Fear. It’s potent. And I’m overwhelmed by it.

As Frankie reaches out and grazes my cheek with his finger, strokes it like I’m his pet, I refuse to flinch, move back, or surrender. “Do you know what happens to people who don’t pay their debts to me, Lolita?” Frankie asks, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “I put them in a safe and drop them alive in the lake so they slowly drown and have a lot of time to reflect on their pathetic lives.” His voice deepens, carrying the threat perfectly.

My stomach burns along with my temper, anger simmering under my veins like liquid fire. “Why…? How does my father owe you?” I ask cautiously. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

His lips slowly curl upward into a wicked grin. “God, there’s so much you don’t know about your own family. Yes, even I like to keep my daughter secluded from this world, but you…” He glances over me with a look on his face, like he’s just tasted something sour. “You’re so out of the loop. So naïve. So… clueless. He thinks he’s protecting you when all he’s doing is putting you more in harm’s way, just like he did with your mother.”

A thousand questions burn at my tongue. “I know more than you think,” I lie. “Even about my mother.”

We exchange a look and it’s at that moment I know. I’ve been right. There’s more to my mother’s death than a heart attack.

“If you say so, then I guess you do,” Frankie says in a condescending tone. In the elongated pause after his words, it feels like my entire world’s falling down, about to crumble out from under me. Although, it’s probably always been cracked since I was born, and I’ve been dangerously walking around on it without a clue as to when it’s going to break.

“Now agree to make the hit and this will all be over. You’ll be free to go.” He motions at the television. “Your father will be free to go, and you can ask him all the questions you want.”

I grow more and more wary the longer I stare at the trace of a smirk on Frankie’s face. “Yeah, right,” I say. “Like it’s just that simple. I make the kill and then you just what? Let me and my father go, unharmed?”

He shrugs, crossing his arms. “Well, you will be responsible for the kill.”

Fuck me a thousand ways. I am clueless. Why didn’t I realize this the moment he said it? “So that’s what this is really about. I kill Anthony and that pretty much starts a war between the Anelli’s and Defontelles’. That’s what this is about, right?”

“Maybe, but would it really even matter to you?” he asks. “Technically, you’re not an Anelli but an Ander.”

That’s because my mother wanted me to take her name, I want to argue defensively. It’s always been a sore spot, but now it’s even sorer since I’m not quite sure where my bloodline lies. Therefore, instead, all I say is, “That’s for protection, if needed.”

He cocks a brow. “You think that’s the real reason? Or did it ever cross your mind that it might be something else? Like maybe he knew you didn’t have it in your blood to be an Anelli.”

The letter flashes through my mind and stops any words from leaving my lips. Maybe I was named Anders because my father knew I wasn’t a true Anelli. Perhaps he’s known all this time. But then, why take me on as his own? Why not leave my mother when he found out she was pregnant or whenever she told him? He has a temper, and I can only imagine how angry this sort of thing would make him.

“So what’s it going to be, Lolita?” Frankie asks. “Live or die? Brave or weak? Anders or Anelli?”

There isn’t much to say after that. I don’t verbally agree to do it, though I don’t have to. I don’t really a choice in the end. Either way, I’m going to be responsible for a death tonight, so it might as well be someone that isn’t my father.

After I make the agreement, Frankie orders Layton to take me into the backroom to give me details about the hit and to let me change into something more club appropriate.

“Where the hell did you get these cloths?” I ask as I rummage through the pile that’s on a stack of boxes. I pick up one of the dresses and notice that it looks very familiar. “Wait? Did you get this from my room?”

Layton shrugs as he takes out one of his guns and pulls out the magazine to check the bullets. He has his jacket off, his holster showing over his black t-shirt. “I picked some up while I was there getting your father.”

I turn to him, astounded. “Wait? You helped with my father’s kidnapping?”

He pushes the magazine back into the gun then puts it back into the holster. “I had to, Lola. I work for Frankie now and have to follow his orders.” He doesn’t make eye contact with me, instead bending down to make sure he has his knife tucked in his boot.

I clutch the dress in my hand. “Were you there when I was being shoved in the car? When I smacked my head and then was assaulted?” I’m flabbergasted. I’d assumed he’d gotten in the car later on, but now I’m wondering if I was wrong.

His attention snaps up to me, his eyes wide. “No, of course I wasn’t.” He starts to reach for me, but then glances over his shoulder at the shut door and withdraws his hand to his side, his worried expression shifting to neutral. “Look, could you just get dressed?” He looks down at the watch on his wrist. “We need to be at the club in less than an hour if this is going to work.”

“If this is going to work.” I shake my head, pissed off. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the guy that’s going to make sure you see this through to the end,” he says with no emotion in his voice. “Now get dressed.”

I narrow my eyes at him, hating that I can’t actually despise him. “Turn around so I can get dressed.”

He presses his lips together. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Fucking turn around, Layton.” My voice is eerily calm as I struggle to keep the emotion out, the hurt out. If it had been any of Frankie’s other guys, I’d probably be beaten and raped by this point, so I should be grateful for Layton, however there’s too much pain from the betrayal.

When he doesn’t say anything but does what I ask and turns around, I quickly change into the dress, my fingers trembling the entire time. “There, you can turn around,” I tell him as I sit down on the boxes to put my boots on.

He slowly turns around and watches me as I slip my foot into the boot and zip it up. I’m about to put the other one on when he kneels down in front of me and reaches for my thigh.

“Don’t touch me.” I start to get up to move away from him, but he pulls me down; not roughly, but gently, like he’s still my best friend. Then he reaches for a hostler that’s on one of the boxes. Without saying a word, he straps it to my leg. The graze of his knuckles against my flesh cause unwelcomed bolts of pleasure, and I have to fight to keep the moans in. After he gets it fastened, he reaches for one of his guns and tucks it in my holster before pulling the bottom of my dress down to cover it up.

“There. I think you’re ready.”

I put my hand over the gun and stare up at him. “I could shoot you right now, you know?”

“But you won’t,” he says with indescribable pain, sorrow, and remorse haunting his eyes. It’s like we’re fourteen again and he’s getting into Frankie’s SUV while I stay with my dead mother. “You don’t have it in you.”

“Maybe I do,” I argue. “Maybe it’s just a side you haven’t seen before.”

He shakes his head with confidence. “No, Lola. You’re not a killer.” He reaches forward and brushes my cheek with his finger, sadness creeping through the mask he’s been wearing. There’s something haunting him, something dark, but what?

“If you really believe that, then what the hell do you think’s going to happen tonight?” I ask as I get to my feet. “You’re not telling me everything. I can feel it.”

“I’m not telling you a lot of things,” he mutters then sighs before giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. He then whispers in my ear, “I’m so sorry, Lola.” With that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving me more confused than ever, something I didn’t think was possible.