mind your tone. You’re forgetting yourself.”

“You’re forgetting who you work for, Sheriff,” I cut in. “You serve the people. Protect and serve. I’m sure that’s still your motto. You’ve got a vulnerable young woman who’s been missing for twenty-four hours, after her business was violently destroyed. Cora would never disappear like this. Never. Her sister has confirmed that as well. We can’t get her on the phone. No texts, nothing. Something happened to her.”

“Alright,” the sheriff says, running a hand through his graying hair. “I’ll get the deputies involved. We’ll start interviewing people and knocking on doors. What about Cora’s car?”

“Still outside our house, where she’s been staying as a live-in babysitter,” I say.

A smirk dances across his face. “A live-in babysitter.”

“Got something against that, Sheriff?” Riggs asks, his tone clipped.

“No, Sebastian, not at all. It’s just that there’ve been some rumors flying around—”

“Rumors that shouldn’t impede your investigation into Cora’s disappearance,” Riggs instantly corrects him. “What about her phone? It’s not going to voicemail anymore. It must’ve been turned off.”

“I’ll put a trace on it and find out where it last pinged. The cell tower should give us an idea of her last known location, or at least a workable radius.”

“There hasn’t been anything on social media, either,” I say.

Foreman shakes his head. “I doubt we’ll get anything from there. I’ll file the report and get the staties involved—just in case.”

“She’s pregnant,” I tell him. “Maybe that’ll get more boots on the ground.”

Those two words seem to get the sheriff’s full and undivided attention for the first time since we set foot in his office. His expression shifts from dull concern to full-blown worry as he looks at me with wide eyes. “I’ll check the hospitals, too. I’ll put out a city-wide alert. I’ll tell the deputies to reach out to neighboring counties, as well.”

“Perhaps it’s time to get her picture on the local news,” I suggest.

He nods in agreement. “Yeah, we’ll do that. Our PR person will handle the comms. We’ll set up a hotline, but mind you, it’ll blow up with all sorts of fools and attention seekers on top of potentially reliable leads. But someone somewhere saw something. Cora didn’t just disappear from the face of the earth.”

“We’ll join the search if you need us to. Just tell us how we can help,” Riggs says.

Foreman takes a deep breath and leans back into his chair. “Actually, I’ve got something better for you three to do.”

“Really?” I sound almost insulted.

“You came to me with some pretty serious accusations regarding Orson St. James and George Hamilton,” Foreman calmly replies. “If you’re right, and if they’re connected to this mobster fella—what’s his name again?”

“Goes by Denaro,” Waylan mutters.

“Right, Denaro… well, here’s the thing. I’ve tried to keep it friendly and civil with every player in this town from the moment I was elected Sheriff,” Foreman says. “But if there’s one thing I won’t allow in my county, it’s Chicago-style mobsters hurting innocent folks. Especially a pregnant woman like Cora Levine. And if Mr. St. James and Mr. Hamilton had anything to do with that at all, even by association, I want to be able to hold them accountable. I also want to bust their hypocritical asses for those other crimes you described in such minute detail, so, how’s about you fellas go out there, make good use of your own resources, and get me some hard evidence against them?”

It takes a minute for his request to sink in.

“Hold on, Sheriff,” I reply. “You want us to do what law enforcement will not?”

“I’d like to focus all of my resources on finding Cora sooner rather than later. And if we start badgering St. James and Hamilton with our badges and authority, they’re going to close ranks and hide behind their lawyers. They’ll never see you coming, though, and we all know you have friends in various departments.”

“Holy shit,” Waylan chuckles dryly.

“I know. I surprise myself with suggesting this as well. And if St. James and Hamilton think the police aren’t coming after them, they’ll be tempted to get comfortable, let their guards down.”

“We’re civilians,” I remind him. “How’s that going to work? Isn’t there an issue with the fruit of the poisonous tree here?”

Foreman shakes his head. “Not if I deputize you.”

It doesn’t take long to pick up a useful trail.

Between our veteran buddies, law enforcement connections, and Foreman’s official blessing, we’re able to quickly get a line on Hamilton. It’s been two days since Cora has gone missing, and we find the fucker enjoying himself in the backroom of a Chinese restaurant.

Some of the city’s worst and most slippery come here for the illegal poker games, and I’m not surprised to see Hamilton rubbing elbows with them.

