Billionaire's Trust (Standalone Book) (Billionaire Bad Boy Romance)

BILLIONAIRE’S
TRUST

By
Alexa Davis

This
book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are
products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual
events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright
© 2016 Alexa Davis

From
the Author

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CHAPTER
ONE

Dax

"
What
the hell is wrong with you, Beck?" I
yelled. "You fuck up everything you lay your hands on!"

"Aww, c'mon,
Dax
," he said with a hangdog look. "I didn't do
it on purpose. It's not that big of a deal, only a couple of ounces got
lost."

"Lost my
ass," I said as I rubbed my eyes and then looked at him. "Beck, I
don't care if you are my fucking brother, if you don't get your shit straight
and run your business right, I'm
gonna
fuckin' kill
you."

"
Dax
, it's not my fault," he whined. "I sold the
stuff the way you told me, it's just that your connection shorted me on the
buy."

"Bullshit,"
I said. "He's never once shorted me before. This is your fuck up and your
fuck up alone. Get your shit straight, Beck, or I'm
gonna
have to do something you're not
gonna
like."

"Fine,
whatever," he said as he turned and walked across the empty floor. He
stopped before he got to the door and turned to look at me as he spoke.
"You're not always going to be on top, you know, big brother. Someday,
someone is going to come along and knock you off your throne and then where
will you be, huh?"

"Let them
try," I said as I held his gaze. He looked away first and then shoved the
door open with a loud bang before walking out into the street.

I turned to the
figure sitting in the shadows and said, "Keep an eye on him,
Riza
. He's
gonna
fuck things up
for all of us, I just know it."

"Don't be too
hard on him, boss," she said as she stood up and stretched. "He's
young and wants to impress you."

"That may be,
but I'm not going to risk the entire business for his growth opportunity,"
I said. My younger brother was a Class A screw up and had been his entire life.
It wasn't entirely his fault.

We'd spent the
first years of our lives in a violent home before my father, a failed inventor,
shot my mother, a financial analyst, and himself and left us orphans. We'd been
placed with my father's mother, an Irish woman who ran a grocery store on San
Pedro and lived in a shack behind the store. We didn't know it at the time, but
she was in the early stages of dementia and often left the store closed up and
us to fend for ourselves while she wandered out into the streets on Skid Row
looking for a way back to her hometown of Dublin.

When she was home,
it was obvious why my father had ended up the way he had and why we rarely saw
my grandmother while he was still alive. She held the firm belief that children
who were heard rather than seen should be severely punished in ways that would
have horrified even the toughest disciplinarian. Gram hated Beck and often
punished him for minor infractions that I was allowed to get away with.
Needless to say, I looked forward to the days when she'd disappear and leave us
on our own. They were a respite from the torment and abuse.

With no one to
check up on us, I quickly got used to being the protector and provider. We
didn't really have to struggle much, since my grandmother was well connected in
the neighborhood and people looked out for us, but it took
awhile
for Beck and I to figure out the system. By the time my parents died, we were
living in an abandoned house that had no running water or electricity. The
switch to the Grand brought us into a different world that was more consistent
in many ways, but still left us on our own for long stretches of time.

Gram had little
interest in us, aside from ordering us to stock shelves or haul boxes into the
storage area from the truck that arrived every Monday. She didn't bother to buy
us any clothes or toys or even register us for school.

I had to figure
all of that out on my own.

We moved in with
my grandmother when I was ten and Beck was eight. By the end of the first week,
I knew which neighbors would feed us without asking questions and which ones
were inclined to call nosy social workers. I learned to call Elsa, the woman
who ran the liquor store on the corner of 6
^th
Street and who knew my
grandmother the best, and let her know that Gram was gone again. Elsa was the
one who helped me order clothing for Beck and I and register us both for
school. I quickly became wheeler-dealer and, as a result, I was able to
maintain a good front and keep people from asking too many questions, despite
the oddness of our living situation.

Beck was too young
to know just how strange our situation was, but he quickly learned to follow my
lead and do as I told him. He knew that not following directions would often
lead to something terrible, so he became both cautious and reckless in the way
he behaved. At home, he was a silent child who hid in the storage room or a
closet to avoid the wrath of Gram, but at school, he was a hellion who refused
to follow the rules or even stay in his seat. On more than one occasion, I'd
been called out of class to go to Beck's classroom and deal with his misbehavior,
since I was the only one he'd listen to. It was exhausting caring for both of
us, but I didn't see any other option. So I shouldered the burden and did the
best I could to ensure that we were fed, clothed, and had a roof over our
heads.

 
By the time I was twelve, I was playing dice
with the neighborhood hustlers in back alleys. They taught me about smoking,
drugs, drinking, and what little they knew about women. As a result, I never
touched the first two, but the last two, well, I always say I've never met a
drink I wouldn't sip and a woman I couldn't enjoy. The problem was that I also
learned not to trust anyone.

