Blowing out a loud breath, he unwinds my legs from his waist and my feet return to the floor. Then he moves around me, his eyes on the floor as he pulls up his pants. He has scratches all over his chest, his hair is disheveled, his lips swollen, and I-just-had-hot-as-hell-sex is written all over him. I’m sure I look the same way.

I wish it was enough, wish I could hold onto the feelings that were in me moments ago, however they’re already slipping away.

I collect my panties from the floor and put them back on while he retrieves his phone. He checks his messages, his frown deepening the longer he stares at the screen. I try to put on my dress as calmly as I can, but the look on his face and the quietness is killing me. It’s impending. Because, deep down, I know what the phone call is.

Seconds later, he confirms what I already knew. “It’s time,” he says quietly, still not looking at me. “I’ll let you get dressed; meet me outside the bathroom.” Then he puts on his shirt, exits the stall, and leaves me alone, taking all my contentment along with him.

I’ve never been much of a worrier or the kind of person that has a panic attack. The only time I came close was when I was twelve and one of my dad’s enemies tried to kidnap me as I was playing in the park with one of my friends. It never got very far, partially because it was just a couple of crack addicts pissed off at my dad for the increase in money to feed their addiction. And partially because I had Dougie and Dominic, my two bodyguards, who rarely left my side at the time.

As soon as the crackheads approached me, they were taken out. Nothing major happened. But I did see a bigger picture at the moment that worried me a little. That all those times my dad had made me go practice shooting guns, all the self-defense classes, all the protection—it was for a reason. That my life was fuller of risks than most, and for the next few days after, I had a sequence of panic attacks.

I quickly learned to deal with this revelation, and for the most part, lived a pretty content life. At least up until a few hours ago when I woke up in the warehouse—that took any contentment left away. I started realizing that this point in time has probably been inevitable. It probably has been set in my future since I was born, or something like it. What’s more, I should have run when I had the chance—just run and never looked back.

After I get dressed and fix my hair and makeup, I meet Layton outside of the bathroom. He’s there just like he said, leaning against the filthy wall, arms crossed, his hair back into place, and clothes smooth of wrinkles, as if we hadn’t just fucked each other’s brains out.

“You ready?” he asks when he spots me walking down the hall toward him. The darkness has returned to his expression, and he’s no longer my Layton but Frankie’s.

Stopping in front of him, I shrug, as blasé as I can be. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He nods his head once and then stands up straight, motioning me to follow him as he heads back down the hall toward the bar area and dance floor. The music slams against my chest and the lights sting at my eyes as I step out of the dim hallway and into the room. I don’t have to ask him where he’s going as he makes his way down the side of the bar and toward the back door. He’s already told me step by step what I am going to do.

The hefty bartender standing behind the counter is Big Dog Hankton and actually works for Frankie, but Anthony doesn’t know that. He’s supposed to give Layton the heads up when Anthony arrives, which I’m assuming was the phone call Layton got right after we fucked.

After the go-ahead from Hankton, Layton is supposed to take me to the backroom where Anthony does a lot of his dirty work; beatings, dealings, whacks and whatnot—in this world, everyone has a backroom. Tonight, Anthony’s going to be alone—at least, according to Hankton—so it should be a clear hit and I shouldn’t run into problems. Of course, if I do, then it’s all going to fall back on my family.

The Defontelles are the second most powerful drug lords on the east coast. I’ve heard stories about them; ones where they cut off heads of the people who cross them then send them to the family members as a warning, pure torture.

This is all I can think of by the time Layton and I reach the back door—my head being shipped to my father in a box with a big red bow on it. Is that where I’m going to end up after all of this? Beheaded? My stomach churns.

God, it seems like such a shitty way to go.

“Are you going to be okay?” Layton’s voice jerks me back to reality.

Blinking back into focus, I realize I’m trembling. I clear my throat and square my shoulders, trying to suck it up and appear more confident than I am. “I’m fine.” I start to step toward the door, yet he captures my arm and stops me.

He leans in close, putting his lips right up beside my ear, and wraps my wrist in his hand, feeling my erratic pulse. “You don’t have to do this… this shouldn’t be your problem. You can just walk away and let your father deal with it. It’s his problem anyway,” he says in a low voice.

“No, it’s not.” I refuse to look at him because I don’t want to see the look in his eyes—the one that either says he’s just saying this to try to make me feel better, or the one that says he really wants me to walk away. I just might be tempted to. “I’m not just going to let Frankie kill my father, so unless you have a way to free him without me doing this, then let me go so I can get this over with.”

“You shouldn’t be so desperate to save your father, Lola,” he says quietly.

I jerk back and look at him. “What the hell does that me?”

He swallows hard and then shakes his head. “Nothing. Never mind… I don’t even know what I’m saying.” As he takes a deep breath, he pulls his hand away from my wrist.

I search his eyes for something, but he’s turned his emotions off, seeming completely hollow. Finally, I give up, and blowing out a breath, I stare at the door. “So I’m just supposed to walk in, then?” I ask nervously. “And then just… pull the trigger?”

Layton doesn’t answer, instead he steps forward and grabs the doorknob. “It’ll be over quick. Just don’t hesitate, okay?”

“Does Anthony have a gun on him?” I wonder, avoiding eye contact with him.

I can’t look at him. I can’t breathe. God, I wish I could go back to five minutes ago and freeze time.

Layton shakes his head, trying to catch my eye. “He shouldn’t. Hankton says he puts it in a safe when he comes in here. I guess it’s his sick way of showing that he thinks he’s invincible or something.”

“And what about you?” I ask. “People have seen you here. Aren’t they going to put two and two together?”

“I’ll be fine,” he says in a tight voice and then looks away from me and down the hall. “You need to worry about yourself at the moment.”

There’s so much he’s not telling me—I can tell—but I don’t have time to press him right now. I need to focus. Think clearly. Do what I need to do. Get it over with.

When he moves away from the door, I reach to open it. “Just think of it as target practice,” he says softly, quickly brushing his fingers along the back of my neck. “Just pretend Anthony’s a target.”

I doubt that will work, but there’s no point saying it. I need to be strong, remember why I’m doing this. For my father. The man who raised me. Took care of me. Gave me everything I wanted.

But what if he’s not? I shake the fleeting thought from my head. It doesn’t matter. He’s the only father I’ve known, and that’s what matters. Isn’t it?

My fingers shake as I turn the doorknob and open the door, giving myself no time to hesitate. Then, taking another deep breath, I barge into the room.