The news anchor’s overly earnest face filled the screen, describing a scene straight out of an action movie. “A drug deal gone disastrously awry in Las Vegas has left multiple dead,” she chirped, as if announcing a bake sale that had run out of brownies instead of a shootout that left bodies decorating the pavement like some macabre art installation.
The camera panned over the chaos—flashing lights, yellow tape fluttering in the breeze cordoning off what was now a narcotic graveyard, and enough law enforcement to stage a coup. They shuffled around like they were on the world’s worst Easter egg hunt, except instead of chocolate treats, they were collecting narcotics and corpses.
“The police have seized a significant quantity of drugs,” she continued. “Early reports suggest involvement from notorious drug cartels and gangs.”
The reporter droned on about a “vicious cartel turf war” and “unprecedented levels of violence,” but not a single word about how I’d managed to stumble ass-backward into the whole damn mess. No mention of Matt and his men swooping in like avenging angels or the way William Bosworth had shown up fashionably late to the gunfight. The real puppet masters? They remained in the shadows, their strings untangled like they’d been airbrushed out of this particular disaster.
Nope, as far as the media was concerned, this was just another day in Vegas—bright lights, high stakes, and a casual disregard for human life.
A snippet of conversation drifted from Matt’s henchmen, buzzing around like flies in the kitchen discussing last night’s leftovers.
“…tipped off the cops…”
“…evidence is in their hands now…”
“…one hell of a cleanup…”
The realization hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest: they’d handed over the entire drug operation—the mountains of powder, the bricks of misery—to the cops on a goddamn platter. Just like that, an empire’s worth of narcotics was gone, vanished into the bureaucratic black hole of evidence lockup.
I couldn’t wrap my mind around the sheer audacity of it all. One minute, I was watching Sean load up enough drugs to make Scarface blush. The next, it was all been swept away like a bad dream, nothing but whispers and police reports to show for it.
I wasn’t even sure if I should be relieved or terrified that they’d managed to involve law enforcement without leaving fingerprints—or worse, bodies—behind that could be traced back to us. It felt like being caught in a tornado, flung around until you didn’t know which way was up.
My head spun, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to make sense of the chaos. How had things spiraled so wildly out ofcontrol? This was the kind of stuff you saw in movies, not… not whatever my life had become.
A choked sound escaped my lips—half laugh, half sob. I was in so far over my head, it was laughable. Treading water in the deep end of an Olympic-sized pool of crazy, with weights tied to my ankles.
The ache in my chest tightened, a viselike grip that stole my breath. Sean’s face flashed before me—that pained, apologetic smile as the life drained from his eyes. He’d been a screwup, a gambling addict with a penchant for harebrained schemes, but he’d been my friend. One of my rocks in this twisted Vegas whirlwind.
And now he was gone, another casualty in whatever game the rich and powerful were playing.
A whimper clawed its way out of me, raw and broken. My eyes—stained red from an all-night crying marathon—burned as if they were marinating in jalapeño juice. I felt like I’d been dragged backward through a hedge maze and left for dead in the center.
My shoulders shook with quiet sobs, each one racking through me like a physical blow. The events of the past twenty-four hours crashed over me in waves, pulling me under with their relentless force.
I was drowning, gasping for air in a sea of grief and trauma. And there was nothing to cling to, no lifeline to pull me back to the surface. Just the crushing weight of it all, pressing down on me from every angle.
I flicked off the TV, the screen’s sudden darkness mirroring the void in my chest. Collapsing to my side on the couch, I curled up, letting sobs rack my body. The couch cushions soaked up my tears, a silent witness to my unraveling.
Grief crashed over me in waves, each one threatening to pull me under its unrelenting current. I was an absolute mess—a tornado-ravaged wreck of a human being.
How long I lay there, adrift in my own misery, I couldn’t say. Time held no meaning when my entire world had been ripped apart at the seams. But eventually, I became aware of a gentle weight settling on the couch beside me, a warm hand threading through my disheveled hair.
Matt. Even through the haze of my misery, his presence was unmistakable.
With monumental effort, I pried my eyes open, peering up at him through salt-stained lashes. His expression was a complicated blend of concern and exasperated fondness as he took in my no-doubt pathetic appearance.
“You look like you went ten rounds with a swarm of pissed-off bees,” Matt said, a trace of humor softening his words.
I didn’t have the energy to muster a retort, letting the jab slide past me like water off a duck’s back. What was the point? He wasn’t wrong—I was a wreck, plain and simple.
Matt studied me for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“Not hungry,” I mumbled into the plush fabric of the couch. My stomach was a knotted mess, hunger far from my mind.
Matt sighed—a deep, rumbling sound—and reached for his phone. Within moments, he ordered food. Not just any food—an extravagant feast that would’ve made Roman emperors weep with envy.
“Where’s your phone?” he asked abruptly.