Except for
Riza
. I'd met her on the streets when we were twelve, and
she'd quickly decided I was her best friend. She was taller than most of the
boys in our neighborhood and her exotic looks, thanks to her Honduran father
and Moroccan mother, gave her face a mysterious look of danger. It also helped
that her father was a known drug lord during the ’70s and had a reputation for
"disappearing" anyone who dared cheat or disagree with him.
Riza
was his pride and joy, and since I was her best friend,
he trusted me.

"Hey, boss,
you want me to take the car and follow the kid?" she asked. "I can
tail him tonight, if you want. The next shipment isn't scheduled till Tuesday,
so I've got some down time."

"You sure you
want to do that?" I replied.

"Yeah, sure,
why not? I've got the time. Why not nip it in the bud now and bring him to
heel?"

"Alright. If
you're up for it, then do what you can," I said as I walked behind the
bar, filled a glass with ice, and then hit it with a shot of soda water. I had
a meeting coming up later and I needed a clear head. "But don't let him
know you're following him. He'll lose his shit and then I'll have to deal with
it, and I don't have time to deal with a Beck meltdown this week. Clear?"

"Crystal,"
she saluted as she sauntered across the floor towards the door.

"Be back here
at three," I said. "I need you here for the meeting."

"Aye, aye,
boss." She waved as she pushed open the door and let sunlight briefly
enter the darkened club. Then she was gone.

Riza's
dad had taught me the business from the ground up and then made me a silent
partner in his cartel. I worked my way up from a corner boy, to the top dog on
Skid Row. I kept my head down, worked hard, and listened to every single thing
Hernando
D'Oro
ever told me.

Hernando, or
Papi
as we all called him, had groomed me to run the empire
and when he was gunned down in a gang fight two years after he'd made me his
second in command, I stepped up and took over the business. I now owned a hotel
on Grand Avenue and this club, and, with the help of a loyal band of warriors,
I ran a billion-dollar drug business that owned the entire Los Angeles market.
Everyone hated me.

Except
Riza
. When it had become obvious that her father wasn't
going to train her to be the head of his cartel, she joined the Marines and
spent a few years in Iraq.
Papi
had gone ballistic
the day she'd told him what she'd done, but since she was eighteen, he had no
say in the matter. I knew it hurt him to watch his beautiful daughter pick up a
gun and fight in "a man's war," as he called it.

There had been
nights when we'd made a run down to Tijuana to pick up a shipment and
Papi
would talk to me about
Riza
and war the whole way down. But despite the pain, deep down
he
was also incredibly proud of his daughter.

He just never told
her.

When she came back
from Iraq, something about
Riza
had changed. She’d
seen too much and done too many things that she said she didn’t want to talk
about, but it came out in other ways. She was constantly picking fights and
winning them. She was one of the most feared gang members in LA, mostly because
it was rumored that she had no conscience. I knew better, but she wanted to
keep her secrets safe and maintain a certain level of respect via fear. So, I
looked the other way and watched her try to self-destruct.

Papi
was furious about his only daughter’s behavior. He’d wanted her to settle down
and get married so he could have a bunch of grandkids to bounce on his knee,
but
Riza
was stubborn and refused to settle for any
of the guys in the cartel. For a while, I thought maybe she didn’t like men,
but when I asked, she said it was that she didn’t trust anyone outside of Beck
and me. She was quiet and wary, much like her father. And, when he was gunned
down just a couple of months after she returned stateside, she turned even
further inward. For two years after
Papi’s
death, the
only people she'd talk to were Beck and me.

Even now, she was
a woman of few words and didn't tell me too much about what was going on with
her. She simply showed up and did her job 24/7, 365 days a year. She was still
my second in command, only now she also functioned as my bodyguard during trips
and meets with other cartel leaders. She was my shadow, and she kept a lid on
the business in ways that even I didn't know, but I trusted her, so I didn't
ask.

CHAPTER
TWO

Brooke

"
Brooklyn
Jane Raines!" my mother yelled as I
stepped into the kitchen and walked across her freshly waxed floor. "I'm
going to kill you, child!"

"Aww,
Mama," I said with a sheepish look of apology. "I didn't know you'd
just waxed. I'm sorry!"

"It doesn't
matter how old you kids get to be, you're still completely intent on driving
your mother crazy!"

"Who's
driving their mother crazy?" my father asked as he stepped into the
kitchen and walked the same path I'd just walked.

"TONY
RAINES!" my mother yelled. "I'm going to kill you and your offspring
alike!"

"What did I
do now?" my father asked with a genuinely confused look on his face. He
had a pencil tucked behind one ear and several sheets of printer paper in his
hand.

"Pop, she
just waxed the floor," I said as I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow.

"Oh, I'm
sorry, dear," he said as he flashed my mother the grin he knew would cause
her to forgive his sin as he bent down and pecked my cheek. "How're you
doing,
Brookie
?"

