Sins & Secrets

Prologue

This day is turning out to be the strangest day of all days. It all started when I overheard my mother and father fighting, which is nothing new. My father had said something about giving up on my mother, making me worry that they’re going to get a divorce. Then the mafia families showed up, one of which was my dad’s sworn enemy and they locked themselves in my house and Layton and I out. I’m desperate to see what’s going on; desperate to know what on earth they could all be doing together.

“What do you think they’re doing in there? Something illegal I bet,” I say to my best friend, Layton Everett, as I try to peer through the window. The wooden box I’m standing on is wobbly and the window is so high up that, even on my tiptoes, I can’t see anything except the tops of people’s heads through the window.

Layton shrugs, glancing nervously around the backyard. “I don’t know Lola, and honestly, I don’t really care.”

I peek over my shoulder at him. “Your dad and mom are in there, too, you know. You have to be curious what they’re doing. All of them under one roof together. It’s weird”

“Not really.” He shakes his head and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

Layton is unlike most of the fourteen-year-old guys I know. He acts older, more mature. Even though I won’t admit it to him, it’s one of the things I like about him the most—that he acts more grown up and takes care of me and is always there for me when I get myself into trouble, which I’ll admit, is a lot.

The longer I stare at him, the more uneasy he becomes. He constantly has trouble telling me no, especially when I give him “the look.”

“Lola, please don’t look at me like that,” he says with a sigh. “I know you want to know what they’re doing in there, but…” He massages the back of his neck tensely. “Didn’t you notice they were all carrying guns?”

I shrug as I hop off the box and dust the dirt off my hands. “They’re always carrying guns. That’s what they do.”

“Yeah, but…” He seems way too tense, even for him, as he looks around the yard again. There are so many places for someone to hide back here. The yard is over-flourished with trees, shrubbery, a small vineyard, and acres and acres of flowers and grass; so I don’t get what he’s expecting to see.

Sighing, he leans in and lowers his voice, his silver-grey eyes filled with worry. “They’re all in there together. My dad and mom, your mom, your dad, Frankie and his guys, even the Defontelles are in there. There has to be something going on—something dangerous. You know they just don’t meet up like that.” He swallows hard. “In fact, the last time they were all in the same building together, people got killed.”

“How do you know that?” I wonder. I rarely know anything about my mother and father’s business world, and what I do know is from digging around; drug lords, dealings, bodyguards, guns—they’re always carrying them—stuff that I’m sure is illegal.

“My dad tells me stuff.” He looks sad as he says it, too. Without saying another word, he grabs me by the elbow and guides me over to the trees, away from the house. Once we’re hidden in the shadows, he lets go of me then sits down on the ground and stares at the land. “Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t.”

Confused, I sit down beside him and crisscross my legs. “Sometimes you wish he wouldn’t what?”

He picks at the grass. “Tell me stuff… I hate hearing about it… hearing about what I’m going to have to grow up to be.”

“You don’t have to be anything but what you want to be.” I grab his hand and hold onto it.

He shakes his head, staring down at our fingers laced together. “I have to, Lola. I don’t have another choice. It’s my destiny, or whatever, to live here, die here, and do exactly what my father does.” He seems even older at the moment; an adult trapped in a teenager’s body.

I sit there, listening to the wind blow, the grass dancing with the breeze. “We could always run away together,” I suggest. “You and I. If they can’t find you, they can’t make you take over the family business.”

He glances up at me, and for the briefest instant, he looks like he’s considering it, but then he frowns. “If I ran away from it, then it’d all fall on my brother’s shoulders. And could you imagine Benton in charge of things…?” He laughs, but it sounds completely off pitch, completely wrong. “That’d be a mess in the making. God, he’d probably get himself killed in a day.”

“He could change. He’s only twelve right now.” Layton gives me a sad look, however before he can protest, I add, “Just think about it.”

He hesitates then nods. “Okay, I will.”

I don’t believe him. Layton is the most loyal person I know, and I doubt he’ll ever actually run away and bail out on his family. Me? I don’t really have anything to run away from. My father’s business will go to his younger brother when he dies, not me.

“We should go do something fun.” I give Layton’s hand a squeeze.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… maybe go downtown and see what kind of trouble we can get into.” I smile the smile I know he can’t say no to.

He tries to restrain a grin, but it eventually slips through. Then he gets up and pulls me to my feet. We start to walk back toward the house, holding hands, Layton’s mood lightening with each step.

“We should do this all the time,” he remarks, giving my hand a swing.

“Hold hands?” I question. “But then, wouldn’t people think we were like dating or something?”

He shrugs. “So what if they did?”

I look at him, wondering if he’s kidding. He seems dead serious, though, which confuses the shit out of me. I mean, we’ve been best friends for almost forever. And yeah, he’s cute and everything, with dark hair and gorgeous eyes—a lot of the girls at my school have crushes on him—yet I’ve never thought of him that way. I’ve never thought of anyone that way honestly, mainly because my mother has told me time and time again that I’m not allowed to date. Sometimes she gets so intense about me just being around guys that I swear she hates men.

I’m about to slip my hand out of Layton’s when I suddenly hear a scream. My head whips in the direction it’s coming from—the front area of the house.

“Just wait a minute,” Layton says with worry, but I’m already jerking my hand out of his and running for the front gate. “Lola, wait! You can’t just…” He trails off as he rounds the side of the house, just steps behind me.

I’ve stopped dead in my tracks. My mother is laying in the driveway, my father holding her lifeless body in his arms. I race over to them without thinking, tears already pouring out of my eyes.

“What happened?” I ask my father, the gasps in my voice alarming, unfamiliar. There’s no blood, no wounds on her. Her eyes are open and vacant while her lips are slightly parted and tinted blue.

He’s rocking her as he cradles her head in his arms. “She’s dead… I think she had a heart attack.”

“Call the ambulance then!” I cry, sinking to my knees. “Dad…” Oh, God, it hurts so much. I can’t breathe. The pain… I’ve never felt anything like it.

“Lola, it’s too late,” my father says with watery eyes as he nuzzles his cheek against the top of her head. "She's dead.”

I want to shout at him for giving up on her so soon. For not holding on. For letting whatever happened to her happen.

“I’ll call 911,” Layton says from behind me before I can start yelling at my father.

More tears pour from my eyes and I feel like I’m drowning in them. “Don’t give up on her, Dad. Don’t let her go.” I know that’s not what he meant when they’d been arguing this morning, but still, he needs to try harder. “Fucking hold onto her!” I scream.

His face drains of color as his eyes widen. His lips part to say something, but then he presses them together and starts to cry. Strangely, his eyes remain tearless, though.

I remain kneeling on the driveway in front of the house, confused, hurting, the pain crushing me, and I feel as though my world is shattering around me. I can barely see anything through the tears, but I do notice when Frankie Catherlson comes walking out of my house with his men. He doesn’t say a word to my father, just heads for his SUV parked amongst a line of similar ones. As he’s getting inside the passenger seat, he glances over his shoulder at me and gives me this look. It’s not quite a smile, yet it seems like he wants to, and then… he fucking winks at me.

My blood burns. My temper simmers. I start to rise to my feet to… Well, I’m not sure just yet. However, as I start to walk over there, Layton’s arms wrap around me. “Stay here, Lola.”

“I want to punch that grin off his face,” I growl, glaring at the back of the SUV. “He had something to do with this… I want to rip his throat out, Layton.” I’m shocked at my words, so venomous and full of hatred. So unlike me.

“Lola, calm down. It’s going to be okay. I promise. Just calm down, please, and let me take care of you.” He kisses the back of my head as I tremble from head to toe. Layton continues to hold me, saying things I can’t hear through the strange, strangled noise my father is making. I want to sit down by him, yet I can’t bring myself to take my eyes off Frankie’s SUV. I’m not sure what happened, but something tells me he had a hand in it.

After minutes go by, my legs grow weak against the shock settling in my body. I’m about to collapse into Layton’s arms when his father and mother come hurrying out of my house.

“Layton, get over here,” his father, Mr. Everett, barks at him, snapping his fingers. His father has never been a nice man, but he and my father have a decent relationship. Although, as he dismisses my father and dead mother in the driveway, all I see is an enemy.

“I promise I’ll be back in just a second,” Layton whispers in my ear, then his arms leave me and he heads over to his father.

I feel incredibly cold, incredibly weak, incredibly unstable, and I have no choice except to sink to the ground and watch in horror, anger—many different emotions—as Layton’s father orders him to get in the car with Frankie and then climbs in himself. As Layton gives me one last look as he gets in the back, his expression is filled with terror, sorrow, and remorse.

Then the door shuts, and moments later, the SUVs are pulling away. One by one, they leave me in the driveway with my father and dead mother, the sounds of screeching tires and ambulance sirens filling the air.