They’re cleaning him out, though.

“How long have we been sitting here?” Riggs asks me in a low voice.

We’re at another table across the room, dressed in our most casual outfits— all of us sporting shades of black and gray and mingling with the high rollers. There’s enough smoke and bad lighting in this place to keep Hamilton from spotting us right away. Besides, he’s too busy watching a Triad-wannabe scoop up the last of his five-thousand-dollar poker chips while the dealer opens a new game.

“An hour,” I say, my eyes never leaving Hamilton’s hand movements. He’s nervous and clearly desperate as he takes off his Rolex and tosses it on the table.

“I said deal me in!” he snaps at the dealer.

“He’s already lost what, fifty grand?” Waylan whispers.

“Along those lines, yeah,” I say.

Meanwhile, we’ve been keeping a low profile, winning some, losing some, just enough of both to keep us at the table and away from any suspicion.

George is about to get his ass whipped.

“Do you know that guy?” one of the men at our table asks as he nods in George’s direction. He’s a rugged-looking man from Texas, wearing a cowboy hat with a bushy mustache and an even bushier brow. “Or do you have a crush on him?”

I chuckle dryly. “I’ve seen him around.”

“He’s a terrible player, but he keeps coming in. They keep letting him in ‘cause they keep cleaning him out,” Bushy Brow says. “I hear he’s desperate enough to wager his wife for the night, if you catch him in a pinch.”

I look at Bushy Brow for a long moment. “Do you have any proof or are you just gossiping like a bored housewife?”

“I got proof,” he replies, nodding.

“I’ll pay you double your winnings tonight if you provide me with said proof,” I say, a shit-eating grin on my face.

“Sebastian, what are you doing?” Waylan whispers in my ear.

“I’ve made about sixty grand so far,” Bushy Brow says. “I might hit a hundred if I catch you at the next river.”

Riggs gives him a cocky grin. “And if you don’t?”

Bushy Brow laughs. “I don’t owe that sleazebag a thing. A man who whores out his wife to settle his gambling debts ain’t a man in my book.”

While Hamilton loses his watch and finds himself unceremoniously escorted out of the backroom, I play Bushy Brow and decide to fold upon the river despite my full house. He bags a total of eighty grand by the end of the tournament. I keep my word and immediately wire him double that amount. Once he checks his phone and receives confirmation of the incoming funds, he invites us to the front of the restaurant to celebrate his winnings with a few shots of bourbon.

“You’re a man of your word, I’ll give you that,” Bushy Brow says as he downs his drink.

Riggs keeps looking around, worried we might cross paths with Hamilton.

“Relax,” I tell him. “He’s dirt poor. He’s going home, most likely.”

“Nah, he’s headed to the nearest motel,” Bushy Brow mutters. “He always keeps a hundred in cash for a quickie. He says gambling gets him in the mood, but the wife doesn’t put out much these days.”

“I’m not surprised,” Waylan grumbles, “after what he put her through.”

“Speaking of…” I nod at Bushy Brow.

He laughs and sends me a series of recordings from his phone. “I made sure I had proof of his and his wife’s consent before I took her to the hotel that night. You can never know with these folks. I was worried Hamilton might set the cops on me, or the missus might accuse me of awful deeds.”

“So what happened exactly?” I ask him.

“I cleaned him out. Once. Twice. By the fifth night, he was foaming at the mouth, but he still couldn’t accept defeat.”

“On the sixth night, he caved. He was out of cash, out of jewelry, but he was desperate to keep playing. Desperate to win,” he adds. “So, I told him I could do with a little bit of company back at my hotel room. I’d seen his wife around a couple of times. All I had to do was mention how pretty she was.”

“Hamilton’s wife is about twenty years younger, right?” Riggs asks me, and I give him a slight nod.

“And a slice of hot apple pie,” Bushy Brow chuckles. “Mind you, Hamilton offered her up. I didn’t say I wanted her for the night. He offered her affections in the event of his loss.”

“He’s the one who lost, yet she pays the price,” Waylan sighs deeply.

“Hey, the lady consented.”

“And what do the recordings cover?” I ask him.

“The whole exchange,” he says. “As soon as he mentioned his wife at the table during the last game, I figured I’d cover my ass if it moved forward. Low and behold, forward it moved.” He gives me a hard look. “What’s your beef with the guy?”

