We have a tradition: every five years, the guys and I get together in Vegas and party. Properly. Binge drinking, casinos, hooliganism.
The Russians vacation… Why not? We can. We know how. We practice.
This time I woke up in a third-rate hotel next to a naked little girl—and… a ring on my ring finger.
We divorced. I could barely remember her face.
But three months later, my car got cut off by a reckless female driver.
The one who claimed that I was a scoundrel who abandoned her pregnant goddaughter and refused to acknowledge paternity.