Chapter 1

Seven years later…

My day has been mellow for the most part, a rare but welcomed occasion. Ever since my mother died, good days are far and few between. But today seems so good it’s left me hoping that perhaps it would continue.

I wake up with no hangover, even after partying way too hard the night before. Then I manage to avoid my bodyguards, which is going to get me into trouble when I got home. But I’m in desperate need of some alone time to clear my head, so I sneak out and head to the cemetery to put flowers on my mama’s grave. Then I have a nice, long, one-sided conversation with the engraved stone. It’s something I’ve been meaning to do for a few weeks now, ever since I found the letter.

That goddamn letter that had flipped my already chaotic life upside down even more than it already was. I’d found it hidden in one of my mother’s jacket pockets while I was cleaning out her closet, something that should have been done a long time ago, but I had been holding on to the stuff that belonged to her.

It was written by my mama to a man named Everson Milantes, divulging to him that she thinks I might be his daughter, not the man I thought was my father and who had raised me for the last twenty-one years. The letter was never sent, probably because my mama passed away before she ever got the chance. It was strangely dated the night before she died—the night before I found my father holding her lifeless body in the driveway from what the paramedics declared a heart attack.

The letter changed everything in an instant—myself, my life, my father, my mother—which is exactly what I decide to tell the gravestone.

“I just don’t understand,” I say as I kneel down in the dirt, grasping a bouquet of sunflowers in my hand—my mother’s favorite flower. “Why did you never tell me… I thought you told me everything.” Which always seemed true when I was younger. To me, we’d always had more of a sisterly relationship than a mother/daughter one, which was good in the sense that it made up for me not having any siblings. We so open, without secrets, or at least, that’s what I had thought. But now, well, the letter unfortunately was just a number on an ever-growing list of secrets that I’d been discovering since my mother left this world, her death something that still haunts me to this day.

“I’m starting to wonder what else you didn’t tell me. What other lies I’m going to find out. There’ve been so many… And with the way you died… It’s just so hard to accept that it was a heart attack. I just want some answers to what happened that day.” I shake my head as tears start to sting my eyes. I refuse to go down that road again, a one-way road I was stuck on from the ages of fourteen to sixteen when I wouldn’t let my mother go. I became obsessed with why she died, refusing to believe anything. Even though I still don’t believe the lies, I have moved on because it was killing me inside.

And I think it’s time to do it again, to let go and move on, just in a different way.

I glance around the empty cemetery; the grass covered in headstones, the trees flourishing with leaves. It’s a beautiful, summer day, yet I feel so cold inside—so hollow. Just like this place. I simply want to get away, be somewhere else, and even though it sounds crazy, I swear the wind whispers that it’s okay to go.

Sighing, I set the flowers down in front of her headstone and kiss the tips of my fingers before pressing them to the stone, silently telling her what I think may be my final good-bye. Then I get to my feet and head out of the cemetery; not to my car, but to the park down the street. I need more time to think, to process, to work up the courage to finally do what I’ve wanted to do since I found the letter, maybe even before that. I think part of me has always wanted to do it since the day I suggested it to Layton, to just up and move. To leave everything behind. My life. My friends. My family and all the money and connections that come along with it. To run away.

I’ve been living a life of lies and deceit for too long, and I want to start over and perhaps go find this Everson guy, find out what he knows about the letter; if he knows I may be his daughter. I’m curious what he looks like, who he is, what kind of person he was and is now. Is he like my father, good to his family but his morals and choices perhaps a little twisted and dangerous, or does he simply live a quiet, boring life? I did some searching around for him, however I didn’t find out anything. The only thing I have is the address on the envelope the letter was in, but that was from over six years ago.

After wandering around for about an hour, I finally gather enough strength to go back to my car to go home and pack up my shit. I turn around and cross the grass toward the exit area of the park. Although, right as I’m stepping out of the security of the gated area and onto the sidewalk beside the street, a sleek, black, and very expensive SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb.

I know this life well enough to know what’s behind those doors—I’ve been warned by my father since I was five and seen firsthand what kind of people drive around in them. They are the type of men who are the reason I usually have bodyguards with me.

I whirl around to run, but I barely have time to react as two very large, bulky men wearing black suits and sunglasses, all Men in Black-like, jump out of the car and come barreling at me. I open my mouth to scream, yet they grab me by the arms and one of them slaps a hand over my mouth, right there in broad daylight, which means they have nothing to fear. And no fear means they have connections, probably to one of my dad’s many enemies. The question is, which one? It might not seem important, but at the moment, it’s more important than breathing. Who it is could be the difference of whether I’ll walk out of this alive.

I have hardly any time to come up with an answer, though, as I’m roughly forced into the backseat of the car. As I land face first, bumping my head onto the roof, I try to get a few kicks in, but my struggles are effortless. Before I know it, I have a bag over my head, my hands are tied behind my back, and the car is speeding off.

“Who the hell are you?” I growl through the dark fabric, hoping for someone to reply, then maybe I can figure out who it is. However, the only thing I get in response is a low chuckle and a brush of a finger up my bare thigh to the edge of my shorts. When their hand slips up the front of me and cops a feel of my breast, the touch stands the hair on the back of my neck on end and my stomach churns. I vow to myself that, if I get out of this, I’m going to make the fucker pay.

Instead of causing more drama, I bite down on my lip and force myself to stay silent and remain still. This is what I have been taught to do as a defense mechanism. The last thing I need is to piss the wrong person off or get so worked up I can’t think clearly. It’s in the Preparation for When Kidnapped Handbook, and I’m not talking metaphorically. There was an actual handbook, given to me by my father on my eighth birthday.

“Lolita, nothing will ever conquer you if you don’t show any fear,” my daddy said as I’d torn the wrapping paper off the present then frowned at the thin leather-bound book inside. “In our world, never show fear. Never let it own you. Always be strong or else you won’t survive. This book will teach you to do just that.” It was a family heirloom, and honestly, I’d thought he was insane, but I still read it. I wanted to make him proud, up until my mother passed away. After that, our relationship turned rocky.

Now, I can’t help thinking how right he was, though. Fear is the enemy. Fear is making my head foggy, making me think irrational ideas like throwing myself forward and trying to escape blind. Crying. Screaming. I need a level head if I’m going to accomplish anything.

Deep breaths.

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Twenty minutes later, I’m still sitting in the backseat of the car, squeezed between the two sweaty, smelly men. My heart’s racing in my chest, despite how much I’m telling it to shut the fucking hell up. I try to steady my breathing, stable my heart rate, inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, let my muscles unravel. Think of something relaxing. Reading… sleeping… taking a bath… They all seem okay, somewhat relaxing, but if I’m honest with myself, I need to think of something that actually relaxes me—the real me, the one hardly anyone knows. Drinking… shots… beating the shit out of the guy beside me… sex… hot, sweaty sex. It might be messed up, yet it makes me feel the slightest bit content.

After I get about as calm as I can—still somewhat jittery, though, and with way too much adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream—I sink back in the seat and assess what I can about my surroundings.

The engine is humming and I can hear the sound of the wind, which means the car’s moving and the windows are rolled down. I think about the weapons I have on me. Brass knuckles and mace in my purse, but I dropped it when the guys grabbed me back at the park. I do have a small knife in a holster hidden inside my boot, but how the hell am I supposed to get it out when my hands are bound and I can’t see a damn thing?

Turning my head to the side, I strain to see through the bag. The sunlight faintly slips through the fabric, and I can make out the top of one of the guy’s heads beside me. I wonder if he’s watching me; if he’s thinking about touching me again. I want to rip his hand off for touching me already.

I’m evaluating my options—keep sitting, try to fight blind, cause a scene—when the car comes to a screeching halt. I hear the driver mutter something, then a door opens and the guy to the side of me gets out. I start to let out a breath of relief, but then he either climbs back in or someone else takes his place.

Moments later, the scent of cologne and cigarettes grace my nostrils. I realize there’s definitely someone different sitting next to me since the previous guy stank like BO. There’s something very familiar about the scent, too… I know it from somewhere. I try to think of all the parties I’ve attended, the “family gatherings.” Is that why the person smells familiar? Have I met them at one of those perhaps?

I feel the person shift in the seat and I cringe as their warm breath caresses my cheek. “Just calm down, Lola,” they whisper softly as I clench my hands into fists. Then, their finger brushes the inside of my wrist, a comforting gesture only one person in my life has ever used on me, and suddenly I realize who it is. “Everything will be okay.”

Boy, oh, boy, do I know that voice. What’s more, now I know just how much trouble I’m in, who’s behind the kidnapping, and how slim things are looking for me ever seeing the light of day again. Dead—I’m pretty sure that’s how I’m going to end up.

