Clouds of smoke float above us as Augusta leans her head back, blowing out rings from her cigarette. So far, she seems unimpressed with the plan I'm laying down, but it's not like it matters anyway since Jocelyn gave me the lowdown on what her sister plans on doing to me.

"What do you think?" I ask her.

"So, the plan is to kill the exes randomly, plant their bodies in one of Richie's warehouses, and have him get caught with them? Do I have that right?"

"The gist, yes. But there's an alternative plan, too," I explain.

"Go on." Jocelyn nods, her gaze locked on me. However, Augusta continues to blow smoke rings toward the ceiling.

"I don't know if you've ever watched the movie Gone in 60 Seconds with Nicolas Cage, but they boost a bunch of cars in one night to make it easier not to get caught. So, we would do something similar. Kill them all in one swoop, and plant Richie's drugs on them, so it traces back to him. He gets arrested—"

"Arrested?" Augusta cuts me off. "I thought you wanted to kill him?"

"I can live with him getting a life sentence. That's good enough for me," I reply, and Jocelyn's gaze slides from me to her sister.

"It could work." Augusta straightens and stubs out the cigarette. "But I want Kay involved. There are issues in your plan, and he'll straighten them out."

"I know it's not bulletproof, but—"

"Can we spare, Kay?" Jocelyn cuts me off, prompting her and Augusta to do that thing where they talk to each other as if no one else exists.

"Niko isn't ready. It has to be Kay," Augusta says.

"Niko is ready," Jocelyn counters. "It's time he stepped up."

"Niko doesn't have the same instincts as Kay. He won't be able to guide these amateurs or anticipate issues that will arise."

"We cannot spare Kay. Not with our annual dinner coming up."

"Well, if everything goes as planned, Richie Reddy will die by then. Therefore, we can spare Kay. So that's my final decision," Augusta snips, and Jocelyn's red-stained lips pull into a tight line as her gaze shifts to the sea of dancing bodies.

I guess being the little sister sucks.

Augusta returns her attention to me and lights another cigarette. If she keeps chain smoking like this, she'll find herself in an early grave. "I will give you our blessing to proceed with your plans, but on one condition."

"What's that?" I ask.

"You do what Kay says. It's the only way I'll feel comfortable since I like having eyes and ears on all business arrangements. Plus, we usually do business with seasoned professionals in their work or skill. Neither of you is, but it's a risk we're willing to take since Richie has become an issue over the last two years. We have rules, and he's been challenging them for quite some time."

"So, what you're saying is you want to control our plan," I say.

"Not control. I just don't like fuck ups, so Kay will assure me there aren't any. But the moment we sense your stupidity is jeopardizing him, we'll make sure you guys fall flat on your asses, and then we'll wash our hands of you. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Excellent. Now we just need you to sign this contract." At the snap of her fingers, one of their guards steps forward and hands her a tablet. She turns the screen towards me, and it's a document with fine print. "By signing your name, you're offering your mother as collateral if things go bad."

"What?" the breath leaves my lungs like a window slamming shut.

"It's nothing personal. It's just another assurance you do everything in your power not to mess this up or trace it back to us."

"And if we do?"

"We kill your mother." Augusta then looks at Angie, who I had forgotten was sitting there because she's been quieter than a mouse. "As for you, we'll kill your little sister."

My eyes flash to Angie because anyone who has spent five minutes with them knows how much she loves Ana. Her expression doesn't give anything away, but she's gripping the chair's armrests so hard her knuckles have turned white. I bet she's dying to tell the Sisters to fuck off. Hell, I know I'm ready to tell Augusta to shove that cigarette up her tight, bleached asshole.

"So, it's simple," Augusta continues. "By signing here, you have our blessing, and we are bound to each other until the completion of your plan. Or you can walk away, forget about killing Richie, and move on. Because refusal to sign this contract means you'll be forbidden to lay a finger on Richie or anyone else. So, it's up to you."