“Let’s just say it’s personal,” I respond.

He shrugs, too pleased with the obscene amount he earned tonight for doing practically nothing. “I’m sorry I won’t be seeing him around, then,” Bushy Brow says. “I would’ve loved to clean him out again, but I think he’s already reached the end of his line.”

“What do you mean?” Riggs asks him.

“That’s the problem with degenerate gamblers, fellas. They just don’t know when to quit. They piss the wrong people off and it’s game over for them, one way or another, and it’s usually bad. Like cement-shoes bad, and I’ve heard enough about him and his buddy messing around with that Italian mobster fella to know it’s about to go there.”

Unless they get Denaro his building.

With this new information and a wiretap active on both Hamilton and St. James, we leave the establishment behind and follow Hamilton back to his place. We sit on the house for a while—long enough to catch a glimpse of him arguing with his much younger wife in the kitchen—then watch as Hamilton retreats into the living room to pour himself a drink.

He gets on the phone. Instantly, Riggs’s laptop comes alive, his wiretap active.

“He’s calling St. James,” he says, then opens the line and turns up the volume.

“What do you want?” Orson asks Hamilton.

“I haven’t heard from him yet,” he says, slightly slurring his words. “Should I be worried?”

“Is that why you’re calling? You’re worried because Denaro’s giving you the silent treatment?”

“That little bitch is missing. The whole town is in an uproar,” Hamilton hisses. “I’m worried Denaro did something that’s gonna get us all in deep shit.”

“We’re already in deep shit. All Denaro’s doing now is making sure we all get out of deep shit,” Orson bluntly corrects him. “If I were you, I’d be thankful he’s not calling me. Get some sleep, sober up, and meet me at the country club tomorrow morning. The sheriff will probably be coming around to ask us questions about the woman, so we might as well get our stories straight.”

Waylan growls. “There it is.”

“Tonight has been particularly bountiful,” Riggs concludes, his gaze darkening with quiet rage. “We need to pay Orson a visit.”

We leave Hamilton to his miserable devices and drive across town to Orson’s mansion. The clock is ticking, but with no knowledge of Cora’s condition or whereabouts, it feels like it’s ticking somewhere out of our earshot. My nerves are stretched thin, and keeping my emotions under control becomes harder with each passing hour.

“We need to record this conversation,” Riggs warns me. “And we need to keep it from getting physical since Foreman deputized us.”

“I can’t promise the latter,” I mutter as we pull up in front of Orson’s majestic black iron gate. His mansion rises defiantly into the night. There’s movement on the upper floor. I spot a shadow moving lazily in the windows, a man advancing from one room to another. It makes my blood boil. “I really can’t.”

Waylan squeezes my shoulder firmly. “Brother, we need to do this right. Cora’s depending on us.”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” I snap, though I instantly regret it. “Fucking hell, man. She’s out there somewhere, scared out of her mind. Pregnant with our child. Vulnerable. In the meantime, Hamilton’s gambling while this prick is comfortably sitting on his ass, waiting for his lawyers to handle the sale and to boot Cora and Eva out of the building. I have a hard time holding on to my composure at this point.”

Riggs gives me a hard look. “We’re all having the same difficulty,” he reminds me. “But we cannot let our anger get the better of us, not when we’re so close to burying them deep enough they’ll never surface.”

“We do not resort to violence unless Orson strikes first,” Waylan orders and gets out of the car. “Dario needs me to stay out of prison. It’s bad enough there’s a public scandal involving Cora. I’m going to have a fucking field day with Social Services when they get wind of it. I don’t need them to come in waving my mugshot, too.”

And that’s when it hits me. A gentle reminder that my anger doesn’t belong in the front seat. There’s more at stake here than Cora’s well-being. Dario is an innocent child. I love that kid to death, and he belongs with us. If we’re to be a safe haven to anyone, we must first act like it.

Foreman deputized us for a reason. The guys are right. I need my head in the game, so I take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” I tell them as we go through the front gate, courtesy of Riggs’s lock-picking skills. “I got carried away back there.”

“It’s okay, Sebastian. We’re in this together. Trust us to pull you out of the darkness, just like we trust you,” Waylan replies. “This isn’t our first rodeo.”

“It won’t be our last, either” Riggs grumbles.

