Meeting with a client to discuss a hit isn't how it's shown in the movies. No one dresses incognito, and there isn't a meetup on a park bench where a briefcase of cash is exchanged, and there sure as hell isn't secret lingo.

At least not when I do it.

Instead, I like meeting in public in an unassuming place, order a beer, and feel the person out. If I get a solid vibe from them, I slide them a burner phone and message them with my answer. However, a contract is never official until I've vetted their target.

I will never, ever take a client's word for it. I need to see for myself why someone needs to be eliminated.

Is it a risk if I refuse?

No. I cover the bases and always record our conversation to ensure the client expresses their desire to have someone killed. They don't know I'm recording them. So, is it a dick move? Sure. But like I said, I cover my ass, and so far, no one has tested me. Plus, a person would be a dumbass to go after me, considering The Sisters have my back.

The financial district hums with foot traffic and clatter from eateries rolling open their gates to welcome morning commuters for breakfast. When I enter the mom-n-pop bagel cafe, Tony is wearing another tailored suit and is fussing with his diamond embellished cufflinks. The guy is an Italian stallion with perfectly gelled ash blond hair and baby blues staring up at me from long lashes.

If this were a mafia movie, he'd be the handsome cousin Dominic who gets shot from a deal gone wrong because he's too pretty to be an intelligent gangster. It's the Tony Sopranos of the world who get away with shit. Not the pretty boys.

"It's quite an early time to meet." I slide into the chair opposite him and rub a hand over my unquaffed head.

Compared to Tony, who is dressed in a tailored suit, I resemble a homeless guy with dark stubble growing on my face, a faded black hoodie, and sweats that are floppy at the knees.

"I have work in about thirty minutes." Tony fusses with the sleeve on his coffee cup. "It's the only time I can meet."

"Hey, whatever works. So tell me, why do you want to do this, Tony?"

"Well, um, you see..." he pauses to glance around the bagel cafe, but no one else is around, aside from the lady behind the counter, except she's too busy cleaning the espresso machine. "It's my business partner. He's gotten into a bad cocaine habit, and he's become unreliable, but in my line of work, an unstable person can cost me a lot. And we've already had big clients cancel because of his behavior at meetings."

"And what do you do for work?"

"We're a consulting firm," Tony replies and adjusts his collar, but when I stare blankly, he elaborates. "Companies come to us when they want to acquire other companies, and we assess whether or not it's a good investment."

"Ok, so why not fire your business partner or buy him out?"

"Because that's not the main issue or why I need you to kill him."

"Then why?"

"I just need him gone, and I can triple the payment for ambiguity."

"Come on, Tony. I won't do anything without knowing the motivation. Otherwise, I walk."

"Fine." He huffs and presses his mouth into a flat line. "I think he's having an affair with my stepdaughter."

"Ok. So two consenting adults-"

"She's fourteen!" Tony slaps the table.

"Now we're getting somewhere. Go on. Why do you need my help."

"I'd kill Ramsey myself, but since we're business partners, it would look suspicious."

"Does anyone know about this supposed affair?"

"Just my wife." He glances around and tugs at his collar. Sweat accumulates at his hairline, so he dabs at it with his fingers. "She found a journal, and some of the stuff in it suggests that Eva is seeing an older man. We started to connect dots a few weeks ago at a fundraiser. Ramsey kept hovering around Eva, and... You should have seen the way they stared at each other. It didn't feel right. He also did this thing where he would put his hand on the small of her back. Why would a grown man touch a fourteen-year-old like that?"

"I see."

"And Eva has been acting out at school. Not to mention she won't leave the house without gobs of makeup and how she's been dressing," Tony blows out a frustrated breath. "It's like she wants to look like a sexy twenty-something-year-old. I asked my wife if she bought her those mini skirts and cropped tops, but she said no. When we asked Eva where she got them from, she got defensive."

"She could just be acting like a typical teenager. They're a different breed these days."

"No." Tony shakes his head. "Eva has always been a sweet girl. This change is recent, and I can't get out of my head the way she and Ramsey kept looking at each other. I need him gone! Dead. So, he can't touch her anymore."

"Give me a few days." I rap my knuckles on the table and stand.

"Wait. That's it?" Tony scowls as if he's bitten into a lemon.

"I need to do some research before I decide. I'll be in contact."

"But, wait!" Tony skyrockets from the chair and clamps his hand around my arm.

"I need you to let go of me."

"You're going to do it, right? I offered you triple!"

"I'll be in contact." I yank free and bring my face inches from his as I growl, "Don't ever put your hands on me again. I don't give a shit about money, and if I tell you I'll be in touch, then your pretty ass stays put until I call you. Got it?"

"Got it," Tony says through his teeth, so I adjust the lapels on his suit jacket and give his chest a condescending pat.

"You'll need this." I slide the burner phone into his jacket pocket. "See ya."

"Wait. Is your number in here?"

"I'll be in touch." I wave a peace sign and exit the bagel cafe.

When I return home around ten AM, my mom is making huevos con chorizo while my dad feeds his lovebirds in the sunroom. Most people frown at a twenty-something-year-old man living with his parents, but I take care of them. Plus, I get free food.

"Ma." I kiss the side of her head and pivot to the coffee pot to pour a cup. "Smells good."

"I added some peppers, the way you like it."

"How's pop this morning?" I glance at the sunroom, where he's carefully cleaning the bird cages.

"Oh, well, you know..."

"Not a good morning?"

"He's always better when he's with those birds," she sighs, so I wrap my arm around her shoulders and squeeze.