Sitting beside me is Layton Everett, a guy who used to be my best friend when we were younger, but now he works for my family’s enemy, the Catherlson. Frankie is their leader, the guy who grinned and winked at me the day my mother died. He has despised my father more than any other drug lord on the east coast and has been trying to set my father up and get him killed. He even put a hit on my father once when I was about seven, but it was quickly taken off when my father retaliated, which has always made me question why the hell Frankie was at my house the day my mother died. Of course, I’m not supposed to know any of this, however the house I grew up in had cathedral ceilings that caused every conversation to carry throughout the rooms and hallways.

“I should have known you had something to do with this,” I say spitefully to Layton. My words carry no truth to them, though. Even after my mother died, Layton and I still remained friends for quite a while. He never would tell me why he got into the car with Frankie that day or what his father said to him. And about a week after the funeral, all was well in our drug lord world again. Mr. Everett and my father were friends once more, both despising Frankie Catherlson. No more strange meetings were held.

All was right in our crazy, mad world, up until a couple of months ago when I heard from one of my few female friends that Layton had shown up at a party with Frankie’s men. He didn’t even have the balls to tell me himself, nor did he offer me any explanation when I confronted him, nor have we talked since. I’ll admit, part of my anger stems from the fact that I’ve always believed Frankie had something to do with my mother’s death, and Layton knows my theory, even though he doesn’t believe it.

“Lola, don’t start with me, please,” Layton warns, his fingers leaving my wrist. “You’re only going to get yourself into trouble if you get that mouth of yours going.”

“Fuck you.” I lean into him, lifting my leg and moving my foot around until I find his shin, and then I kick as hard as I can. “You traitor.”

“Dammit, Lola,” he curses, jerking his leg away from mine. “Stop acting like a psychopath.”

“Stop acting like a psychopath? Are you serious?” I’d gape at him, but it’d be pointless since he can’t see my face beneath the bag. “I got picked up while I was innocently walking in the park, felt up by a middle-aged man with the worst combover I’ve ever seen, then bound and thrown into the back of a car, and now you show up and what? Expect me to act sane? I’m not even sane when everything’s fine. You know that.”

There’s a pause. “Innocently walking in the park,” he mumbles, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm, the tone he used to use with me all the time. “I highly doubt that. You’re never doing anything innocently.”

He’s right, but I’m not about to admit that to him. “Where are you taking me?” I ask, slumping back in the seat, pissed off that I feel more relax about this situation now that he’s sitting here beside me. He’s always had that way about him; which was fine when we were friends, but now it just makes the situation more dangerous. It makes me more trusting towards someone who’s my enemy. Remember who he is now. “I’m assuming to Frankie, but I’m wondering why. Did he decide to finish the rest of my family off?”

“Lola, please don’t start with that,” Layton begs. “Your mother died of a heart attack. You need to accept that.”

“Keep her quiet, Layton,” a deep voice advises from the front seat.

It takes Layton a second to answer, the rhythm of his breathing surprisingly unsteady for him. “It has to do with your father,” he says quietly. “He’s in trouble.”

My entire body goes rigid, my already amped-up adrenaline skyrocketing. “What does Frankie want with my father this time? Money? Drugs? Revenge? More Anelli blood on his hands? Usually he’s more set on getting my father killed, not kidnapping his daughter, but I guess his many failed attempts have probably made him desperate.”

Another maddening pause from Layton, then I feel him slant closer to me, his body heat potently familiar. “It’s not what Frankie wants from your father, but what he wants from you, which is for you to pay your father’s debt.”

“Debt?” I’m thrown off by this bit of information and my voice comes out way louder than intended. “Since when does my dad owe Frankie anything?"

“Since he came to him to borrow money about six months ago.” He pauses while I try to wrap my mind around the idea, yet it doesn’t make sense.

“But we’re wealthy…” I try to argue. “What did he need the money for?"

“I’m not sure exactly.” His voice is tight, tense.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He sighs heavy-heartedly. “Look, Lolita, your father’s in some serious trouble. And I mean really big trouble. ”

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, loathing that he used the full name my mother used to call me all the time. Ever since she died, it doesn’t feel right for anyone to use it. “It’s Lola. And what sort of trouble? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Keep her damn mouth shut, Layton,” the same person warns again, and this time, I recognize the baritone voice. Tony Madman Makafee, one of Frankie’s guards, the one who does his “dirty work.”

Shit. I’m now officially dirty work. This is bad. Worse than what I originally thought. People who go with Tony not only never ever seen again, but get tortured in the most painful ways possible until they take their last breath.

“What does Frankie want from me?” I whisper to Layton, scooting closer to him on the seat until our shoulders and legs our touching.

Layton blows out a stressed breath, and I can almost visualize him running his hands through his hair, like he used to do all the time whenever I was making him anxious. “Lolita, please just be quiet.” He gently puts a hand on my leg. “This will all be over soon, and if you cooperate, then it should go smoothly.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.” I jerk my knee out from under his hand. “And I highly doubt this is going to go smoothly. In fact, I’m guessing this is probably the last time you and I will talk ever again. And the last time I’ll be breathing.”

“You think I’m going to kill you?” He sounds so shocked and appalled.

“Maybe not you, but I know that’s Tony up there, and he’s infamous for his whacks.”

“Lola, I would never let that happen to you. I swear to God, I’d kill myself before I’d kill you, and it hurts that you don’t know that.”

“You’re letting me be here,” I snap. “Bound and blindfolded in the backseat of the car. That’s not any better—”

“God fucking dammit, Layton! I told you to shut her the fuck up!” Tony growls. I hear the sound of fabric brushing against leather, then the light through the mask dims.

“Tony, that’s not necessary.” There’s an edge to Layton’s tone. His body heat is suffocating me as he slants nearer to me, our shoulders pressing together and his arm aligning with mine, our fingers inches apart. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he was trying to comfort me. However I do know better. I won’t make the mistake thinking Layton will put me before his job and the duty he feels toward his family. “She’ll be quiet.”

“I already gave her three chances,” Tony replies. I hear him climb over the seat. Moments later, he plops down beside me so close his knee is crushing against mine. “This way’s a lot easier.”

“What way?” I flinch back, trying to get away from Tony and closer to Layton. “Don’t fucking touch me, douche bag, or I swear to God—”

Before I can finish the sentence, a needle pricks my forearm then enters my vein. Shit, this isn’t… good…

“Layton… help…” I hate the plea in my voice, but I have no other option at the moment. I’m slipping out of consciousness. I’ll be more helpless than I ever have… weak… “Please… do… something…”

And he does. He catches me as I fall back and black out.

Chapter 2

When I open my eyes again, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, every single one of my limbs aching. The spot on my arm where the needle entered burns, too. I wonder what kind of drug they doped me up with and if it has any side effects. My vision is a little blurry and my head hurts, but I’m coherent enough to get my bearings.

I’m lying face first with my cheek pressed against the icy, cold, cement floor of a large warehouse filled with boxes and metal crates that make a perimeter around the walls. There are also a few large, stocky, bulky men—none of which I recognize, but assume are bodyguards—standing around me. There’s also a television and Frankie Catherlson. Just seeing him makes me want to strangle him as I think about that look he gave me the day I saw my mother dead.

He had to have something to do with it. I don’t care what anyone says.

Frankie is surprisingly a very short and stocky man who has these bushy eyebrows that look like two, very furry caterpillars. Despite his lack in body features, he always dresses to impress in designer suits and shoes, gold jewelry, and diamond encrusted watches. They are ways to scream that, despite his small demeanor, he’s still got his wealth, and how he got his wealth makes him important. He doesn’t want to be underestimated, and he’ll kill you if he gets a chance. And now just might be his chance to kill me, depending on how this plays out.

His black slacks match his button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing his aged skin. There’s a holster on each of his sides, both carrying guns.

As I push to my feet, I can’t seem to take my eyes off the guns. I wonder how many people he’s killed with them. I wonder how many people my father has killed. I wonder how many Layton has killed.

Where is Layton?

It’s not like these thoughts have never crossed my mind before. In the world I grew up in, death is common. It’s easy to lose someone close to you from death, and it’s equally as easy for someone close to you to cause the death of another. I’ve known this since I was four and lost the first person close to me. Dale, my bodyguard since birth.

We weren’t close, me being a child and him being an adult and big enough that, at the time, I believed he was part giant. However, I can remember crying when my father sat me down and told me Dale was never coming back. What made it worse was when I’d overheard my father and mother talking about how he died in a conversation they thought was private. He’d had every one of his fingers broken off, then he’d been shot simply because he worked for my father and my father had pissed some drug dealers off.

Right now, I am actually living it—the possibility that I could get shot right here—and it makes the reality my father has tried to protect me from all these years painfully real. It makes me regret ditching my bodyguards this morning, makes me regret a lot of things.

Frankie watches with delight as I struggle to get to my feet and gain my balance. “Lolita, it’s so nice to see you again,” he says with a stupid smirk on his face. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever.” His gaze sweeps me in, lingering on the section of my shirt that’s torn—God knows how it got that way. “All grown up, I see.”