"Dad," I
said. "It's Brooke, just Brooke now. I'm a lawyer, not a first
grader."

"You'll
always be my
Brookie
," he said with a smile as
he danced a few steps. "I'm your dad, it's my prerogative."

Both my mother and
I groaned at his terrible ’80s reference. My father has been the entertainment
reporter for the
LA Times
since the
early 1970s and as a result, we are constantly treated to his encyclopedic
knowledge of entertainment history in every conversation. My mother shook her
head and ran the mop over the ruined part of the kitchen floor as she muttered
under her breath. She's been a math teacher at Lincoln High for the past twenty
years, and is a perfectionist when it comes to having a clean house, refusing
to let anyone else clean, even though between the two of them, they make enough
to hire a housekeeper. We knew no one else would meet her standards, so we all
just grinned and took our lumps.

"What are you
doing all the way out here, Brooke?" my mother asked.

"I wanted to
stop by and see if you and Dad were free for dinner next week," I said as
I opened the fridge and grabbed the orange juice pitcher that my mother kept
filled with fresh-squeezed juice.

"And, you
couldn't have called to ask?" she replied. "I smell something fishy
going on here."

"Mom, I
dropped by to see about dinner, that's it," I said as I poured a glass of
juice and then looked at her as innocently as I could while sipping it. Then,
mumbled into the rim, "And, I wanted to talk to Dad about something."

"I knew
it!" my mother declared. "I knew it wasn't a simple visit. It never
is."

"Mom, that's
not fair!" I protested. "Fine, but dinner? Yes?"

"Yes, we'll
have dinner with you," she said smiling as she moved to the sink and
rinsed her mop. "When and where?"

"I'll figure
it out and let you know," I said before turning my attention to my father
who was now completely engrossed in editing something on the sheets of paper
he'd brought into the kitchen. "Dad, can you help me write a convincing ad
that will bring in more business for the firm?"

"Huh?"
my father looked up, confused. "What about it?"

"An
advertisement, Dad," I said. "I need help writing something that will
make people flock to our firm and hire us."

"Business is tough,
is it?" he said as he made another mark on the paper in front of him.

"Incredibly
tough," I said.

"Broke, is
this a thinly disguised request for a loan?" he said as he pushed his
reading glasses to the top of his head.

"No, Dad,
it's not," I said, knowing full well that it was. "It's a request for
help writing a persuasive ad that I can use to drum up more business."

"Kid, never
play poker," he said shaking his head. "You're a terrible liar. I'll
get the checkbook, but you're going to need to tell me exactly what you
need."

"Just one
month's rent," I muttered. "I can swing the rest."

"Are you sure
that's all you need?" my mother called from where she was bent over the
sink. "Tony, give her more than just rent money. Add phone and electric
and groceries. No, better yet, I'm going to cook meals for you. That way I can
give half to you and half to your brother."

"Mom, Teddy
eats at the fire house," I reminded her.

"Well, he
still has a few days off, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, but he
spends them at Gina's," I said. "And, I assume that he knows how to
cook for himself by now."

"So do you,
but I still like to feel needed."

"Alright,
I've got the checkbook. Lay it on me,
Brookie
,"
my father said as he came back into the kitchen. "How much do you
need?"

"Just one
month's rent, Dad," I repeated. I knew that I needed much more than that,
but I already felt guilty about the fact that my parents had footed the bill
for my undergraduate education and my law degree, so I didn't want to ask for
more than I could justify in my own mind. I could put off paying the electric
bill for one more month and cross my fingers that business would pick up.

"Brooke, I
know you're not telling me the whole truth," my father said as he filled
out the check, and then ripped it out of the checkbook and handed it to me.
"So, I'm going to use my own discretion."

"Dad!" I
protested as I looked at the check. He'd given me six
months
rent plus expenses and then added a cushion. "You cannot give me this much
money!"

"I can do
whatever I like, thank you very much," he said as he tucked the checkbook
in his back pocket and poured himself a cup of coffee. "I'm a
grownup."

"Thank
you," I said softly as I walked over to where he and my mom stood and
hugged them both. "I'm going to make this work, I promise."

"Brooke, we
know you're doing the best you can," my mother said. "We want to help
you as much as we are able to."

"And since we
can't take it with us, it just makes sense to use it now," my father
added.

"Don't even
joke about that," I warned.

"I'm not, I'm
serious," my father said. "We might not always be able to help, but
if we can, we will."

"Thank you
both," I said as I hugged them again and then headed out the door.
"You're the best."

"Sure, sure,
you say that now," my father, laughed as he waved me off. "Dinner
next week. We'll pick the place and you meet us there."

I waved at both of
my parents and headed out to my car. I needed to deposit the check and pay my
late rent before I headed over to meet with Roger and
Jordie
at the office and decide if we could salvage our business.