But it’s not just that. There’s something else holding me back. Something that I hate to admit, even to myself.

  Obligation. Obligation towards him. I don't want to betray Nate's trust, and I hate myself for that. After what he did to me, how could I even take his feelings into consideration? No matter how he made me feel before the punishment, no matter how much I pleaded for him to touch me, how much I yearned to be closer to him—this doesn't justify the fact that he only did it to humiliate me and made me suffer through the longest night of my life.

  Still, I don't betray him. I don't try to run. Instead, I make proper use of the first time I have been allowed to be by myself since waking up. I take a long, hot shower without having his eyes locked on me, taking deep breaths as I try to organize my thoughts and regain some of the strength I've lost. I let the soothing, hot water run down my body in a warm embrace.

  That is, until someone starts banging against the bathroom door, and I hear a muffled voice yelling at me to stop. It's not Nate’s voice but one of the other guys, and it fills me with dread.

  But when I step outside the bathroom wearing the same pair of ugly grey sweats, it’s Nate who is waiting for me. I see the other guy, though—I believe it's the one he called Mike—retreat down the hallway.

  "Wear this," Nate says, holding up a folded pile of clothes. "These should fit you better."

  I cast him a cautious look before accepting the clothing outfit he's given me to wear. It's a pair of dark blue jeans, a casual red blouse, a black cardigan, and a pair of underwear, a matching bra and socks.

  "Are these...?"

  "No, they are not Lailah's," he responds before I even finish asking my question. "These were bought especially for you. I can't promise they will fit, but based on my close observations of you, I'm assuming they will."

  Once again, my cheeks start burning as I recall last night. He has seen more of me than my last date did, and he took it all in as if we were actually an item.

  As if I belonged to him.

  The fact that he's picking out and giving me clothes to wear doesn't minimize that feeling. If anything, it intensifies the possessive nature of his attitude toward me.

  "Go, change." He turns his back to me. "I'll wait for you in the kitchen."

  I hesitate for a moment, bewildered by the set of mixed feelings that rush through me, but then I do as I'm told.

  From there, the day proceeds similarly to yesterday, beginning with an awkward breakfast under the watchful eyes of the three men.

  It's not like I feel at ease when I'm alone with Nate, but when the other two guys are around, I feel downright terrified. There's a rugged brutishness about them that Nate lacks. I couldn't really put my finger on it at first, but this morning, as my eyes rove back and forth between the three of them, I notice there's a visible difference between him and the others.

  Despite Nate’s intimidating nature and the rough way he interacts with me, there's something about him, something I would almost call virtuous if I didn't know any better. Initially, I thought that it was just because he might be younger than them. There are fewer stress lines accenting his handsome features and he doesn't look worn out the way they do. But I now realize that there's probably not much of an age difference, if at all, and the noticeable difference in appearance is most likely due to their different backgrounds. That, and Nate likely takes better care of himself.

  I came to that conclusion when I noticed that he's the only one who starts the day with a shower, while those two goons don't seem to be at all bothered by the stench they bring to the table.

  It only adds to my relief when Nate guides me outside to continue our training session from the day before.

  "Only a few quick rounds," he announces as we step into the yard. He hands me the gun so nonchalantly, almost as if it was a broom and he'd just asked me to sweep the floor with it. I take a deep breath as my fingers close around the handle of the gun, trying to at least pretend that I’m comfortable holding a gun.

  But there's no pretending with Nate. He watches me pointedly, noticing even the slightest trembling motion as I weigh the weapon in my hands.

  "And I thought this would be the easiest part," he comments, arching an eyebrow at me.

  "Not everybody was brought up around crime," I seethe. "I bet your father taught you how to do this before you even started school."

  He shakes his head as he lets out a jeer. "Yeah, right. I doubt my father ever came close to even touching a gun."

  A somber expression replaces the sneer on his face, revealing stories of a past that he prefers to keep buried. I'm empathetic to his pain, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

  "I thought you grew up in the Covey?" I say, surprised.

  "Well, you're wrong," he snips, casting me a warning look. "I joined them when I was still a teenager, but I didn't exactly grow up with them. I wasn't born into this."

  Our eyes connect in a silent stare, while I contemplate whether I should follow up with the question that's dancing on my tongue. I know so little about him, despite the intimacy he has forced between us, but I have little hope of receiving anything other than a harsh reminder to shut my mouth if I keep asking questions that make him uncomfortable.

  Then again, what do I have to lose?

  "Where were you born then?" I ask. "Where did you grow up?"

  "Here and there," he says, surprising me with a swift, even response. "In a world very different from this one."

  "Different? How so?"

  A crease appears between his eyebrows, his face becoming visibly strained as he lowers his gaze down to the gun in his hand.

  "A world full of money, full of pretension—and very little tenderness," he says. "It hardens you in a way that makes you suitable for crime, even though that's definitely not the path my parents laid out for me."

  He adds a dark scoff to his words as he racks the slide of the gun, forcing his focus to a motion that I'm sure he could do in his sleep without looking. He's avoiding making eye contact with me because my questions force him to recall a time he prefers to leave behind.