“Don’t stand there and chat like we’re good friends,” I say as I clutch my throbbing head. “I don’t even know you other than you’re an asshole who likes to try and get my father into trouble.” And who grinned and winked at me when my mother died.

He cocks his head to the side, his forehead wrinkling as he assesses me. “Oh, how I love feisty woman.” He pauses, stepping toward me with his hands at his sides as if his fingers itch to take out the guns. “And you’re wrong about the friend’s part. We just haven’t seen each other in a while.”

I roll my eyes. “The only times I’ve,” I make air quotes, “’seen you’ are when you were either getting your ass kicked by my father for being a rat, and of course, the time you came over to my house and my mother…” Why can’t I just say it aloud? Confront him. Just spit it out, Lola!

He continues to grin, but there’s darkness in his eyes. I’ve struck a nerve. “Just as sassy as your mother.” He pauses again, walking so close to me I can see the scar on his forehead that runs across his hairline. Rumor has it, when Frankie was younger, his father went bat-shit crazy and cut him there. “I’m wondering what other talents of your mother’s you have.” As he stops just short of me, the way he leers at me makes me squirm in my skin. “Maybe we should find out.”

I want to clock him in the face—and probably would, too—but my hands are still bound. So, instead, I say, “Don’t fucking talk about my mother. Ever,” I growl. “You didn’t know her, so don’t pretend you did.”

That makes him laugh. “Everyone knew Lalana, Lola. Most men better than you, probably.”

I hate the way he annunciates men. I’m about to snap at him, tear open the wound and let myself bleed out, just to get in a few good lines and threats, however the metal door to my right swings open and in walks Layton.

I give him the coldest glare I can muster, more enraged than I ever have been at him before. This isn’t the Layton I used to know; his eyes are colder, his shoulders carrying more weight, probably from the lives he’s taken in the name of his job. He used to be so caring, so protective.

There was one time when we were about fifteen and I’d beaten the shit out of Manny Depler for grabbing my ass while I was heading to class. Layton took the fall for it when the Delper clan had showed up for payback. They beat him up pretty good; broken arm, bloody nose, which still has a tiny kink in it now. When I’d asked Layton why he had taken the fall, he’d simply said, “Because I care more about you than I do myself. I’d rather get hurt than see you get hurt.”

But seeing him here, his expression hard as tone, I decide things have dramatically changed.

“Perfect timing, Layton,” Frankie says. “Lolita and I were just finished getting reacquainted.”

“It’s Lola,” I say coldly as my gaze cuts to Frankie. “No one’s allowed to call me Lolita unless I give them permission.”

Frankie’s eyelids lower as he aims me a look of warning. “Maybe I was wrong. You seem more like your father with that mouth of yours—never knowing when to shut the fuck up.” He slowly draws one of his pistols out, not aiming at me, but carrying it to his side with his finger hovering on the trigger. “I could make you shut up, make it so you can never speak again.”

I should be more afraid than I am—maybe it’s shock, maybe it’s madness—but for some reason, I feel calm.

But Layton is nervous, tensing as he stops to the side of me. “Easy, Frankie. There’s no use shooting her just yet when she hasn’t done what you need her to do.”

Frankie rubs his jawline that’s covered in grey whiskers. “Good point.” He tucks the gun back into the holster, then he paces the floor. “Where to start. Where to start.” He wavers, amusedly.

“Just tell me why am I here,” I demand.

Layton grazes his finger along the inside of my wrist, though instead of welcoming his touch, I move my arm away. He frowns but doesn’t utter a word.

Frankie’s smile broadens as he continues to pace the floor, pointing his finger at me. “That’s a very good question.”

“It wasn’t a quest—” I start to say, but Layton snatches ahold of my wrist, rather roughly, and then gives me a pleading, pressing glance.

Please be careful, he mouths.

I hate admitting it, yet he’s right. No matter how bad I want to put Frankie in his place, now is not the time. I just hope I get another time—another chance to make him pay for everything.

I bite down on my tongue and stay quiet as Frankie strolls toward the television and turns it on. He doesn’t say a word; he simply steps back and lets me watch the screen. It’s a video of my father chained to a chair, his shoulders slumped, blood dripping down his head and pooling around his feet. I want to cry out as a hefty man with arms the size of my legs steps up to my father and starts beating him with a metal pole, slamming it against him repeatedly, causing more blood to stream onto the floor. The cracking sounds make me sick, but what’s worse is the silence of my father, as if he’s been so beaten he can’t even muster up a single noise.

“That’s enough,” I say after about five minutes of watching the screen in horror. Layton is still holding onto my arm, which is good in a way because, otherwise, I may have buckled to the floor. Between the sedative and watching my father bloody and battered, I’m feeling a little lightheaded.

Frankie lets the video play for a minute more just to torture me then turns the television off and faces me. “You’re going to do a hit on Anthony Defontelles in exchange for your father’s freedom and life.” He says it as if it’s the simplest thing to do, as if I’m a natural-born killer.

“No way.” I shake my head as I scan the warehouse for an easy exit, but unfortunately, there are guards everywhere. Layton’s fingertips dig into my arms, as if sensing I’m going to try to run for it. “I’m not a hit man, nor will I ever do anything for you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Frankie considers this for a while then ultimately shakes his head. “This isn’t an argument, Lolita.” When he then winks at me, the pain and anger I felt when my mother died and he did the same thing makes rage blaze inside me. If I’m going to kill anyone tonight, it’s going to be him.

Unexpectedly, he strides toward me, eliminating the space between us as he gets in my face. All I’d have to do is reach forward and wrap my fingers around his neck. Frankie grins as if he can read my mind and is daring me to try, daring me to go there, be like him and everyone else in this world I was just about to run away from.

Layton shifts toward me, his shoulder brushing mine, either protecting me or Frankie, I’m not sure.

“You will do it or you’ll never see your father again. Alive anyway,” Frankie sneers.

I start to inch toward him, but Layton pulls me back. “Even if I agree to do it, I don’t know how to kill,” I say, painfully realizing it’s the truth. I can act tough, however I’m not a killer. Even if I found out Frankie did have something to do with my mother’s death, I doubt I could get revenge for her.

The room starts to spin, and I’m worried I’m going to pass out. Breath in. Breath out. I fight it, standing my ground while telling myself I’m strong, despite how weak I feel inside.

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.

Chapter 3

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.

Chapter 4

I’m having one of those moments when I’m reflecting on every single bad thing I’ve done in my past. Every bad decision I’ve made. The path I followed that led me to this moment in time. Wondering exactly who paved that path. Me? My mother? Father? Dammit, who am I?

My mind is racing, and my body still hurts from the sedative and the hijacking. While my pulse throbs, the music in the club pounding deep inside my body, my skin remains damp and my body numb from the multiple drinks I’ve consumed.

I have on a short, backless, black dress Layton took from my house. The sides are intentionally torn and show off a flower tattoo on the side of my lower thigh and an intricate dandelion one in the center of my back. A pair of lace-up boots covers my feet and half of my legs. And a thick, leather collar is around my neck. My long, black hair’s done up on the top of my head in waves and curls, and I have three studs above my eyebrows. My lips are stained a fiery red to cover up the cut I got while being thrown in the backseat, the vamped color matching my painted nails.

The real icing on the cake to my attire is the 9mm pistol in a holster strapped to my thigh, the one that’s been taunting me since Layton put it there. The metal is icy cold against my skin and sends goose bumps erupting all over my legs. I have a very intense urge to reach up my dress, pull it out, and throw it in the trashcan. However, it would probably bust the plan to shit, and a lot is riding on me not screwing this up, despite the fact that Layton thinks I’m going to. At least, that’s what I’ve decided since he walked out on me in the backroom without answering me.

“Would you relax?” Layton places a hand on my knee to get me to stop bouncing it. “It’s really important that you keep calm, Lola.” It’s the same thing he’s been saying to me since we left the warehouse. “Otherwise, this isn’t going to work.”

“And how do you suppose I do that?” I tip my head and tap my lip, pretending to think deeply, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I mean, I’m here, not under my own freewill, and all of this—what I’m about to do—all relies on something I don’t want to do nor do you believe I can do. Plus, I hate doing things I don’t want to do. And if I do go through with it, I could easily end up getting caught, go to jail or get shot, or get a hit put on me.”

I tear my eyes off the dance floor and focus on his hand that’s on top of my knee. “And touching isn’t part of the deal, just like watching me change wasn’t.” I elevate my gaze to Layton’s silverfish-blue eyes and arch my eyebrow. “So hands off.”

During a different time in our lives, I would have loved to have his hand on my knee. There’s no denying that Layton is sexy as hell with his dark, messy hair; tattooed body; and long, lean arms. What’s more, he used to be a good, caring, nice person—at least to me—but not anymore. Now there’s something dark living inside him, something I’ve never seen before, something that’s haunting him, something I don’t understand but want to.

