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Would Father actually let me leave, though?

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

Father sighed, his gaze shifting behind me. “Lana has mentioned that your condition is getting worse. Your… impulses.”

Hearing my therapist's name pricked my skin. Lana was no typical therapist as she only worked for the Crowes, meaning she could and would discuss anything with my father. He was paying her, after all.

Though it was no secret that I struggled with the ruthlessness of his organization—no secret I wanted out. It was getting to me, because I had no outlet to settle the chaos other than killing. The torturing.

Sometimes, my anger led to violent outbursts, leaving me to kill more people than necessary. Father had cleaned up far too many of the bodies I left behind, each one harder to cover up than the last.

I craved bloodshed.

A part of me believed the feeling would go away if I escaped this place, and if this was my only way out⁠—

“No catch,” Father said. “I just want my men to be levelheaded for this type of work. It’s the only reason I have Lana in the first place. But it appears that therapy isn’t helping you. So for now, you are to keep Sutton as your captive. Once you capture her, they’ll wire over half the money. The other half will come when Luka completes his tasks, and you’re free to do as you please. You’ll see the money tomorrow morning. Clean up and be at the mansion in three hours.”

His words were casual, but I knew what sat beneath them; I was a loose cannon, and he couldn’t risk me staying within his organization.

I stifled my rising hope. It would be pointless to have it. What was hope, anyway? Other than a massive disappointment, it was a waste of energy, and an emotion I didn’t dwell on.

“Should be an easy job,” I said on my way out.

3

SUTTON

Just like every year, the Mortaine mansion rose higher and higher the closer our driver got to the intricate stone building. It shone beneath the stars like something out of a magazine, its windows larger than anything I’d ever looked upon. The mansion rested on the opposite side of Vancouver, surrounded by lush green trees and a lengthy gravel driveway.

My own family lived in an estate at the south edge of the city, staffed with their own maids and butlers, but it was nothing compared to this.

My phone chimed, forcing my attention to the clutch in my grasp. Pulling my phone out, my cheeks immediately warmed when my admirer’s text lit up my screen. All day I’d wondered if he would message me after I’d bought that dress.

Unknown: Wherever you’re going, I’ll have the best view in the house.

Me: I’m sure you already know where I’m going.

Unknown: Do I? Lucky me.

I held back a smile and stuffed my phone away when our driver circled around and came to a stop near the base of the mansion stairs. Someone in a fitted black suit opened our car door with a warm smile.

“Miss Hale,” the valet man said in greeting and extended his hand. I took it and climbed out, followed by my parents.

“You look beautiful,” Mother said beside me, and I fought the urge to tug at my coat.

“How long are we staying tonight?” I asked my father.

His jaw clenched, his brows set with what appeared to be annoyance. Regardless of how confident he looked, nervousness sat within his stature as he glanced around. My mother’s hand tightened on his arm, and she gave me a pointed look of disapproval.

My father, Luka Hale, was a rough-looking, physically fit man who wanted nothing more than to avoid these events. Either way, he took them seriously in an effort to maintain his work connections.

He wore a dark red suit with a white undershirt—my mother dressed to match in a sparkling red gown. Her dress clung to her curves, dropping into a pool of crimson at her feet. I had to admit, she looked beautiful.

Our features were similar—smooth curves, full lips, and almond-shaped eyes—the only difference being our hair color. Hers was a soft blonde and straight, but I had my father’s dark waves. Tonight, my hair was swept up and secured with a single golden hairpin.

Father assessed the mansion with careful eyes.

I didn’t expect a genuine reply from him, let alone comfort of any sort. Actually, I was miserably aware of how he avoided my gaze. Isolation gripped tighter.