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Heat blooms fast. Nearly too fast.

"Shit," I exclaim as I drop the towel to the floor, where the flames catch on to the little rug. Good. That's good. It needs to be convincing. Smoke starts to curl toward the ceiling. I step back, grab a pan, knock something over for good measure, noise, chaos, panic. I drop the oilby accident,spilling it from the counter to the floor.

Then I scream. "HELP! FIRE!"

Loud. Desperate. Raw. The fire alarm picks this moment to start in too. I only hope Mom will stay put. She's probably busywith her cats, I assure myself.This is insane, Audra, a voice screams in my head, but fuck it, it's laughing too. Water sprays down from the ceiling. Of course, Gabe has fire sprinklers. Still, the fire is burning. Flames lick against wooden cabinets, another dishtowel, a box of Kleenex…

I cough, adding to the effect, waving smoke toward the hallway. "HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!"

The door bursts open. Rushed footsteps follow. Heavy. Fast. Two guards hurry in, their eyes immediately snap to the flames climbing higher now, the thickening smoke.

"What the?—"

"Kitchen!" I choke out, pointing, backing away like I'm terrified. Which—God help me—isn't entirely fake. They move past me without hesitation. And that's my window.

I slip past the men, out the door, straight into the hallway. My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears when my eyes fall on a lone guard by the elevator. Gun in hand, he turns towards me. "What's going on?—"

"My mom and her cats!" I blurt, breathless, frantic, pointing back toward the apartment. "They're still inside, you have to help?—"

"I can't leave this post, miss." His tone is firm. Unmoved.

Right. I should have known that Gabe would have given orders for at least one man to stay behind, no matter what. They're well-trained. They're not MC, who react first and asks questions later. Something cold settles inside me. The time for hesitation is long gone. I've committed to this path, and I'll see it through. The gun I'd stuck behind my waistband is in my hand before I even register reaching for it. My fingers fold around the cold, matte-black handle. It's a SIG Sauer P226 Legion, and it looked custom-made when I pulled it out. An extended magazine is in place, which struck me as Gabe. Always ready. The Sig doesn't have a safety switch. Once you rack theslide—which I already did, old habits die hard—it's ready. The onlysafetyfeature is that the first shot requires a little more pressure, preventing anaccidentalshooting. I raise it, point it straight at him.

At first, he looks surprised, then amused. Like I'm a joke. Like I'm just another hysterical woman playing at something she doesn't understand. My finger tightens on the trigger, and the shot cracks through the hallway. Deafening.

The bullet flies past his head, so close it has to burn. His amusement vanishes. Gone in an instant. My arm stays steady. My aim doesn't waver.

"The next one," I warn, "goes between your eyes."

For a second, we just stare at each other. Scenarios must be playing through his head. He could shoot me, his gun is still up too, but he knows that won't go over well with his boss. Finally, he takes a step back. I free one hand from around the grip and fumble behind me for the elevator switch, never letting the guard out of my eyesight. Not even a second later, the doors ding open like they had been waiting for me. Backing up, I slide inside, yelling, "Stay back!" at the guard who is taking a hesitant step towards me.

More footsteps pound down the hall, probably alarmed by the sound of the shot. The other guards flood into the doorway. One already has his phone to his ear. Calling it in.

With the gun pointed at the men, I press the button for the casino floor with my other hand. The doors start to close, slow. Always so slow. For one horrible second, I think they'll reach me and that I'll have to start shooting. That a hand will wedge between the doors to stop them from fully closing. Thankfully, the doors slide shut, sparing me from deciding if I'm prepared to shoot any of them. For the time being, I'm sealed in. The elevator begins its descent.

Now I'm faced with the next problem: I forgot that the elevator only goes to the casino floor—that and a couple of basement levels, which must be fingerprint or card-activated because nothing happens when I press them. My hands are shaking badly when I put the gun back into my waistband. No matter what happens next, I've decided I won't shoot at Gabe's men. If they take me back to the penthouse, so be it. But I won't have their deaths on my conscience.

I have no doubt that Gabe's men will be right by the elevator doors on the casino level, waiting for me.Think. Audra. Think.The numbers tick down faster than I like. Not enough time. My gaze snaps around the elevator, mirrors, control panel, emergency buttons—emergency!

Yes.

My hand slams against the panel, hitting the red button. An alarm blares instantly. Loud. Piercing.

Because now it's not justme. Now it's a situation the security detail will have to deal with once the elevator reaches the casino floor. Suddenly it stops.The cart jerks slightly, slows, then stops. The doors open. My breath catches. I have no idea which floor I'm on, but, yes. Yes, that works. I rush out and run towards the stairway. I need to go down if I want to get out. My knees and legs are burning by the time I make it down about ten floors. I'm huffing and shaking, but finally I reach the ground level. The whole time, I expect to hear shouting from above, but nothing happens. I notice a sign,Ground Floor, which means casino level, but the stairs keep going down. To the underground parking garage for the employees. Yes!

I ignore my spaghetti legs and make it down one more flight of stairs. I open the door to the dank air in the underground garage. A light mix of gas, exhaust, and uncirculated air.

I did it!

The sound of tires screeching has me turn my head. A large blacked-out Escalade stops right next to me, the passenger door is pushed open, and my heart sinks when I see Brick grinning at me. "Going somewhere?"

The stenchof burnt flesh chokes the air. No matter how many times I've done this, it still overwhelms my senses. It lingers in the air, the cement, the flooring. The thought that it will cling to my suit and I'll have to toss it doesn't improve my mood. Not that anything would. My mind is on Catarina, and with that, barely contained fury burns underneath my skin just as hot as the open furnace.

The Oven door is already open, and heat fills the room. Hungry flames reach for Skinny strapped to the gurney. His eyes dart around, taking in everything at once, and understanding just enough to know he's fucked. Royally fucked. He's strapped tight. There is no room to move. No room to fight. Underneath him is the body that was scheduled to burn. Covered and waiting, but not for long.

"You smell that?" I ask calmly, stepping closer.

He shakes his head too fast. "Man—man, I don't know what this is, I swear, I didn't?—"