His lips quirk as he removes his hand from my knee. “If that’s what you want, Lolita,” he picks up his glass filled with scotch, “then I’ll oblige.”

I narrow my eyes at him as I reach for my own glass of scotch. “Then you’ll oblige? What the hell happened to you? You’re too…”

“Too what?” he challenges, wetting his lips with his tongue, causing my gaze to unintentionally zero in on his tongue ring. It makes my thighs burn for the sensation of the metal to graze along my skin; for his lips to be between my legs, his tongue licking me. It’s such the wrong moment to be thinking this, but I can’t help it. Sex has a sedating effect on me, and when I’m anxious, I want it.

“Too calm for this type of situation,” I tell him. “Is it because you don’t think I’ll do it?”

He searches my eyes briefly before his gaze drifts to my legs then back up my body again. “What I think is that you’re hot and bothered.”

I flip him off. “Fuck you.”

“I think that’s the problem, Lolita.”

I bite down on my lip and tell myself to remain composed. To try to remember when we were teenagers and our life was school, fun, excitement, and nothing else—not a worry in the world. Hot summer nights where breaking curfew, stealing bottles of expensive scotch from our daddies’ liquor cabinets, and the occasionally harmless brawl was the biggest risk we ever took. But we’re not friends anymore, and we’re not teenagers. We’re twenty-one-year-old adults who are about to break the law for different reasons.

I shake the glass in a circular motion, and the ice swishes around. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Lola? No one’s called me Lolita since—”

“Since you were fourteen-years-old and Billy Maders found out the meaning of Lolita is seductress and everyone started calling you a whore.” He raises his glass to his lips and takes a long swallow before setting the glass down. “Yeah, I remember what happened. It was totally not true since you were a virgin, but you took it so defensively.”

He’s actually wrong; well, not about the virgin part. I stopped wanting to be called Lolita the day my mother died because she’d always called me that. Yet I never told anyone the real reason and blamed in on the Billy thing, being way overdramatic on purpose.

“Would you stop acting like we’re friends?” I ask, irritated that he knows me so well. He’s supposed to be the enemy, but it’s hard to look at him like that when I’ve known him since we were being potty trained. “We’re not anymore. Not after today.”

“That’s your choice,” he says in a tight voice. “And I don’t blame you for that.”

“Please just stop acting so… indifferent about everything.” I take a long sip of my drink, noting how he observes my neck muscles as I swallow. “Just because you decided to go work for Frankie, doesn’t mean you have to act like you don’t care about anything anymore.”

“I didn’t decide to work for Frankie.” His jaw tightens as he looks over at the bartender. “There were circumstances that led up to it.”

“What circumstances?” I set the glass down on the countertop and eye him over. “Because, from what I heard, you went to Frankie looking for a job. Or was that just a rumor?” I note how stiff his shoulders are, how tight his jaw is, the firm grasp he has on the drink. Tension is flowing off him. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Are you in some kind of trouble? You know, you can tell me if you are. I’d understand and I could maybe try to help.”

He shakes his head, grinding his teeth. “Look around you. You’re in no position to be trying to help anyone but yourself.”

“You could at least tell me… I used to be your best friend.” I sound completely innocent at the moment, just like Frankie stated back at the warehouse. I don’t like it at all, however if there is one person who can bring an emotional side out of me, it’s Layton.

His eyes widen as he looks back at me, startled by the emotion in my voice. “Lola, I…” He blows out a frustrated breath and then rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. “Please, just drop it, okay?” He angles his hand and knocks back the rest of his drink then slams the glass down so hard it cracks up the side. “You don’t want to go sticking your nose around in Frankie or mine’s business, especially with what’s going on with your father. Worry about your own damn problems.”

“Is that a threat from Frankie or you?” I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at him. “Tell me, did you feel bad at all when Tony stabbed me with a needle?”

“I didn’t like letting him do that to you, but I knew it had to be done.” His voice is impassive, his expression blank—detached.

“Wow.” It’s all I can say because I’m hurt, but I’ll never admit it. “All those years of friendship and this is what we’ve turned into. It’s sad and tragic.”

“Tragic? Don’t be overdramatic, Lola.” He sighs yet doesn’t disagree with me about our friendship no longer existing, and it stings a little. “I wish things could be different,” he mumbles, “but it’s not possible.”

I don’t say anything because I don’t know what else to say. He’s right. I wish things could be different, too, but after this—especially after what I do tonight—I can’t see that ever happening.

As unsettling silence stretches between us. Thoughts of why I’m here at the club resurface, I try to think about anything else, but nothing works. The gun is chilly against my skin, and I put my hand on the spot where my dress covers it, wondering how much colder it’s going to feel when it’s in my hand.

“I still don’t get why this happened. How my father could possibly be in debt to Frankie.” I wait for Layton to say something, even though I know he won’t. He silently checks his watch and then orders another drink, downing it the moment he gets it into his hands. After two songs play through and Layton hasn’t done anything but drink and stare at the front door, I say, “This is really depressing.”

“That it is,” he agrees without looking at me.

I take in his firm jawline, the confliction in his expression, the silence. God, the silence is driving me mad, although I know if I speak again, we’ll probably just fight, so I keep my mouth shut and turn my knees inward as a group of guys come wandering by dressed in spikes, leather collars, gloves, dark clothes, and chains. One even has horns tattooed on his head.

Devils & Demons has a strict gothic dress code. Layton and I almost didn’t get in because of his poor choice in clothing; leather pants and a fitted black shirt apparently aren’t enough, although his ass does look amazing in the pants. He was never into Goth, though I’m sure he could pull it off—he can pull off anything.

I, however, was the opposite and went through a phase when I was around sixteen-years-old and saved a lot of my clothing from then. Besides that, the studs in my brows and tattoos are just me, no dressing up needed. I like to consider my body a canvas—just like the ones I paint and sketch on—and paint it up whenever I can. If I could, I’d leave this life and make a career of it. Well, the art part, not my body.

As Layton tracks the group of guys from the corner of his eye, I can see the distaste in his expression. “They have some unique people around here,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I honestly don’t get why the Defontelles want to own a club like this.”

Vomit burns at the back of my throat at the mention of the name Defontelles and what I’m about to do to one of them.

“Unique isn’t bad,” I tell him in an unsteady voice. “In fact, I prefer unique over ordinary, and who knows, maybe all those guys are really good people. They probably are… better than me.” I reach for my drink again; the gun feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds, crushing my thigh.

It’s not like I’m a bad girl. I’m not that bad, though not a goody-goody, either. I have fun. I know how to party. I’ve dabbled in drugs maybe once or twice. I’ve gotten into some trouble, but nothing major. I’ve never been arrested, never killed anyone. However, what I’m about to Anthony Defontelles, even if he’s not necessarily good people, is wrong and will forever change me in a negative way.

“Hey.” Layton reaches out and sweeps his fingertips across the back of my hand as my fingers wrap around my drink, his hard expression softening. For a second, he’s my Layton, not Frankie’s. “Just take deep breaths and calm down before someone notices how nervous you are.” He takes the glass from my hand and sets it down on the countertop.

I notice I’m notably shaking, which isn’t good. The Defontelles have eyes everywhere. He’s right. I need to settle down now.

“I know I need to relax, but it’s a hell of a lot difficult,” I draw a line up the side of my thigh, “when I have this thing strapped onto me.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes, a sign of life for the first time tonight. “It’s not the first time you’ve had a gun strapped to your leg.”

“Yeah, but the last time wasn’t so I could…” I trail off, unable to say it aloud. “Maybe Frankie’s right. Perhaps I’m not an Anelli, considering I can’t even talk about…” I swallow hard, “killing aloud.”

His lips part to speak, but then he presses them back together and observes me intently for a while, his head slanting to the side. “We’ve probably got like another half an hour to an hour before Anthony Defontelles shows up,” he finally says. “What can I do to help you relax?”

It takes me a moment to answer, a moment to pull myself together. “Is that part of your job description?” I ask, devouring the rest of the scotch in one, large, searing gulp. “To keep me relaxed until the dirty work’s over?”

“Yeah, but I’d do it anyway,” he replies with a hint of a ghost smile on his face, the one he used to wear all the time when we were younger. It makes me want to hug him, yet I know better; know that it’s just a glimpse of the past that accidentally slipped through.

“Why? Things are different now. You work for my family’s enemy, so you no longer have to protect me.”

He starts to say something, but I know what he’s going to say—that I don’t understand stuff. And he’s right. I don’t. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I understood his reasons for working for Frankie, I’m not sure I can forgive him for what’s about to happen tonight. I wonder, though, if I tried to flee, if he’d let me. Frankie has ordered him to kill me if I attempt to bail, and he’s agreed, however I wonder if, when it all came down to the deed, he could pull the trigger.

“What’s wrong?” he asks with a hint of concern on his face.

“It’s nothing. I was just thinking of ways I could possible get myself to calm down,” I lie. “That’s all.”

