**

I let the water from my shower run over my body hot, rinsing tonight away. But as badly as I want tonight to wash down the drain, all I see pink from the blood on my hands.

The truth left Isaac's mouth, and the first thing I did was excuse myself for a shower. Of course, Isaac didn't oppose. He sat there as I slowly got up, went to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and stepped into the hot water. And now, I just stand in it. I stand in it, letting the memories connect with the truth I've been given.

Luís Mateo Velasquez. Assassin. Drug Cartel. It doesn't seem real. That, or I'm ashamed, shocked, afraid that I slept with a man like Alejandro—Luís. Not only did I sleep with him, but I dated him. Thought I might have loved him. He lied to me twice. No telling how many times he's lied to me in the past.

Suddenly it becomes harder to breathe. I turn off the water, my skin still stinging from the heat. I step out, dry off, and get changed in my room in jeans and a sweater. I walk out into the living room and sit down. Isaac looks at me gravely, as if there's more bad news I could possibly bear.

"Ms. King?" Isaac says. I look at him, focusing on his graying beard; again, I focus on menial thing when I'm overwhelmed and anxious.

"Are you at liberty to give me an honest answer if I ask you a question," I ask him, "since I'm...'aware' of...what's been hidden from me?"

Isaac sighs. Before he answers, I offer to make him coffee. He asks for it just the way I like it—black with two sugars. I brew it in the kitchen, thinking hard. I try to connect everything together the best I can as the dark liquid enters the glass cup:

Sebastian definitely knew about Alejandro's criminal involvement (I can't push myself to call him by his real name). The Quintanillas and Harrison Inc. have worked together for years. This is most likely how Garrett was able to employ Alejandro so easily, because the connection was already there.

Coffee is done, meaning I need to stop putting the pieces together myself for now.

Slowly, I carry the cups to the living room and hand Isaac his. He thanks me, but doesn't drink from it yet. Neither do I. I look at him again, though. I stare at him, knowing now that this man is not only a trusted guard for my biological mother, but has been watching both Harrison Inc. and the Quintanillas long enough to know more information. The fear lies in if I'm strong enough to hear more.

"Am I in danger?" Is the first question that comes out of my mouth.

"Your relationship with Alejandro was very long and personal," Isaac begins. "So, it's no surprise that he has a strong connection to you even though he was contracted to associate with you. Given the situation that happened tonight and Alejandro's profession, there is a possibility that you could be seen as a liability. A bargaining chip, even. Especially since your relationship with Sebastian Harrison, whom happens to be the CEO of the company in partnership with the family, is a strong one as well. And given that the Venetian royal family has had a history with the cartel as well..."

In other words, the answer is yes—I am in danger. I'm in the center of this mess, actually: I have or had important ties with Alejandro, Harrison Incorporated and the Venetian royal family, with Garrett having had a target on my head since I became a threat to him. It's all connected; I am in danger. I understand now one of the reasons Sebastian kept this a secret from me; the cameras in my office were for more than just watching out for the man who seduced me for a contract.

He was watching an assassin whom I let in my fucking office, day in and day out.

I swallow hard before asking my second question. "Sebastian knew of all of this?"

"Yes. But how much he knew is unknown to me."

Fuck.

"Where is Alejandro now?" I ask, my voice more urgent. The last time I saw him, I told him I never wanted to see him again. Then moments after gunshots were heard. My heart begins to clench tight. It couldn't have been him? Was he the one who shot the gun?

Isaac drinks his coffee, sets it down, and locks eyes with me before answering: "We don't know. We aren't sure who was shot, either."

The world begins spinning around me. Isaac explains that he and his team will do anything and everything to keep me safe, but it all just sounds muffled. As long as Alejandro's location is unknown, there isn't a way to keep me safe. He knows where I live, where I work, what my fears are, what and who my weaknesses are. He knows where my family lives; he knows Ramona and Garrett. He's a fucking time bomb and no one knows where he is.

I stand up. I have to stand. I stand and breathe through my nose, but I'm still hyperventilating; I'm having an anxiety attack, because as if finding out that Alejandro dated me for a contract wasn't enough, now I find out that he's an assassin for a drug cartel, and I'm in the center of this entire web; I'm exposed, being so connected and centered.

"Leslie." Isaac stands, putting his hands on my shoulders. I'm so small in comparison to this graying old man. "You need to relax. Everything is going to be fine."

"How do you know that?" I pant out.

"Because, if it takes my last breath, I will do everything and anything in my power to make sure that you're safe."

I manage a panicked laugh, "You don't even know me."

"No, I don't," he says. "But I know your mother. I've known her since before you were born; I was there when she gave birth to you, and I was there when she had to give you up. I know how important you are to her; therefore, you are important to me. Do you understand?"