"Just one day at a time. That's what the doctor said."

"I know. I just hate seeing how lost he is sometimes. But enough about that." She waves her hand, dismissing the topic. "How was the gym?"

"Great." I flex, but a rumble of footsteps has me darting my attention to the ceiling.

A few years ago, my dad and I remodeled the second level into a mini apartment for my sister Lydia and her kids. Initially, she planned to move out and get back on her feet after a few months, but I think she secretly likes living at home with our parents.

"Tio Lucaaaaaas!" The youngest one shouts as she barrels down the stairs and into me.

"Hey!" I embrace Millie, who is still in her PJs. "No school today?"

"I'm sick," she coughs.

"Funny. You don't look sick."

"But I aaaaam," she whines.

"Ok, I believe you."

Moments later, my nephew Alejandro and Lydia step into the kitchen. Judging by their garments, I'm guessing it's a sick day for them too. Both of them cough a hello to me as they squeeze by to serve themselves breakfast. It's a bit crowded, so I sit at the kitchen table and observe my father as he pets the tiny heads of his birds. A huge smile stretches across his cheeks, and the corners of his eyes tug into slits as he sings to them.

"When he's with those birds, I sometimes forget what's happening to him."

Glancing up, I see my little sister, Mara standing over me to peer at our father. She's barefoot in black leggings with an oversized knit sweater falling off her shoulder, but she doesn't seem to notice because she's too focused on our dad. Out of all of us, I'd say our father's condition is hitting her the hardest. She's always been a daddy's girl—perhaps even the favorite.

We fall silent and stare at my father as he enters the kitchen, waiting for which version we'll get of him today. He comes to a halt when Millie throws her arms around him.

"Abuelitoooo!"

"Hi..." He pats her head but searches her face. "Lydia, why aren't you in school today?"

"No, pop, that's Millie," Lydia says. "Your granddaughter."

"Granddaughter?" He furrows his brows. "Isabel, what do you mean?"

"Dad..." Lydia places her hands on his shoulders. "I'm Lydia. Mom is Isabel."

Confusion blooms across my father's forehead in rigid lines as he scratches his head. We all stare, and Mara is on tiptoes, twisting the hem of her sweater. Then, like a light switch, the confusion zaps away, and he walks over to our mother.

"Hola, mi amor." He embraces her from behind and kisses her cheek. "Smells delicious."

"I can't with this today," Mara says under her breath, so I take her hand.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing." She shakes her head and leaves the kitchen. So I turn to Lydia and she shrugs.

"I think she got stood up for date night with her boyfriend, Josh."

I facepalm myself. "Why does Mara always date guys who put in minimal effort? I swear she never learns."

"I was young and dumb once too..." Lydia sighs, and I've struck a sore spot.

Despite getting away from an abusive marriage, my older sister still blames herself for not seeing the red flags while dating her ex-husband.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"I know,' she sighs again but then tugs on a smile. "Anyway, we came down here for breakfast, but we're supposed to be quarantining. So..." she claps at her kids. "Grab your plates, and let's get moving."

"Yeah, well, I gotta get ready for work. So, I'm out of here too."

"See ya." Lydia disappears up the stairs, but I linger in the kitchen for a bit.

"Ma, are you all good? I gotta leave soon."

"We're fine." She takes a seat with a steaming plate of food. "Go to work. If we need anything, your sister is upstairs."

"Yeah, but she's sick."

"We'll be fine," my mom insists. "Now go shake up drinks like Tom Cruise in that movie, Cocktail."

"I'm better looking than him." I rise from the table and lean in to kiss her cheek.

"And taller," my father says, drawing my attention to him. He's grinning as he scoops the eggs with a warm tortilla, and my heart swells because he's still mentally present. That was him - not the confused fog that takes over his brain.

∆∆∆

It's late in the afternoon when I enter Penthouse looking nothing like the man I did earlier. This time, I've got on dark wash jeans, a black button-up, and a pinstripe vest with my hair styled to perfection. I might not have Gerard's devilishly handsome Southeast Asian looks, but I catch a few eyes while mixing drinks. So, I pause to check my reflection in the glossiness of the black marble tiles of the coat check area.

Even during the daytime, with all the lights on, this place still sparkles like a diamond. The black tiles meet with a grand staircase that descends to the dancefloor, which is currently empty since we aren't open for business yet. Jude, the head of security, stands in the center with his guys. The man is built like a Greek God with muscles stacked on muscles, but I suppose in his line of work, strength and brawn are essential. There's a clipboard in his hand as he points toward the ceiling, where countless crystal chandeliers hang from the beams like disco balls.

"The cameras will send a live feed to your new tablets. This will help us have eyes on every corner of the club."

"What's up?" I side next to Miguel, who works security as a doorman. He's an arrogant prick, but I can tolerate him.

"We got new security cams installed. These allow us to zoom in and look down women's dresses."

"Right. Right."

"I'm just fucking around." He turns the tablet towards me and presses a few buttons. "But they do allow us to zoom in, and they also let us turn on infrared and night vision. Pretty cool, huh?"

"Yeah," I say, but I've lost Miguel's attention, so I turn to see what he's staring at, and my jaw drops.

"Damn. Who is that lovely-looking peach?"

"Hazel," I say on a raged breath, then clear my throat. "Her husband is a cop."

"You know her?"

"No, but I want to," I say and leave Miguel's side to meet Hazel at the bottom of the grand staircase.

This time, I'm not letting her leave without figuring out a way to see her again. Some might say I'm looking for trouble, and they're not wrong.

So, let the chaos begin.