He puts the drink down on the counter. “What can I do to help?”

I shrug, eyes locked on his. “There are only three things that make me relax in tense situations.” I count down on my fingers. “Scotch, which isn’t helping at all tonight. Kickboxing. And sex. So either you can let me kick the shit out of you out back or fuck me in the bathroom.”

There’s no shock factor with Layton. He knows me enough to know how I am, enough to know that all these things calm me down.

“We haven’t fucked since junior year of high school,” he remarks, his eyes sweeping across my body. Figures he’d go for that one.

“Yeah, the year you took my virginity. So what, you can’t screw me now because of that?” I ask. When he stays silent forever, I add, “I gave you another option, you know. Kicking might be easier for the both of us. A lot less painful.”

While his gaze never wavers from mine, the tension between us heightens to the point I think I might combust. “Do you still have that no kissing rule?”

I nod slowly. I’m not a prude. I’ve had my fair share of sexual experiences, just none that have had lip-to-lip contact. “Kissing still makes things complicated.” The one and only time I kissed a guy was when I was thirteen. Trayson Millony forced a kiss on me when I refused to kiss him during a game of spin the bottle. In return, I kneed him in the balls.

No kissing is a rule my mother told me about. No kissing equals no strings attached. Until you’ve found the one. Kissing comes with an emotional connection, and if he isn’t the right guy for me, I’ll end up with a broken heart. Crushed. Ruined. And I don’t want to be ruined, do I?

Ruined would turn me into Gretta, my sixty-year-old aunt who’s never been married, has never went on date in the last forty or so years, and is still obsessed with her first love who has been happily married for forty-something years. Ruined could make me bitter. Ruined could get me into a life with a man where I was so unhappy I wanted to die.

“But I’ve learned a few new tricks since the last time we fucked.” I bite down on my lip, deciding if I’m really going to go through with this. Can I just shove everything aside? Forget about everything for a moment? It’s worked in the past, but the situation has never been this complicated and intense.

Heat blazes in his eyes, but every other part of him remains in control. “And what about the no falling in love rule?” he asks, his gaze relentless, daring me to comment on me breaking his heart. With anyone else, I would crack a joke about him being weak, but Layton… I care… cared for him once. And the day he told me he was in love with me and I told him I didn’t feel the same was the one and only day I ever felt my heart ache over a guy.

“Yeah, the no falling in love rule still applies, too,” I manage to say calmly, even though I feel a flicker of agony attached to the memory. “So are you going to help me relax?” I shock myself more than I do him.

He stares at me a second longer then, with a quick swipe of his tongue across his lips, he rotates around on the barstool and raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention. When the bartender comes over, he orders two double shots of Bacardi then sits in silence while he waits.

I’m mildly disappointed by his rejection, although I have bigger problems at the moment, ones I should be more focused on. Otherwise, I’m going to mess up.

After the bartender sets the two shots down on the counter, Layton slides one toward me. “Drink this,” he says.

“I already told you drinking isn’t doing it for me tonight,” I remind him as he retrieves his wallet from his pocket then tosses a twenty down on the countertop before guzzling his shot.

“Drink the shot.” His voice is demanding as he sets the empty glass down, but I detect a hint of a tremble in his hand.

I collect the large glass in my hand. Putting the rim up to my lips, I let the fiery liquid spill down my throat. It tastes like trouble, danger, and ecstasy all mixed up in one potent swallow. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

“Now dance with me,” he says, slipping his fingers through mine and pulling me to my feet.

“Dance?” There’s doubt in my voice as we make our way to the crowded dance floor. “Seriously? Since when do you dance?”

He places a hand on the small of my back and guides me closer as we near the mob of people drowning in sweat, and the sensual throbbing base of the music envelopes us further. He pauses as he reaches the center, getting poked and prodded with stray elbows, knees, and other bulging body parts.

“Just relax and trust me,” he says, turning to face me.

“I don’t trust anyone anymore.” I stare him down with reluctance. “Not after this.”

He contemplates what I’ve said before he grabs me by the waist forcefully. His touch makes my skin scorch and my thighs erupt with heat. I blame it on the Bacardi when, really, I know what’s doing it. “Okay, then just try to relax,” he says, drawing me closer. “Let’s make the most of the time we have.”

Despite how much I want to turn and walk away from him, I give in and dance. In just about an hour, I’ll be taking someone’s life. What’s more, I have a feeling that, after that, the life I know now isn’t going to exist anymore. That dancing or having any sort of relaxing moment isn’t going to be in the cards for me anymore because the life I know is about to disappear.

Maybe forever.

Chapter 5

My mother was an opinionated woman, who had her beliefs and loved to share them with me. I know that a lot of the things she said shaped me into the person I am now. Some of it good, some of it bad, but that’s life in general.

“Sex can be two things,” my mama told me once when I was about thirteen. “A weapon or just plain fun and relaxation¸ if you’ll let it. Don’t always make it such a big deal, my Lolita. Don’t let men own you because of it.” It went right along with her no kissing rule.

She was what a lot of men called a promiscuous woman. My daddy met her when he hired her as an escort. She was nineteen and he was thirty-five. After spending one night with her, he fell madly in love with her sporadic, mysterious, impulsive character along with her beauty. One month later, they were married, and nine months later, I was born. This means, during the first month they were married, she’d had an affair with this Everson man, if the letter means what I take it to mean.

I probably would have never known the real life story of my parents if it wasn’t for my mother’s sister, Aunt Glady, who told me all of this right after my mom died when I was fourteen. Aunt Glady had been on the bottle for three days straight. She told me never to tell anyone that I knew the secret—that my daddy would cut her out of the will if she did. And being from a poor family from Cheyenne, Wyoming, she needed the money.

Money and power, that’s what my dad’s known for, and that’s why it makes no sense that he’s gotten into debt with Frankie. Benny Big Bones was the name my father was given when he was eight by Big Doug Dellanay, one of the major drug lords during the seventies. My dad was his protégé and his nickname has never left him.

He’s a good father, though; for the most part. I grew up with pretty much any luxury I wanted. I always felt loved, nurtured, and cared for, even after my mother died and I stopped trusting him. He tried his best, but I pushed him away, wanting to make him feel helpless for letting my mom go so easily, even though, deep down I know it’s not his fault. It’s an emotion I know he hates—feeling helpless. Right now, I’m the one that feels helpless, though.

I’m lost. Afraid. A scared girl who wants to run away.

It’s all I can think about—running away—for the next twenty minutes after Layton pulls me on the dance floor. Sweat is beading my skin as I rock my hips to the rhythm of “Ooh La La” by Goldfrap.

As I move to the music, Layton’s hands wander all over my body; cup my ass, grab my hips, his breath caressing my neck. It feels absolutely, mind-blowingly good. I desperately crave more touches, more closeness, more heat, passion, sex. Fun and relaxing, just like I was taught. I want more of it; I want what I know awaits me if I can push us both further. A few minutes of bliss from this shitty night that I’m sure will lead to an endless amount of shitty nights, if I survive. I need it—this. Hunger for it.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. The need and desire mixed with a hell of a lot of Bacardi and Scotch is too much.

I spin around and grind my body against him for a moment while dipping my lips to his ear. “Take me into the bathroom and fuck me,” I whisper hotly against his ear while running my fingers through the back of his hair and grinding my hips against his. I sound like someone else, someone in control, who knows what she wants. I sound like the Lola I was a few weeks ago, before the letter, before this.

I nip at his earlobe, grazing my teeth against his flesh. His breath catches in his throat, his breathing fierce—in and out, in and out—driving my body into a sexual frenzy as his solid chest brushes with mine. The intense feeling amplifies as he pushes back and I see the glossy, lost look in his eyes, like he’s high.

When the DJ starts saying something in the background, the crowd cheers and jumps up and down, slamming into us and pushing us closer. Neither of us looks away from each other, though; our gazes and bodies melded together.

Then, without saying a word, he grabs my hand and shoves his way through the dance floor, pushing people out of the way. Excitement roars through my body and fleetingly erases the fear and nervousness I’ve been feeling all night.

I can do this. I can let everything go. Just take a moment.

But then I spot one tall, solidly built man with a goatee and a tattoo on the side of his neck entering the bar from the back entrance. Draston Fordelles, one of Defontelles’ men.

Like a sharp slap across the face, I’m reminded of why I’m here. Not to play. Not to have fun. Not to have sex with a guy who I need to start seeing as an enemy.

I’m here to kill.

However, my body has different ideas and won’t let me pull away from Layton. If anything, I hold on tighter, pretending he’s the guy I used to play with in the sandbox; the guy who kept an eye on me at parties, making sure I didn’t get too wasted and do something stupid; the guy who took the fall for me a thousand times. God dammit, I need this. I need just one more moment of calmness before my whole entire world is turned upside down.