Rolling my shoulders back, I stare at the digital contract glaring at me from the tablet in Augusta's hand.

None of it matters since Augusta doesn't plan on honoring my signature. So, I place the tip of my finger on the screen and scribble out my name, Miguel Gomez — dead man walking.

∆∆∆

People are still attempting to enter the club as Angie and I shuffle toward the exit. Scratch that — Angie shoves her way out of the club as if it's on fire. Except, the only fire is the holy-shit realization about what just went down with the Sisters. The temperature seems to have dropped us into an ice age by the time we get outside, and Angie is fishing through her tiny purse with muttered curse words floating on puffs of fog.

When she finally finds what she's looking for, she brings the cigarette into view like she's discovered another woman's hair wrapped around her husband's dick.

"I can't believe it," she says with the cancer stick propped between her lips while struggling to light it. "It's all happening. It's all fucking happening!"

"I don't know what the hell you're so excited about. We just signed our souls to them in blood."

"Yeah, so?"

"Did you not hear a damn word Augusta said in there!" I point behind us and lower my voice when it echoes. "If any of this links back to them, they'll have us wearing cement overcoats by morning and kill our loved ones."

"You worry too much, handsome. They're not going to kill anyone."

"And how the fuck do you know!"

"Because." She pats my cheek and pouts as if I'm being adorable. "We're nobodies. That's why. Killing us would be pointless. Everything they do has a purpose, and we're not important enough for them to wipe us out. Besides, we're not going to screw this up."

She attempts to light the cigarette again, but I snatch it from her. "I don't like how nonchalant you are about this! Augusta wants to fucking kill me."

"Sometimes I want to kill you too." She shrugs.

"I'm not joking. While Jocelyn and I were dancing, she told me Augusta doesn't want Richie dead. So this whole thing was a game, and in a few days, Kay will put a bullet in my head!"

"And why would Jocelyn tell you that?" Angie stares at me as if I'm being naive.

"Because Jocelyn does want Richie dead, but Augusta always has the final say."

"What if she's lying to you?"

"Why would she?"

"You're such a child sometimes, I swear." Angie rolls her eyes. "It's the classic story of a bitter second-born child who won't inherit the throne. Of course, she's lying."

"You're not worried at all after they threatened Ana?"

"It's necessary." Angie shrugs and walks past me, but I grab her elbow.

"Necessary?"

"Yes! It's to make sure we don't fuck shit up. I get it. Besides, we're not going to screw this up." She spins around and keeps walking, but I block her path.

"Am I in some twilight zone? Of course, we're going to screw this up with you doing whatever the fuck you want all the time!"

"I can't with you." Angie weaves around me, but I grab her elbow.

"And what did you and Augusta talk about while I was with Jocelyn?"

"That's none of your business."

"None of my business? All of this is my business!"

"You know what?" She yanks her arm free and glares. "Alma is right. What's the point of all those muscles and that big dick if you're going to act like a scared little pussy all the time."

"Funny, I didn't hear you complaining when I hoisted your legs over my shoulders and ate your pussy against the wall."

"Maybe I've been faking it," Angie snickers, and I want to wipe the smirk from her face.

In fact, I want to take back every single moment with this woman — scrape it from my skin until my flesh is raw and bleeding, and it would be worth it to rid her from my existence. Sure, life was boring before she came along, but at least I was in an oblivious little bubble, and it was peaceful.

"Listen, handsome." She softens her tone while running her hands up my chest, so I snatch her fingers, but it doesn't dissuade her. "I know I'm harsh sometimes, but I need you, and it's not easy for me to admit that. You don't have to worry about Augusta or Jocelyn. I've got your back."

"You could have picked anyone. Why the fuck did you have to pick me?" I growl.

"Because you're a protector," she replies, and by the look in her eyes — the way they search mine with little creases across her brows - she knows she's losing me. "And I don't have anyone looking out for me. I haven't had anyone give a single shit in a long time and-"

"I don't trust you, Angie. Look at what you've roped me into. It's fucked up, and you know it."