Our covert-ops experience comes in handy as we bypass Orson’s security alarm and get into the house without tripping the system. We linger on the ground floor for a short while, listening carefully as we scan our surroundings. Music pours from upstairs—a soft, mellow kind of jazz. We hear a man speaking, a woman laughing lightly.

I motion to Waylan and Riggs to go up the stairs.

We cautiously approach the source of music and giggles, mingled with subtle moans of pleasure. The bedroom door is cracked open. Riggs turns his phone recording app on. I push open the door to find a bubbly, young, naked blonde riding Orson’s lap.

Waylan can’t help but laugh.

“Oh my God!” the blonde screams and jumps off Orson, scrambling to put the nearest silk robe on. I only need a glimpse to know she isn’t his wife. Judging by the boob job and the plethora of tattoos, she’s a high-end working girl. It’s the little diamond cross pendant she wears around her neck that makes me smile.

“What is the meaning of this?” Orson growls as he covers himself with his black velvet bathrobe. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Orson, baby,” the blonde cries out. “I thought we had the house to ourselves!”

Waylan keeps laughing and snapping photos. Orson gets up and tries to stop him, but Riggs gets in the way. “You don’t want to do that,” Riggs tells him. “It’ll be considered assault, and we’ll have no choice but to respond.”

“You’re trespassing!” Orson snarls.

“Actually, we heard noises,” I say. “The kind of noises that worried us. We feared for the life and safety of those inside the house. And since Sheriff Foreman deputized us, we felt it was our duty to come in and find out if any of the inhabitants were in immediate danger.”

“There is no danger here!” the blonde shrieks.

Waylan shakes his head slowly. “Yeah, you can say that again. What were you planning to do with that flaccid thing, anyway?” he asks, addressing St. James with a grin.

“Hold on, who deputized you?” Orson croaks, finally catching up.

“Sheriff Foreman. So we are well within our legal obligation here,” I say, half-smiling. “And who might you be, miss?” I ask, turning to the blonde. “Because I’ve seen Mrs. St. James, and you most definitely are not her.”

Silence falls over the room. The most awkward kind, drenched in shame and guilt as Orson and his call girl exchange nervous glances. This is it. The weak spot we’d been hoping for, waiting for.

“What will the parishioners say about this?” I ask in an innocent tone.

“Does the missus know?” Waylan adds, equally satisfied with the situation.

Riggs takes a deep breath. “Do you and Mrs. St. James have some kind of arrangement in place? And if so, do the folks at church know about it? Last I recall, you were pretty vocal against soliciting the services of ladies of the night.”

“Ladies of the night?” the blonde mumbles, slightly out of her league.

“Hookers, babe,” Waylan replies bluntly.

“I am not a hooker! Orson and I are close friends!”

“Oh, that’s what you’re going with. I was thinking more along the lines of adultery. Because what we just walked in on did not look like Bible study.”

“What the hell do you want?” Orson lets a heavy sigh out, his shoulders dropping in defeat. Frankly, I’m not surprised it took so little to break him.

“We want to know everything about you, Hamilton, and your connection to Denaro,” I say to Orson. “Most importantly, we want to know where Denaro might’ve taken Cora.”

“You have no proof Denaro has Cora,” Orson replies.

Waylan takes out his phone and plays the recording of Orson’s conversation with Hamilton. I watch as the color drains from Orson’s face as he realizes precisely how deep he’s fallen into this sea of crap, and how quickly he’s about to sink further unless he starts talking.

However, he seems a bit hesitant, so I must give him some encouragement.

“Think about it this way,” I tell him. “Denaro barely has enough cash flow for a handful of goons and hitmen. And not the elite kind, either. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here. He’s a clown. I don’t know how he got you and Hamilton dancing to his tune, but it’s time for you to cover your ass, Mr. St. James. Because the jig is up, and it’s only a matter of time before the long arm of the law reaches you. Trust me, you should be more afraid of us than Denaro.”

“He’ll kill me,” Orson mumbles, dread twinkling in his wide eyes.

“It’s nothing compared to what we’ll do to you if something happens to Cora,” Waylan politely interjects. “Denaro won’t get to you in time.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Mr. St. James, as we’ve told you before, we are not the kind of men who make threats. We take action. It’s up to you whether you wish to be on the receiving end of said action or not. All you have to do is tell the truth. I’m sure the DA will give you a good deal if you cooperate. Especially if Cora is returned alive and unharmed.”

