“You have twenty-four hours,” the central figure says. “It must be done quietly. No mess. No suspicion.”
“And if I refuse?” I ask, my voice shaking despite my best effort.
There is no answer.
Only silence.
The central figure stares at me, the whites of his eyes turning to slits as his patience thins. But it’s the man on the right who speaks next, his voice smooth and unshakeable, a man reciting a fact instead of delivering a threat.
“If you fail,” he says, “we will handle it ourselves. And the entire O’Callaghan bloodline will be next.”
The blood drains from my face.
He says it so easily, as if it’s already been decided. I stare back at them for a moment longer, the air thinning around me, my heart thudding so loud I’m sure they can hear it.
“Twenty-four hours, Olivia Viacava,” one of them repeats as I turn my back to them, hands shaking.
I leave without another word, darting through the doorway and back down the corridor. My sneakers hit the floor too loud, my breath scraping my throat like I’m being chased by the hounds of hell.
Outside, I throw a hand to my eyes, sheltering them from the bright sun. The wind hits my face like a slap and my lungs cramp. I move quickly, doing my best to put distance between me and the bastards who have the power to turn a good girl into a killer.
My pace picks up, but the panic isn’t just inside me anymore. It’s crawling up my throat, pushing out through every breath and every frantic glanceover my shoulder. My thoughts are a mess, flitting from the parents who raised me to the man I dared believe could be my future.
I start jogging, even though my legs are numb. The industrial street is empty, lined with warehouses and chain-link fences. The air stinks of salt, oil, and the rot like there’s death beneath the concrete.
My hands won’t stop shaking, even though I curl them into fists and shove them deep into my hoodie pockets.
I cross a quiet intersection and keep my head down when civilians start appearing, going about their daily business. Even though the city breathes around me, my spiraling, murderous thoughts are invisible.
I should have brought a gun. Popped a few rounds into those assholes and spat on their corpses… but that's not who I am.
I am my father’s daughter, but I'm not his protégé.
A sudden awareness of someone too close has my instincts firing up. Given the morning I’ve had, I’m all out of fucks given, so I spin around and stare ahead.
Roman steps out of the alleyway, smiling a little as if he’s been waiting for the right moment to make an appearance. His hoodie is up, too, hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes drilling into mine.
“Well, Liv,” he says, swiping a thumb over his pouty bottom lip, “you’re a long way from pistachio gelato.”
My pulse jumps. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“Word travels.” He shrugs. “Your guards think it’s adorable how you're looking after their boss.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you following me?”
He tilts his head, mock offended. “That’s a bold accusation, Liv.”
“I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving the penthouse, except for the guard outside my front door.”
Roman takes a slow step forward, his expression smug. “That’s exactly why I followed you.”
My spine stiffens. “So youarefollowing me.”
“I’m keeping an eye on you,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Really? Because it feels a lot like you’re tailing me around the city like a jealous ex.”
A shadow passes behind his unwavering gaze. “If I were jealous, sweetheart, you’d know more about it. Although, I can’t say I’m happy to know that ballbag is fucking you.”