  And as much as his tortured expression gets to me, seeing him like this also fills me with a weird sense of power.

  He may be my kidnapper, and he may hold dominance over me by forcing me to be his prisoner—but he's also human. He's just as vulnerable as any person, he has a weak spot, a sad history, and he's willing to expose that part of him to me.

  "What path did your parents lay out for you?" I venture, fully aware that this question might be putting me into dangerous territory.

  He's about to turn to me, his lips parting to give me a response, when we get interrupted before the words have a chance to leave his mouth.

  "Nate!"

  The deep voice bellows from the house, causing both of us to flinch in surprise. Daveed, the taller, more dangerous-looking of the other two, is running towards us, his eyes wide and marked by concern.

  Nate immediately turns in his direction, seemingly forgetting about me.

  "What's wrong?"

  Nate’s obvious concern is contagious, making my heart speed as well.

  "We have to go," Daveed gasps, his breathing heavy. "We have to get the fuck out of here—right now!"

  Chapter 24

  Nate

  The drive back to Boston seems longer than it's ever been, and it's not made easier by the fact that she is sitting next to me, flitting nervously and throwing me looks from the side that are filled with silent questions that I don't want to answer.

  Even though the call was not a complete surprise–we all knew it would come eventually–none of us were expecting it.

  At least not this soon.

  Not now.

  That the call came directly from our boss, Big George, was reason enough for Daveed and Mike to immediately be alarmed. He never calls us, unless he absolutely has to. And that is never more true when we are "off the radar" for a few days, which means nothing more than that we are taking a break from Covey work. It's not a problem, when the timing is right. And since George knows nothing about our plan to circumvent the Lailah problem, he had no idea that we weren't out drinking our days and nights away in Atlantic City before it was time to face the Scivolas and let them know that we wouldn't be able to hold up our end of the deal.

  He still doesn't know about this girl, Malia. And while I want to believe that he'll be pleasantly surprised to learn of our plan, right now it's difficult to even consider that it may work out. Especially considering the current circumstances.

  Big George didn't call us because we were needed to do something for the Covey, and he didn't call us to track down our whereabouts or to deliver an order.

  None of those things.

  He called to inform us that Lailah was dying.

  Her diagnosis had been dire from the start. The cancer was Stage 4, and it had spread so far by the time it was diagnosed that nothing could be done to help her except to keep her comfortable. But none of us thought it would go this fast.

  I didn't want to believe it could go this fast. That she could go this fast.

  It feels as if a clamp has been tightened around me as we walk up to George's house, and my shoulders are heavy with burden, my chest piercing with the pain of premature grief.

  She is trudging next to me, her shoulders inched up to her ears and her face frozen in an apathetic expression. She hasn't said a single word since getting into the car.

  I feel like my heart is about to jump out of my fucking chest as we get closer to the front door.

  What the hell is this? Since when am I the kind of man who gets nervous at the prospect of handling a difficult situation?

  If anything, I should be elated. I should be excited to finally share with Big George this brilliant plan, to finally see the expression on his face when he realizes that I may have found a way for us to get out of this mess. He's always valued my ability to think quickly on my feet and find a solution when others couldn't. This is just another example of that.

  But it's a solution that comes with collateral damage—a girl who has nothing to do with this. A girl who doesn't want to be a part of this, a girl who is untrained and inexperienced, and while she's not the scared little lamb I feared her to be at first, I still doubt that she has the strength and stamina to get through all of this. It's hard, if not impossible, to believe that she will.

  Daveed rushes past me, pushing open the front door before I have another moment to prepare for this meeting. He ignores my angry glare and gestures for me to step inside. He holds the door open for me and the girl as if we were a long-awaited special guest.

  I guess, in a way, we are.

  It may be my own tension, or the fact that I notice her stiffening next to me, I don't know, but whatever the reason, I instinctively reach for her hand. And she doesn't withdraw her hand, our fingers entwining on impact. Our hands connect in a firm clasp as we enter the room where Big George is waiting for us.

  He has always been a dramatic man, placing value on staging that one would only find in a movie scene. I've been in this room many times before. It's what George calls his library, even though I doubt he's read many of the books lined up on the ceiling-high shelves stretching across two walls. The high ceilings with stucco, floor-length windows, and an original hardwood floor that creaks with every step are the most memorable characteristics that round out this classic New England-style room. A bulky wooden desk with a single chair dominates the middle of it. Big George always makes his guests stand whenever they’re in this room, even though as the only one sitting it dwarfs him.

  I don't even try to hold back a subtle snort when I see him there, sunken into a massive leather upholstered armchair, his thick, muscled arms stretched out on the armrests and a condescending smile on his weathered face. The stern man is holding a tumbler filled with a shot of whiskey in his stocky right hand, keeping in character as the crime syndicate boss he wants to portray.

  I wait until Daveed closes the door behind us before I take a deep breath to deliver the monologue I prepared for our encounter.

  But George preempts me.