Orson takes a moment to think about it.

“There’s also witness protection,” I add in a bid to sweeten the deal.

“I hear they do great relocation services in Boca,” Riggs says, holding back a laugh.

“And even if you manage to keep your mouth shut once you’re in custody, rest assured someone will let slip to Denaro that you ratted him out,” Waylan says.

That’s the final blow. Orson gives him a terrified look. “No.”

“Oh, yes,” I reply. “You only have one chance to save yourself, Mr. St. James. It’s with us. Now. There’s no way out, I’m afraid.”

Finally, Orson sinks into his chair, defeated and ultimately accepting his situation. He knows there’s no fixing this. No lie good enough to get him out of the shitstorm he’s created for himself.

“You’d better guarantee my safety,” he says quietly, his voice weak.

We’re smack in the middle of debriefing the sheriff on our findings when a call comes in. It’s Eva, and she is beyond frantic. By the time we get to the bakery, she’s minutes away from delving into a full panic attack. Waylan manages to sit her down and help her with her breathing, while Riggs and I go through her phone, since she keeps gasping for air and pointing at it.

“Oh, God,” she exhales sharply.

“Deep breath in through your nose,” Waylan tells her. “Slow exhale through your mouth. Come on, Eva.”

“Shit,” I mutter as I swipe through her most recent text messages. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What is it?” Riggs asks and rushes to my side. “Oh, fuck.”

Waylan gives us both a troubled look. “Dammit, what is it?”

“Well, we now have confirmation that Denaro has Cora. He sent photos and a message,” Riggs says. “Eva needs to let the building sale go through if she wants to get her sister back alive and in one piece.”

The images show Cora sitting on the edge of a bed. The background is pretty dark and intentionally blurred, likely from a photo editing app.

“She’s wearing the same clothes she was wearing the other day when I last saw her,” Eva said, between sobs. “She looks so scared.”

“But she also looks very much alive,” I try to soothe her as best I can.

Cora is visibly tired, judging by the shadows under her eyes. I don’t even want to imagine what it must feel like for her, especially knowing she’s pregnant and all the more susceptible to complications that could jeopardize her and the baby’s health. A new, fresh wave of rage comes over me.

“Denaro wants us to hold back,” I say, staring at Cora’s expression in one of the photos. He has her holding up today’s newspaper to confirm she’s still alive. “He’s trying to keep the building sale in the legal realm, but he doesn’t have the funds to outbid what we put into escrow. Orson used that bullshit morality clause to cut us off. But they both know we still stand a chance, no matter how small, of forcing the sale through. They’re desperate.”

“They have my sister!” Eva snaps. “What did Orson say? George?”

“Oh, they’re going to be busy with Sheriff Foreman for a while,” Riggs replies. “Unfortunately, they didn’t know Denaro would pull this stunt.”

“What do we do now?” she asks, looking at each of us with despair in her eyes. “I can’t just leave her there with that monster.”

“We won’t leave her there,” I say. “And we’re not backing down from the sale, either. I’ve already got our lawyers working over the holidays to get ahead of this. We just need to figure out where they’re holding her.”

“If Denaro is indeed short on cash, he can’t afford too many goons to do his unholy bidding,” Waylan surmises, “which means she’s not heavily guarded.”

I start zooming in on the photos, pulling each detail into focus until something catches my eye. Any detail might help. Waylan and Riggs join me, and we scan every image for what feels like a repetitive forever.

“There,” Riggs finally notices something. My eyes hurt at this point. “Show me the nightstand.”

I pinch the image wide open to give him a better view. “What is it?” I ask. “All I see is the table lamp and… wait, is that a bible?”

“The St. James bible,” Waylan mutters.

A split second later, I’m on the phone with Sheriff Foreman, hoping he’s somewhere close to Orson St. James.

Eva is watching us with wide, hopeful eyes. “What did you find? What about that bible?” she asks with a trembling voice.

“A while back, Orson and the church folks went on this campaign of sorts,” Waylan explains. “They were handing out bibles everywhere. Stores, hotels, motels, local businesses. They had special copies of the St. James Bible commissioned with a fancy green cover and gold lettering.”

He shows her the zoomed image on my phone, prompting a gasp. “Oh. Orson might know the place, then,” Eva says.

“Here’s hoping,” Waylan sighs.