I know things will never be the same after I go through with it. I’ve known a few people who have committed hits for various different reasons, and they were never the same afterwards. Even if it’s for a good reason and the person they kill is bad, it changes them forever. Darkens their soul. Hollows them out. They carry pain on their shoulders forever. Some don’t even survive, ending their own lives later on. I know this from growing up in the kind of environment I have.

And that’s what keeps me moving forward with Layton as he pushes through the bathroom door, startling a group of women putting lipstick and mascara on in front of the mirror. A couple of them yell at him to get out and the rest simply stare in awe. I’m sure they are wishing they were going into the stall to get fucked by him.

Layton disregards them completely as he strides toward the end stall, towing me along with him. He shoves the door open and tugs me in before letting my hand go then locking us in. By the time he turns around and faces me, I’m panting with need, my chest heaving ravenously.

I want. I want. I need. I need. I’m helpless with desire.

“Pull your pants down,” I say to Layton, relaxing back against the wall and biting my lip until it bleeds.

He shakes his head, his lips quirking with genuine amusement. “You’ve gotten bossier since the last time we hooked up.”

I tell my body to be patient, yet it’s difficult now that we’ve gotten this far, and I start running my hand along my body. “A lot has changed over the last four years.”

His elation sinks. “Yeah, it has…” He tracks my hand wandering across my breast, down to my stomach, then up to my other breast. Sucking in a slow breath, he unexpectedly hesitates. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

I’m more insulted than hurt. “Why the fuck not?”

“Because…” he struggles for words, his gaze fixed on me, searching my eyes. “Because you’re stressed. Drunk. Under a lot of pressure. A lot of different things. And I don’t think under normal circumstances you’d even be touching me.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t normal circumstances, is it?” Not giving him time to react, I unzip the zipper going down the side of my dress and let it fall to my ankles. Then I carefully step out of the dress and stand there in my lacey black bra and panties, gun strapped to my thigh. “Now it’s your turn.”

He deliberately scrolls his eyes over my body, taking his sweet time, his breathing quickening the longer his gaze drinks me in. “God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he mumbles with his eyes fastened on me, hunger taking over the darkness in his eyes.

He slowly reaches for the button of his pants and undoes it, but his fingers linger so long on his zipper that impatience gets the best of me. I stumble across the small amount of space between us and jerk them down myself along with his boxers then bite down on my lip even harder as I drop to my knees.

“Shit, Lola.” He groans as I take him deep in my mouth without warning. His head bangs against the door as he slumps back, continuing to make throaty noises and low moans as I move my mouth up and down along his swollen cock.

I can hear whispering on the other side of the door, something about me being a whore, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything, and that’s sort of the point of all of this. Sex can be numbing. Invigorating. Distracting. So much so that I can barely feel the gun on my leg anymore. The fear of what I’m about to do, the pain of knowing what’s been done to my father, it’s all gone. For a moment, I’m simply Lolita, and I’m okay with it.

“God… Lolita,” Layton moans out my name as he grabs a handful of my hair, causing the pins holding it up to fall out. My hair falls to my shoulders as he gently tugs on the strands.

I move my mouth up and down on him a few more times, letting my eyes close. I’m getting lost in another place, drifting, drifting, drifting, but then he takes it away as he gently pulls on my hair, guiding my mouth away.

“What are you doing?” I protest as his fingers enfold my arms, and with one swift tug, he lifts me to my feet.

Then his fingers leave my arms and drift downward, under the hem of my panties. He jerks them down my legs and I eagerly help him out by stepping out of them and kicking them off to the side. Seconds later, his fingers are in me, feeling me thoroughly, each movement causing me to gasp and stab my nails into his shoulders, scratching his flesh.

I’ve never been so aggressive, but it’s like all the emotions are flooding out of me and clawing their way out. I’m losing it, on the verge of combusting, losing sight of what’s around me. My hands take on a life of their own. I rip his shirt over his head then feel his lean muscles, trace the dark lines of the tattoos on his ribs and arms before I collapse back against the wall.

“God, this is exactly what I needed tonight,” I moan, my fingers finding his cock again. I grasp it in my hand as my eyelids drift shut once more. We keep feeling each other; panting, sweaty, growing needier and needier until finally we can’t take it anymore.

When he slips his fingers out of me, I open my eyes to find him taking a condom out of his pocket. I’m bursting with need as he tears it open, and then I impatiently grab it from his hand and put it on him slowly, making his eyes roll into the back of his head, high on the sensation of my touch. A faint smile touches my lips as I pull my hand away. His eyes come back into focus and he grabs my thighs before forcefully picking me up, slamming me against the wall as he backs us up. Then, with one hard thrust, he sinks deep inside me. My back arches and my legs hitch tightly around his waist.

“Oh, God,” I gasp, starting to let my head fall back. Before I can protest, his lips come down hard on mine and he slips his tongue inside my mouth, stealing my second kiss. Just like that. Without permission. Without warning.

For the briefest second—one based on confusion and Bacardi—I tangle my tongue with his, loving the taste of him, loving the kiss. But then my commonsense kicks in, and I pull my tongue out and bite down on his bottom lip hard.

“No kissing,” I growl in a low tone, tracing my fingers up his chest as he pauses inside me, still holding onto me.

His eyes are glossed over and he looks completely out of it. “Fine… if that’s what you want.” He licks his wounded lip as he rocks into me again.

“Those are the rules,” I groan, rolling my hips forward. He sucks in a sharp breath then reciprocates by rocking his hips forward, sliding inside me almost painfully slow. My nails pierce his skin again as I veer toward the edge of losing it, desperate to hold on, knowing once I fall, it will be back to reality.

He continues the slow movements again and again, grasping onto my thighs, fingertips delving into my skin so roughly I’m sure I’m going to have bruises. I clutch onto his shoulders as I move my hips in sync with his. The lights, music, voices—everything—fades around us. My body climbs higher and higher away from reality.

I forget where I am. Who I am. I forget about everything as he drives my mind and body further away from reality until I completely come apart, crying out his name as my head falls back. He gives one last thrust inside me then joins me, struggling to hold onto me as he comes.

After everything settles, he rests his face in the crook of my neck and starts placing light kisses on my damp skin. I don’t even bother stopping him, too tired and content to speak. This was good, I want to say. Much better than the first time. Yet, by the time I work up the energy to say it, his phone starts ringing from inside the pocket of his pants.

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.

Chapter 6

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.

The first thing I notice is how bright the lights are and how musty the air is. It makes it difficult to see anything and breathe. I have to catch my breath and blink a few times to get my vision to adjust to the florescent lighting. That’s when I realize just how big of trouble I’m in. Because Anthony’s not alone. He’s got two really big guys beside him; his bodyguards, I’m guessing. They’re sitting on fold up chairs around a square table, and on it is enough money and bags of cocaine to fill up an entire trunk of a car.

I’m debating whether or not to bail because this isn’t how this is supposed to go down, but then Anthony glances up from the pile of cash and drugs in front of him, and I know there’s no backing out.

He’s in his mid-forties, tall, sturdy, arms the size of both my legs. He has a scar going all the way down his nose to his lip and a tribal tattoo on his neck that travels up to the top of his shaven head.

“Who the fuck are you...?” he starts to say, but then trails off as he recognizes who I am. “Lolita Anders,” he says with a grin.

The sequences of events that happen right after that move so quickly I barely have time to process them. While the two bodyguards spin around and jump out of their chairs, I panic and start to whirl around to run out the door. However, I catch Anthony reaching for his waist, his fingers heading for the silver handle of a gun sticking out of the top holster. I react the only way I can think of. I swiftly slide my hand up my dress and withdraw the 9mm. With one swift movement, I lift my hand and point the gun at him at the very exact moment he aims his at me.

My heart hammers in my chest. I can’t breathe. Think. See straight.

Don’t hesitate.

Don’t hesitate.

Don’t hesitate.

Layton was right. I don’t have it in me.

Anthony grins, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then his finger starts to press back on the trigger. Seconds later, a gun goes off, but it’s faint, quiet, the noise of the club outside washing it away. I see my life flash before my eyes. I wait to die, wait for the pain to arrive, but quickly realize I’m still breathing, my heart beat deafeningly loud inside my chest.

“Get out of here!” Layton shouts from behind me, snapping me out of my trance.

Reality slaps me fast and hard as warm liquid covers my face and arms. There’s blood everywhere and Anthony is lying on the floor, bleeding profusely from a wound in his chest. The bodyguards have withdrawn their guns and have them aimed at Layton and me. I still have my gun out in front of me, my hand unsteady. Layton is standing beside me with his gun out, drops of Anthony’s blood on his face, his hand steady as a rock.

“Get out of here, Lola,” he orders in a firm tone without taking his eyes off the men.