  "So, that's her," he says, jutting his chin in Malia's direction as we position ourselves across the desk in front of him. "She really looks like our Lailah, there’s no denying it."

  I'm startled by his introductory words. My eyebrows must be touching my hairline as I exchange a surprised look with Mike and Daveed. It's the latter whose eyes tell me what I need to know.

  "You told him," I say harshly, fixating on Daveed with a dark gaze.

  He offers a nod.

  "You neglected to follow my order-"

  "Don't get in a lather about this," George interrupts me, raising his hand in an appeasing manner. "You know how I hate secrets, Nate. Daveed did the right thing in letting me in on this. Even though you should have been the one to tell me."

  I want to wipe the condescending grin off of Daveed's face with my fist, but turn back to George instead, mostly to control my temper. I can deal with Daveed later—and I fucking will.

  "I apologize for not telling you about it before this," I begin, locking eyes with George. "And I'm aware that this is not... ideal. But once I explain, I'm sure you'll agree this is the only chance we have left to pull off our mission."

  George exhales audibly, his eyes trailing over to Malia. Though she’s standing next to me with her back straight and chin held high, it is obvious that she must be ridden with fear on the inside. I can tell by the way she squeezes my hand, as if she is holding on to me for dear life.

  I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I am flattered by her apparent need for me.

  "You don't have to convince me, Nate," George says, his eyes resting on our joined hands. "I agree. This may be a kamikaze mission, but what the fuck else can we do? Going down there with nothing is far worse than implementing this plan, regardless that its success is questionable."

  Malia jerks back when he rises out of his seat and starts approaching us from around the desk with his characteristic slow, plodding steps.

  "So, you're our Onyx," he starts out, coming to a halt right in front of her. Her grip tightens around mine and her eyelashes waver nervously, but she doesn't back away from him. Instead, she brushes a strand of her black locks out of her face in a gesture that could almost be seen as gentle. I watch the exchange, my blood boiling. I hate to see him so close to her. I hated it with Lailah, too, but it's quite possible that I hate it even more with her.

  She's mine. My idea. My project. Mine.

  "These guys kidnapped you?" he asks her appraisingly.

  She nods. "Yes. In Atlantic City."

  "What were you doing there?"

  Malia hesitates, pressing her lips together timidly as she casts me a reproachful look. None of us asked her what she was doing there. I had been adamant at the time that I did not care who she was or what she was doing in that casino.

  Those feelings have changed now, and it's not only because we have to worry about her connection to that Jayson Bowlan guy.

  It's more than that.

  "I was celebrating," she replies softly, a sadness darkening her expression as she appears to reflect on memories of that night. "It was my best friend's wedding. They eloped, and we were celebrating."

  "Cute." George mocks as he exchanges a quick look with us three guys, seeking confirmation that only Mike and Daveed are willing to give him. They huff in agreement but I respond with a dead serious face.

  "Now that friend of yours, she and her new husband will probably be looking for you, won't they?"

  "They will," Malia says, her voice stronger and louder when she speaks this time. "And I’m sure they’ll find me. Jayson is good at those sort of things."

  Her words feel like a punch to the gut, and I notice Daveed and Mike shifting next to me uncomfortably, equally unnerved by this revelation.

  I turn to her, applying a subtle pull to divert her attention to me. "Jayson Bowlan?"

  "He’s my best friend’s husband," she says, narrowing her eyes confidently when she notices my distress. For a moment, it looks as if she wants to say more, but she stops herself, sealing her lips as if she realized that her disclosure may put her friends in danger.

  Which it does.

  "And he’s ‘good at those sort of things’," George repeats, mocking her as he adds air quotes to his words. "Girl, if you’re trying to intimidate us, it’s not working. In fact, you’re just making things worse for yourself."

  A subtle tremble takes a hold of her as she nods in understanding, her lips still pressed together and her face strained as she visibly fights back tears.

  "It’ll be okay," I say, unsure whether I’m talking to her or to George, but I make sure to face the latter. "She knows about the consequences if she fails to comply. And I’ve already started training her, so we can stay on course as much as possible."

  George nods. "Good."

  He takes a step back then, bringing the glass up to his lips before stopping and looking back at me.

  "It may not be the worst idea for them to meet, you know," he says, a concerned look buffeting his face. "Lailah and her, I mean. Before it’s too late."

  I swallow thickly, determined to keep a straight face.

  "That’s why we’re here," I confess. "To see Lailah."

  Chapter 25

  Liliane

  Atlantic City

  It's been three days.

  Three days since I last saw her face. Three days since I last heard her laugh. Three days since we said goodbye in drunken euphoria.

  Three days since my best friend went missing without a trace.

  I'm sitting in one of the big, upholstered chairs on the balcony, my legs curled up underneath myself, a cup of steaming tea in my hands and an untouched lunch on the table next to me. Jayson insists on continuing to send food up to the room, even though he knows I barely touch any of it. I've lost my appetite, just like I've lost the ability to sleep.

  How can I eat at a time like this? How can I sleep?