"I didn't do anything!" she roars and snatches her hands away. "Or did you forget you're the one who drunk-dialed me in the middle of the night because Richie Reddy threatened you?"

"Oh, I remember. I remember so fucking clearly how you dragged me into a bathroom, seduced me with epic dick-sucking, and got me to agree to kill your husband mid-orgasm. Which is bullshit, by the way. I was in a vulnerable state, and you took advantage!"

"Are you done?" Angie folds her arms.

"Oh, and let's not forget how you ambushed me with dirt on my ex-wife."

"And what else?"

"What else? What else!?"

"Yeah, big boy. What else," she taunts.

"None of this would be happening if you didn't step foot into my support group with a vendetta."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"I am not responsible for the incident with Richie Reddy," she says. "So, if it weren't for your precious Mindy and her psycho ex-husband, then you wouldn't be running around like such a scared little pussy. Have some balls and wake the fuck up. You dragged yourself into this mess. Not me."

"Sure, I might have called you for help, but don't act like you're a saint."

"So what? Deal with it."

"You know what you are?" I dig my finger into her chest. "You're a fucking cancer. No wonder your husband cheated."

"Yeah?" She stands on tip-toes, her face centimeters from mine. "And you're still a scared little pussy. No wonder your wife left you."

We snarl at each other for a few more beats, but looking at her is like gazing at the sun - it's so blinding it distorts everything to the point you can't see where anything begins or ends. Angie is like that. Her sphere of crazy has no boundaries, and like the sun, it casts shadows. Those shadows are whatever dark secrets she's hiding from me, but soon I'll bring them to light.

"Touché," I say. "But at least I'm not fucking crazy!" I tap her head.

"Newsflash, handsome. We're all a little crazy."

"Not like you." I reel her in by the waist and yank her shirt up. "You wear crazy on your stomach like a brand."

"Fuck you!" She shoves me, ripping herself free.

"You think I don't know what those scars are?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about, so shut your damn mouth!" She shakes her finger at me, and her eyes are suddenly filled to the brim with tears as anger spreads over her cheeks in scarlet.

I've seen Angie flip out before, but not like this. Her entire body is trembling with rage, including her lips. Yet, I don't let it go because it's time she realizes I. Am. Not. The. One. To. Fuck. With. Stepping forward, I tower over her, and she has to tilt her head back to look at me.

"I thought they were stretch marks at first, but no, those are cuts, and you made them. Because you hate yourself. I'd hate myself too if I were you."

Angie holds her chin high and pushes her shoulders back — chest out. "I'd be very careful with what you say next."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll kill you."

Those four words sober me up from the fight we're having. Angie's face says I've crossed a line and that she'll gut me right here, right now. It sucks me back to our reality since we're shouting at each other on a street corner, and I can still hear music pulsing from the club. Lord knows who could have overheard us.

Except I don't acquiesce from the stare-down. Instead, she glances away with a swipe of her nose and a sniffle. With all her bravado, I've forgotten that deep down, she's just a lost, heartbroken woman.

And I need to believe there's something human about her instead of this callous and calculated side. There has to be goodness somewhere underneath her hardened shell. Otherwise, I'm equally psycho for allowing myself to sleep with her.

"I'm going home," I finally say. "And you're not coming with me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I don't want to see or hear from you for the next few days, so don't you dare think about contacting me or showing up at my apartment," I growl. And because I like having the last word, I spin around to head for the car, but Angie is just as stubborn.

"Keep your phone on," she shouts. "We have business to discuss, so don't get too comfortable, asshole."

Being the mature gentleman I am, I flip her the bird and keep it held high as I climb into the car. And when I pull away from the curb, I feel triumphant as I drive past her.

But it all changes, and I'm swallowed by the filth of feeling like an unwashed rectum when I see her in the rearview mirror, standing there alone and wiping her eyes.

I took it too far.

Angie is right. I'm an asshole.