LAWRENCE.
It was already night, but my father hadn’t stopped pacing restlessly in the living room.
Though his face was blank as always, his hands were behind his back, stiff, his shoulders squared—but I could tell. He was worried.
And his fears were justified. He’d been on the phone all day with his partners—each one shaken by how last night ended.
It had been a disaster.
A blur of screaming. Gunshots. Confusion. And the worst part? We didn’t even know where it began—or who to blame.
The CCTV cameras had been active during the party, but my father had disabled the recording beforehand. Standard procedure. To protect the identities of our *guests*.
It was all about control. About privacy. Especially on nights like that—nights when the merchandise, mostly girls barely sixteen, was par