“She’s not going anywhere, Layton. Neither of you are,” one of the men says. I don’t know his name, but he has this four-leaf clover tattooed on his scruffy cheek along with the number 99 and the word Denny. I wonder what it means. If it’s his lucky number or something more personal, like a year someone was born. Maybe his kid. Does he have kids? If he does, will it hurt to lose their father as much as it hurt me when I lost my mother. Oh God. Am I about to see a father die? Am I about to break a family? And what about Layton. Am I about to see him die? Am I about to die?

My mind is racing while the fear inside me is making me want to puke. Seconds later, I hear another gun go off. There’s no warning. No time to react, only flinch. It all happens incredibly fast, and I get caught up the middle of it, making choices based on my fear, going against everything my father ever taught me.

My gun goes off… I can’t even remember pulling the trigger, yet my gun goes off and the last man standing, the one with the four-leaf clover, falls to the floor on his back, clutching his chest. He gasps for air over and over again, though a few heartbeats later, he stills. There’s a hole in his chest, blood pouring out of it and soaking his shirt. Just like that, it’s all over. Everything’s changed, just like I knew it would.

Because I have officially become a hit man and a murderer. Nothing will ever be the same again.

Layton was wrong.

I am a killer.

Chapter 7

Everything seems so much darker and colder. I’ve never been so cold, and I don’t think I’ll ever warm up again. The last few minutes keep replaying in my mind like a nightmare, even though I’m awake. But it always ends the same—with blood on my hands and the haunting image of the name Denny branded in my head. I can’t stop wondering who Denny is. If I killed a father. I’m not sure if it would matter either way. His blood would still be on my hands no matter who he was.

After the shots are fired, I go into shock; my body cold, numb, dead, just like the bodies on the floor. There’s blood splattered all over my skin, my hair, the floor, the wall, my clothes, the ceiling. I’m still holding the gun—why am I still holding the gun?

I drop it like it’s poison then stagger back from the bodies and throw up in the corner of the room. Layton doesn’t say a word as I empty my stomach and sink to my knees. He doesn’t ask me to get up. I don’t think I could if I tried. Instead, he scoops me up in his arms and carries me out of the club through the back entrance where no one will see us. It seems like forever when really it’s probably moments before we make it to his car.

Layton carefully puts me in, buckles me, and then gets into the driver’s seat. It’s still dark outside, the moon a sliver in the sky, stars twinkling. It’s the middle of May, a warmer time of the year, yet it feels so cold.

“You have blood on your cheek,” I say as I sit in the seat with my knees pulled up to my chest, shivering and chattering.

He reaches up and wipes away the blood then glances over at me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then, I guess, decides against it. He starts up the car and drives out of the parking lot and onto the street.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask, shutting my eyes and turning forward in the seat. The heater blows over my body, however I can’t stop shivering.

“Home,” he says, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“What about my father?” I lean my head against the window, unable to hold my head up anymore.

“I’ll tell Frankie you did the job and to let him go. Everything will be fine.” He’s speaking to me, yet he’s not.

I open my eyelids, even though they feel so heavy. “And what about you? What will you do?”

“I already told you not to worry about me,” he says, looking straight ahead at the road. “I can take care of myself.”

I want to tell him that I am worried about him, that I do care about him, but I’m afraid to go there right now.

Layton and I don’t speak until we reach my house, but I don’t think there’s that much to say, other than we could talk about what’s happened. However, I don’t want to talk about it. Think about it. Remember it.

God, I’m a killer.

I can’t stop staring at my hands. They look so different. So tainted.

When he parks the car in front of my house’s entryway, he gets out and opens the door for me then helps me out of the car. My legs are wobbly and I stumble to get my footing. He catches me in his arms and helps me get my balance, holding me against him. He still doesn’t speak as he smoothes his hand over the back of my head over and over again. All I want to do is sink into him, disappear, vanish forever.

He starts placing kisses on my head over and over, and then he steps back from me and again I feel so cold. “Go inside and wait for your father to get home,” he instructs, quickly brushing his finger down my cheekbone, looking torn over something. “But, Lola, don’t believe anything he tells you.”

“What?” Confused, I struggle to get my balance. “Why not?”

“I can’t tell you why. You just need to trust me.” His eyes plead with me to believe him.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t even matter… nothing does… I’m as good as dead. You know it—everyone knows it.”

He swallows hard and then suddenly he’s pulling me back to him, his lips rushing against mine before I can even take my next breath. He kisses me with so much passion, like it’s his last kiss, last breath he’ll ever take, and it means everything in the world to him.

And just as quickly as it happens, it stops. He pulls away, slipping away, leaving me breathless as he whispers, “Run away. It’s the only way you’ll survive this. Run away and never look back. It’s what your mother should have done.” Without saying anything else, he gets into the car and drives into the night, leaving me stunned beyond words.

Like my mother should have done? What does he know?

I try to call him several times as I hurry inside, but it keeps going to his voicemail. I wonder if he has to go into hiding for killing Anthony. I wonder a lot of things, like why he thinks I can’t trust my father. Why he stepped up and shot Anthony himself. If it was because I hesitated and he thought I was going to get shot, or if maybe he was never going to let me shoot Anthony all along. If he does still care about me like he did when we were kids.

My heart feels about as empty as the house, entirely unfamiliar, entirely dead. I want to crumble in the emptiness and cry my heart out, but I’m not going to. Blood on my hands or not, I’m not going to be a weak girl. I’m stronger than that. So instead, I pull myself together and go straight up into bathroom to take a shower, confusion fogging up my thoughts. What do I do? Where do I go? Who can I trust?

I scrub and scrub and scrub. I scrub so hard to get the blood off my skin starts to bleed. By the time I’m done, I feel a little cleaner and my head is clearer. And I know what I have to do.

After I get out, I get dressed and then take a pair of scissors to my hair, chopping it off. Erase who I am. I know better than to think that my father won’t do everything he can to find me and probably Anthony’s family will as well. If I don’t want to be found, I have to be careful. Be smart. Go into survival mode. I’m going to run. Disappear. Forever. Carry out the plan I made in the park, pretend tonight never happened. Do what Layton says, which I guess technically means I’m trusting him. I don’t know why, other than I am.

By the time I’m finished hacking my hair off, it’s chin length and looks like shit, but I feel satisfied. I pack my stuff along with the letter my mom wrote to Everson. I grab a stash of cash from under my mattress, the one my father gave me for emergencies. Then I get in my car and drive away from the house I grew up in, never looking back, as if the last fourteen hours haven’t happened. I’ll turn it all off. That is my goal as I drive down the road toward the bus station.

It’s a pretty far drive since we live in the more rural, rich area of town, and by the time I pull into the parking lot, the sun is coming up. I leave my keys in the car since I won’t need them. Then I grab my suitcase from the trunk and go inside the bus station.

As I walk by people, I wonder if anyone can see what I am. What I’ve done. Can they see the blood on my hands? No one seems to be alarmed, yet I still feel nervous as I cautiously walk up to the counter to buy a ticket.

When the cashier asks me where I want to go, I tell him, “Anywhere.”

He gives me a confused look, like he has no idea what to do. “I’m sorry, but I need a destination.”

I blow out a breath and think of the first place that comes to mind. “Do you have any buses going to Great Falls, Montana?”

He types something on his computer. “There’s one headed in that direction in about an hour. There’s quite a few stops, though.”

“Sold,” I say without missing a beat.

Montana is far. Rural. An unlikely place for me to pick. And it just happens to be the address of the letter. I’m not sure if I’ll find this Everson man or if that’s even the point, but it might be a start to trying to figure out who the hell I am. Who the hell my mother was.

After I pay for the ticket, I briefly consider asking the cashier guy if he’ll come screw me in the bathroom. He’s not bad looking at all, just a little preppy for my taste, and I need to relax somehow. I could do it again, just like with Layton.

Layton.

Pain crushes my chest, and after staring at the cashier guy long enough that I make him uncomfortable, I end up walking away for reasons I can barely comprehend. I take a seat on one of the benches, waiting to get on the bus. While I’m watching people wander around, searching the crowd for signs of the Defontelles, my phone goes off in my pocket. It rings on and off for five minutes, but I ignore it until a text comes through. I check it, and no surprise, it’s from my father.

Dad: I’m okay, Lolita. On my way home. Stay there until I get there and please call me. I know you must have questions about everything.

I read the message over five times, and with each time, I grow angrier. Everything. I want to ask him exactly what he means by everything. About his debt. About my mother. About why Layton thinks he’s a liar. And why the hell he got me into this mess after all those years of protecting me.

Finally, I throw my phone into the trash bin. The last connection to my home is now gone. It gives me a little sense of peace. I wonder if Layton’s doing the same thing. If he’s erasing his identity. For the briefest moment, I think about pulling my phone out of the garbage and calling him, just to make sure he got away okay, but in the end, I don’t. I can’t bring myself to do so. And deep down, I know he probably won’t answer.

Therefore, I wait for the bus, and when it’s time to board, I do so without looking back, leaving everything behind, knowing I can never be Lola or Lolita again.