I wonder what the risk would be if I believed him. I want to, but everyone I trust ends up betraying me. Who knows what Genina's intentions are; I've never met her. I don't know if she even has a genuine interest of meeting me. So, to believe Isaac would remind me of the mistake I constantly make—trusting. But at this point, he's my only hope. The only person here for me, even though I've only known him for an hour.

Isaac's hands slowly slide off my shoulders. "You should get some sleep," he says. "We'll stand guard through the night."

**

Morning comes—Christmas Eve, though I'm unable to be festive this year.

The first thing I do when I wake up is check my phone. I almost forget that I still have a job to do; I have to make something up for yesterday's tragic interruption of the Christmas party.

I text Darcy, asking her if she could sort through my emails and reply with the generated response of "no comment at this time," but after thirty minutes, she doesn't reply. I haven't spoken to her since I left the Christmas party last night, and usually she's quick to answer my text messages.

I slowly get up, my head throbbing. Purposefully, I leave my phone in the room, because it can't serve to my advantage at this point to use it; Alejandro rings through my mind. I don't want to dive deeper into the abyss.

When I walk into my living room, Isaac is up, still in his same clothes, talking seriously on the phone with someone in a different language—Venetian. He hangs up when he sees I'm awake.

"Who was that?" I ask him.

"Petra. Royal Secretary."

I nod, remembering that I was supposed to meet her when I visited Venetia, but instead met my Grandmother in my hotel room.

We sit down at the dining room table and enjoy a cup of coffee. Isaac then explains to me the next steps that are to come next. With Alejandro M.I.A. and the Quintanillas most likely in hiding, Isaac thinks it's best for me to leave Los Angeles.

"My father lives in San Francisco," I tell him. "I could stay with him?"

Isaac shakes his head, making me frown. "No," he says. "We were thinking somewhere more...secure. Somewhere with more distance."

"Distance?"

"Venetia," Isaac says.

It seems as if the entire room becomes deathly quiet. As Isaac waits for a response, I look at myself in the glass of the window behind him—I look a mess. An absolute mess.

"Venetia?" I repeat in disbelief, as if I couldn't be more surprised by anything.

Isaac nods. "The situation is very sensitive. It wouldn't be safe for you to stay here—"

"Of course not. But you're asking me to go to another country. Leave my career behind?"

"It would only be temporary—"

"How long is temporary?"

His head bows, then lifts again. "Two, maybe three months. Just until we can handle the situation with the Quintanilla family, make sure that they are held accountable for their crimes, as well as make sure Alejandro is no longer a threat."

"Th-that could be longer than two months, Isaac. You're asking me to leave everything behind. It's bad enough that I find out that my boyfriend is an assassin and that Sebastian lied to me this entire time, but I'm supposed to just pack up and leave all this 'baggage' behind?"

Isaac doesn't know what to say. I understand the bind he's in—Genina most likely requested that I stay in Venetia for a while. But I can't fathom leaving when I still feel like I have so much on my plate. I need to talk to Sebastian. I need to know everything he knows

I excuse myself from the table and retreat to my room, where I suddenly begin to weep. I don't know if it's from the pressure, the stress, the anxiety or the fear I feel for my life, but I begin to weep. Silently, of course. I don't want Isaac to hear me.

Pedro jumps up onto my bed (something that is strictly not allowed) and rests his head on my lap, as if he knows what I'm going through and how hard it is. I pet him, then sit quietly at the edge of my bed. I figure I have several options:

One—I can agree to go with Isaac to Venetia. I wouldn't tell a soul. It would be temporary; perhaps I could still carry out my PR duties in Europe. And I would get to meet my biological mother. But I would be leaving the storm behind. It isn't in my nature to abandon a situation that I'm in the middle of.

Two—I could stay here in Los Angeles, and risk my life. Alejandro is clearly dangerous, and if he's been working for Garrett, then I'm still a target, no matter how much Alejandro claimed he loved me and that his situation was too deep to explain. But I would still be facing the situation head on without leaving everything behind. The outcome is what scares me.

I see a notification on my phone—a voicemail from Darcy. I hold the phone up to my ear, but another voice comes through:

"Hey, Leslie. It's...it's Claude. I shouldn't be telling you this so early, but it wouldn't be right for me to keep this from you. Shortly after you left the party, Darcy was...she got hurt. We took her to the hospital; she's alright. Recovering. Sebastian and I will...we'll try to explain more later on tonight. Please hang in there with us. We're sorry. We're so fucking sorry."

And then it ends.

I hold my phone in my hand before I decide to listen to the message again. And again. And Again. The shock is registering. Darcy is hurt. She got hurt last night after I left the party; before the gunshots started. She was in the library with Claude, Sebastian and Penny.

Fuck. Alejandro shot her.

Quickly, I scramble to throw on a pair of jeans, shoes and a sweater before jogging out into the living room.

"We need to go to the hospital, Isaac," I tell him—beg him. Fuck, I don't even know which hospital she's at.

