Their house was open concept, and Micah only had to remove his shoes and coat and take a few steps inside to get a full view of the state-of-the-art kitchen, the dining room with its grandiose chandelier hanging above a mahogany table, and the living room filled with cream-colored furniture. Off to the side, there was a spiral staircase that Micah assumed led to the upper floors of the house.

The place was spotless, and Micah wondered if Caprice had a maid or cook like Damon, despite seemingly not having a job herself. (Probably.)

In addition to being spotless, the house was empty. Quiet.

Micah frowned, and for the first time since Jason picked him up, he felt a trickle of unease slither down his spine. “Where’s Caprice?”

No sooner had he asked the question did he feel the bite of cold metal against the back of his head. “I’m afraid Caprice is… out.”

Micah swallowed hard, thoughts running through his head at the speed of light as he debated how to play this because… what the fuck was happening right now?

Except Micah knew exactly what was happening. Jason had the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head, digging into his scalp. He just didn’t know why.

Without permission from his brain, Micah’s mouth decided the best way to deal with the situation was denial. “Oh? What’s she up to?” he asked, shocking even himself with how nonchalant he sounded. “Shopping?” For bleach to get out the bloodstains, perhaps? The rug in the living room did look awfully expensive – it wouldn’t do to ruin it with brain splatter.

You’ve been trained for shit like this, Micah, get it together!

Grasping valiantly at any piece of knowledge he’d retained from said trainings, Micah turned to face Jason. After all, most people had more qualms about shooting someone point-blank if they had to look their victim in the eye.

But “most people” weren’t mafia-hardened criminals, and Jason’s expression didn’t change. His eyes remained a cold, unyielding green. Micah had a stray thought that they weren’t nearly as intimidating – or pretty, for that matter – as Damon’s when he was mad.

But the revolver Jason wielded more than made up for that. “Give me that watch,” Jason ordered.

Fuck.

“Is it even Damon’s birthday?” Micah asked in a desperate bid to distract him.

His brain was assaulted with the mental image of a smug Caprice presenting Damon with a shiny, bow-adorned box, Micah’s severed head lying inside. Micah quickly pushed aside the morbid image, forcing himself to focus. He couldn’t give Jason the watch – not when it was his best shot to get out of this – whatever this was.