Page 42 of I Would Die For You

“Home.”

His debt must’ve been repaid by now, and if he knows what happened to me, he wouldn’t go back to gambling.

“Put the address in the GPS.”

A rush of hot embarrassment flares over me. I won’t need to say it aloud, but he’ll know where we’re heading. It’s a trailer park in North Portland, and not a nice one. I’ve never hidden my seedy origins from anyone, but I’ve never shouted it from the rooftops, either. After seeing the luxury and comfort Stefano and the Don, and even Valentino, live in, this will seem like the pits.

It doesn’t take us long from PDX to get to the park. It’s as shabby as I remember, and the deeper we go in to where our RV was parked year-round, the more squalid it gets. We used to be the last one at the back. Still are, by the looks of things.

There’s no light on, no one inside when I pop in, the door left unlocked. Everywhere looks derelict, most of the trailers abandoned. Did he move on? How will I find him now?

Stefano is quiet the whole time, standing like a statue next to the SUV. I’m walking around, trying to find any sign of life. This place can’t be abandoned.

There’s lights on in a trailer at the very front. I’m bracing myself to go knock on the door when it opens slowly, a woman peering at us over the cannon of her sawn-off shotgun.

Stefano stiffens next to me. I don’t think he’s carrying a gun even though we’re in the country of the second amendment. He’s an Italian here, a foreigner, and not under the protection of his Don.

“Mrs. Muldoon,” I quickly say. “It’s me, Kaya.”

The shotgun doesn’t lower, even though she’s squinting now. Then she’s all smiles and effusive welcomes, pulling me into her bosom with one hand, the other still holding the gun, now lowered.

“Kaya Norton! I thought I’d never see you again. Your father said you were in Europe.”

This is how I get the low-down on how my disappearance was explained away. The story is I met a guy and decided to stay back. I’m here with a guy now, and it’s obvious he’s not American. The tailoring of his clothes alone puts him in the European league.

“Done well for yerself, haven’t you?” Mrs. Muldoon adds with a wink toward Stefano.

I neither confirm nor deny. “Is my father still here? I went to his RV, but…”

She snorts. “You’ll find him in town. At that casino he’s always favored.”

So he’s back to gambling again. Is that why I was still a target of Daku back in Italy? Grant Norton’s debts accumulating here?

I have money now; I could pay it off. And then he’d only be back at it again.

I thank the older woman and get back into the SUV, giving Stefano directions to the casino.

“I just need to see he’s okay,” I say softly, averting my face from his.

He doesn’t reply, just takes me to our destination. Of course, he’s there beside me like a shadow. There’s no way he’s letting me go until he’s stowed me away safely in a hotel room, like he’s promised.

The casino is all flashing lights and gaudy ringtones once we’re inside. My dad had a predilection for the blackjack tables even though he was always shit at counting. A ladies’ man, guess he felt even Lady Luck would fall for his charms one day.

He’s not there. But I know there are more exclusive tables at the back, and I ask the bouncer to be led through. I don’t think he realizes I’m Grant Norton’s daughter when I ask for him—he must take me for a high-end call girl or something, the fact a man like Stefano is silently by my side meaning he’s my pimp. I don’t discourage the idea if it’ll get me inside.

We make it past the exclusive door, and my gaze roves over the blackjack tables, the roulette spinning away in the middle, landing on the VIP area to the side. And there, my breath catches.

I can see my father. He’s okay. In fact, he’s better than fine, lounging on the velvet booth, a glass of Scotch in hand, a curvy blonde in his lap. He’s happy, laughing, trading jokes with the person next to him—Evan Monroe, the man who was supposedly going to kill or maim him if I didn’t go to Italy with his family for the summer.

My father is BFFs with the motherfucker who handed me off to Daku in Torino.

It hits me now. He knows. He must know I was sold into prostitution over in Italy.

Was that how he’d planned to repay his debt all along?

My strangled gasp isn’t audible in the loud clamor of the music in the lounge, but I’m certain Stefano heard it. His hand is back on my shoulder, infusing me with the strength my knees suddenly lack. One arm makes it around my waist, and he is carting me back out of the casino and into the SUV outside.

“He knew,” I mutter around clacking teeth again. It’s like ice has taken over me everywhere except for my vocal cords and my brain, which is firing on overdrive.

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