Isaac, alarmed, asks me why. And when I tell him my assistant was the one shot at the party last night, a pale cascade runs over his face. He inhales through his nose loud enough for me to hear.

"I'm sorry, Leslie. It isn't safe."

"I know it isn't safe," I tell him, my voice rasping with anger. "But my assistant was shot by my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend. I need to see her. Now."

Isaac looks conflicted. At least that shows he has some humanity left in him—one side wants to follow his Queen's orders, while the other side knows the morality of the issue I'm presenting to him. He knows how fragile I am; I'm close to breaking. I need to see her.

"I was tasked with keeping you safe—"

"But I'm not the priority right now, Isaac. Darcy is!"

"You are always the priority, Leslie!" he exclaims. "You may not want to come to terms with this, and I understand in the midst of the chaos why you wouldn't want to, but you are of Royal blood. You are a Malatova. I would be neglecting my oath if I put a Venetian princess in harm's way!"

Venetian Princess. That's enough to make the head spin. Since I found out about my connection to Genina, I never put much thought into who I am—of royal blood. A "princess." But now that Isaac has actually said it, I realize the bind I would be putting him in if I were to ask this of him. No matter what, I am a Malatova. To Isaac and to the half a dozen men standing guard outside my apartment, I am their priority to protect. But no matter what, until the day I die, I will always be Leslie King. And right now, I cannot allow this "title" to get in the way of helping my friends and seeking the truth about the demons I've danced with; the wolves I've waltzed with.

"I'm Leslie King," I finally say to him. "I always will be. And right now, my friend is hurt. So, I'm going to go see her, whether you would like to accompany me or not. I'm sorry I have made your job difficult to do, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I just sat on my ass."

I grab my purse and head for the door. Isaac places a hand on my arm. I turn to face him, ready to fend myself if he tries to force me to stay, but his eyes are sympathetic; conflicted yet understanding.

"I'll drive, ma'am," he says. I don't oppose.

**

Isaac speeds down the Los Angeles street. I'm in the back seat, wedged between two men wearing all black, Venetian pins on their collars.

The man in the passenger seat speaks rapidly to Isaac in Venetian. He points to the streets; he's guiding him to the correct hospital.

I can't stop biting my nails; they've become short and swollen. I left Claude an avid voicemail detailing how I'm going to rip his dick off and shove it up Sebastian's ass for their dishonesty and Darcy's injury, but that did little to calm my nerves. I think about where exactly Darcy was shot; if there's permanent damage. I wonder what I could have done if I just stayed in the library, but then I realize that if I never left the library, Alejandro would have had no reason to pull out his gun; he wouldn't have known that I knew of his contract with Garrett. He shot the library because of me, most likely aiming for Sebastian. I close my eyes tight as the engine revs.

We make it to a stop light. Isaac tries to soothe my nerves even though his are rattled a bit for disobeying the Crown. If I ever get the chance to meet Genina in person, I'll make sure to tell her that I gave Isaac no choice. But that's up to me; if I agree to go to Venetia, that will most likely be my only shot at seeing her in person.

The traffic light seems to drag on forever, and Isaac, his bright eyes looking at me in the rear-view mirror, sees the impatience and anxiety on my face and honks his horn. I figure this is out of impulse, but I realize that the light is green, yet we aren't moving. He honks again, but the car in front doesn't move. Isaac's colleague advises him to go around, but a jolt from the back of the car pins us against the vehicle in front.

It takes us seconds to realize what is happening, but seconds is still too late.

"Get Miss King out of the car!" Isaac orders. Quickly, I am grabbed and pulled to the door. It opens, and I am told to run. The street is but a blur on either side of me as we run, my heart pounding in my chest. Pounding, pounding, it's relentless against my lungs as I hurry forward. I can't help but think that this is the moment where I die. I hope it's a quick death. Not slow and painful; I wonder if Alejandro administers quick and painless deaths or slow and agonizing ones?

Suddenly, as we near the curb, two cars race forward and stop in between us. Men hop out; everything is moving so fast. I only am able to hear adequately—the grunts and rough hits and struggle against bodies. When arms are released from me, I know that I am in undeniable danger. I try to run, but arms wrap around my waist and haul me in another direction. I scream profanities, biting flesh and weighing myself down to make the effort tiring on the fucker's end, but it's useless. He doesn't use abuse to get me to submit. In fact, he doesn't fight back at all. He allows me to scratch, bite, kick and punch until I'm effortlessly thrown into an unfamiliar car. The vehicle starts, and within a minute and twenty-eight seconds (I counted) I am with unknown men in an unknown car, and the first twenty seconds of me being in the car, still putting up a tiring fight, I feel an unknown prick on my arm—a sharp pain piercing my skin.

Voices muffle, then my sight blurs. Then it's darkness.

**