But happiness never stays long. It always walks out the back door just when you're starting to think it's finally unpacked and planning to stay.
And sure enough—the bastard Alec returned like a roach you thought you squashed but somehow crawled back with vengeance in his antennae.
I didn’t even know how he was still alive. The man had nothing. His wallet was emptier than my soul on tax season, his men were betraying him left and right, and word on the street said he’d even tried to sell a fake Picasso to an Albanian arms dealer and nearly got his nose broken in the process.
But no. Alec wasn’t dead. He was just getting desperate. And stupid.
It started on a Thursday morning. A stupid, sunny, annoyingly perfect Thursday. I was at the gym, aggressively pretending I had muscles to appease
