Well, at least that was a relief.

“We partnered up good in the past, Vincent, repeatedly,” Nair retorted. “Both of us did well workin’ together.”

They did?

That was news to me.

Unhappy news.

Nair wasn’t finished.

“And it’d be smart you don’t forget that because word is, you haven’t been smart much for a long time and you need good partners and you have since Leon put you in your place.”

I held my breath.

No one, not a soul, mentioned Leon Jackson to my father.

No one.

Dad’s voice was rumbling with contained fury when he said to me, “Our guest has lost his way to the door, Olivia. You can call Gill now to show him that way.”

“Valenzuela finally stops fuckin’ around, chews you up, spits you out,” Nair hissed, jerking his finger through the air at Dad with each “you,” he then turned and jerked it to me. “Valenzuela puts you on the auction block, I’m buyin’. Cover you in my cum then make that pussy work for me.” He turned back to Dad. “And everyone in Denver knows Valenzuela’s biding his time. That shit’s gonna go down. Make no mistake. Only one who’s in denial about that is you. You hearin’ me?”

“Our history,” Dad whispered, “gives you sixty seconds to get your fat ass out my door.”

“Fuck you,” Nair spat. “You had the balls to do it, you’d—”

I was desperately tugging my phone out of my purse.

I was too late.

Nair stopped talking because Dad pulled the gun out of his desk.

“Right,” Nair taunted, grinning an oily grin.

I quickly searched for Gill’s contact on my phone.

The door opened.

Georgia started in.

Dad pulled the trigger.

Nair’s head exploded.

He just had to pull out his .45.

I closed my eyes, swallowed the sick that surged up from my gut, turned back to the window and dropped my phone hand.

“Seriously?” Georgia asked, not hiding her exasperation. “Our cleaning bill is out the roof already.”

“Reschedule,” Dad barked. “And clean that shit up.”

I opened my eyes and stared through the grime at the parking lot.

“Olivia?” Dad called.

I turned my head his way. He was now close to the door.

He held my gaze and nodded, seemingly communicating something weighty, like for some reason he was proud of me.

I felt my flesh crawl.

Dad turned away, walked out and slammed the door behind him.

I looked back out the windows.

I then heard Georgia say, obviously into her phone, “Yeah, Gill. Call Henrietta. Get some heavy duty bags. Clean up on aisle five.”

I sighed.

“Liv,” she called to me.

I looked to my sister.

She had a hip hitched, her phone up in front of her face, her eyes to it, thumb moving on her screen.

“How’re you fixed for next Thursday?” she asked.

Good God.

My family.

* * * * *

Nick

5:38 – That Evening

Jogging down the stairwell to get to the underground parking lot of his building, Nick made his fourth call to Olivia that day.

He was concerned.

It was his third call, the first, that morning, she’d answered. The last two that afternoon, she had not. But he’d also texted three times, all that afternoon, and none of those she’d answered.

He had no ears at that warehouse.

And he had a leak.

She had a meeting that afternoon at that warehouse.

She worked with vipers.

And she was his.

They found that out, they’d strike.

He had no choice but to let her go to work every day with that threat hanging over their heads, a threat she didn’t fully understand.

But with his access cut off to the House of Shade, and Sylvie and Creed just back from Phoenix and on the job, Nick was keeping closer tabs on his woman.

So yeah, she didn’t reply, he got worried.

Now, with spotty reception, he felt relief when she answered. He also immediately decided to put a man on her, everywhere she went, unless she was with Nick.

“Sebring,” she said in greeting.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” she answered.

He jogged faster. “What’s happening?”

“Not for the phone,” she stated, her voice breaking up as he got deeper underground, but he heard her.

Fuck.

She knew her cell wasn’t tracked. He’d told her after his boys went over it.

She still had something she couldn’t say on the phone.

Fuck.

He pushed through the door. “I’m coming home. Where are you?”

“Sucking back melon shit and vodka at your bar.”

“Be there in twenty.”

“All right, sweetheart.”

He disconnected, got in his car and probably pissed off a fuckload of people as he made the thirty-minute, rush-hour drive to his place, doing it in twenty.

He jogged up his steps taking them two at a time.

He pulled open the door, shut it behind him, bolted it and strode swiftly into his unit to see her at his bar, tight skirt still on, high heels kicked off, the evidence of her recent activities littering his kitchen, hand wrapped around a green drink.

“I’m cooking and you can’t argue since it’s mostly done,” she declared.

It smelled awesome which probably meant each bite was going to shave a year off his life.

“You’re home early,” he noted, making his way to her.

“Even though my father thinks he owns me, I do tend to be allowed to make my own hours. So today, I gave myself the afternoon off to go to the grocery store, get the provisions and beat you here to start cooking because our monthly meeting about the family business was postponed due to unexpected circumstances.”