She didn't deserve this.
The man pulled out a Glock 17, holding it casually at his side.
I knew that gun.
I knew exactly what its rounds could do to the body. I had one in my purse; on the coffee table he was closer to.
He wasn't pointing it at me.
Not yet.
His eyes...
They weren't cold like most killers. That gave me a bit of relief.
They were haunted though.
He looked towards the closed bedroom door.
"Have a seat," I said, keeping my voice steady.
I turned back to the groceries, my hands shaking just enough to rattle the plastic bags.
I was scared, but not for me.
For her.
“She's bedridden. Ain't no need for you to go bothering an old lady."
He didn't move.
Just stared.
I kept talking at the same time I was thinking about how to get out of this situation alive.
"You here to kill me? Or just make sure I don't run to the cops? 'Cause I ain't seen shit. Really."
"I was sent to kill you," he said flatly.
Like it was nothing.
Just business.
The words landed like ice in my gut.
I'd grown up around this life. Still, hearing your death sentence spoken so casually fucked with your head.
"Any chance I can change your mind?"
I softened my voice to that sweet honey tone men always fell for.
I let my eyes linger on him.
He was fine as hell—tats, sharp jawline, full lips, dark, intense eyes, brooding in a way that made stupid women weak.
I could work with that.
Fuck him.
