I decide to wait a day before doing anything crazy. After that, all bets are off because it’s D-Day. Due day.

“You want me to tattoo what exactly on your ass?” The bearded giant stares at me with more shock in his eyes than I would have expected for a New Orleans tattoo parlor by the name of Voodoo Ink.

“It’s not like you care, is it?”

He leans forward, resting his thick, inked forearms on the counter. “Look, lady, for starters, I’m booked out for the next six months solid.”

I cross my arms and stare at him like I’m not impressed, but I actually am. Who knew this place was so good?

“It can’t take you more than fifteen minutes to do it. You have to be able to fit that into your busy schedule.”

Someone laughs from the back, and heels click against the black-and-white checkered floor toward the front of the shop. A gorgeous woman with Bettie Page bangs dyed bright blue assesses me.

“The only reason a woman wants Property of No Man tattooed on her ass is because of a bad breakup.”

“The kind of breakup that ends with a cheating husband dead in a burned-out car in the Ninth Ward?” I eye them both, my chest twinging to put it out there so heartlessly, but facts are facts.

The man pushes off the counter, and the woman’s eyes widen. Their changed demeanors make me think they know exactly who I am now. Brett’s death definitely made the eleven o’clock news.

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to help you today, and I have a feeling most of the other shops in town are going to give you the same response,” he says, his rough voice a little softer.

The woman steps around the counter. “How about we go grab a cup of coffee next door, and you can do that ‘spilling your guts to a perfect stranger’ thing to get it off your chest without making a terrible mistake of getting a bad tattoo you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her the rest of my life probably won’t be very long, but instead I follow the swish of her retro pink dress, with black crinoline peeking out from beneath the skirt, as she leads me out of the tattoo shop.

The coffee place next door is really a donut shop called Your Favorite Hole. I’ve never stopped there because every donut I eat goes straight to the ass I wanted tattooed, and it’s already a tight fit in most of my jeans.

The woman orders for both of us, not bothering to ask me what I want. The barista whips into action, serving up the drinks in record time with a bag of donut holes.

“That one’s for you.” She nods down at one cup and takes the other and the donuts to a table.

I pick up my drink and follow her.

“I’m Delilah, by the way,” she says, holding out her free hand.

“Keira.”

“Kilgore, right? I figured after your story. Not many people can duplicate that mess. But, honestly, I thought I recognized you before. You make bomb-ass whiskey. I love the single malt, and that cocktail you make with lemonade and a sprig of mint. Seriously, to die for.” She pauses. “And for the record, I’m really sorry for your loss. No matter what, that sucked.”

For some reason, the latent urge to cry rises, but I shove it back down. Brett has already gotten more than enough of my tears.

Instead, I simply say, “You have no idea how much.”

She takes a sip of coffee before lowering it to the table. “I believe you. So, are you going to tell me what spawned the tattoo idea? Because you’d be surprised by how many good stories I could tell you that start with us refusing to tattoo someone’s ass.”

For a single moment, I consider spilling the story to her of the disaster I’m in, but I can’t risk dragging another innocent person into the fray. Or more accurately, the killing zone.

“Maybe I just feel the need to declare my independence,” I say vaguely.

“Which implies you feel like someone is trying to take it from you.”

I shoot her a sharp look for her astute observation. “Are you a tattoo artist or a counselor?”

She laughs and digs into the bag for a donut hole. And good Lord, do they smell delicious. Cinnamon and sugar and all that delicious pastry. I’m tempted to grab one, but hold myself back by sipping the coffee. It tastes a lot like the smell of the donuts.

“I’m a little of both most days. I’ve seen a lot of shit. Heard a lot more shit.” She scans the room as though checking to make sure no one is eavesdropping before she continues. “I know you don’t know me, but I’m going to give you a piece of advice. I’m assuming you’ve found yourself in a not-so-good situation, especially given the car with the blacked-out windows parked across the street, and the guy who’s pretending not to watch you.”

I start to turn my head in the direction of the front windows, but she stops me by tossing a donut hole at my face. It bounces off my forehead and distracts me.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t look.”

My head starts to pound, so I suck down more of the caffeine, hoping it’ll kill the brewing headache.

“Okay, fine. What’s your advice?” I ask as I set my coffee back on the table between us.

“While you might want to assert your independence, or perhaps send a very strong message to someone, I’d suggest finding another way to do it that’s a little less permanent than an ass tattoo. I’m not kidding when I say you’re going to regret it forever otherwise.”

Even though she told me not to look, I nonchalantly lift my coffee again and knock over the bag of donut holes so they spill onto the table. With Delilah distracted, I take a peek.

Sure enough, there’s a man in a suit leaning against a lamppost with a newspaper tucked under his arm. A black BMW is parked in the spot in front of him.

Delilah catches on to my game. “I said don’t look.”

“Does it really matter?”

“That you’re being followed and now you know, and he knows you know?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Depends on who you’re dealing with.”

I drop my gaze to the lid of my coffee, playing with the flap on the cup.

“Shit. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

All I can do is nod.

“How backed into a corner are you?” she asks.

I pin her with a stare. “Why do you care?”

“We tend to pick up strays at Voodoo, and while I would never consider Keira Kilgore of Seven Sinners Whiskey a stray, today you seem a little less composed than I would’ve expected given your reputation. But if there’s anything I can do to help, just tell me.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do to help. I mean, unless you’re independently wealthy with boatloads of extra liquid capital.” I grab a donut hole and shove it in my mouth to stop myself from saying any more.

As I chew, Delilah studies me again. “Fine, don’t tell me, but if you really want to do this, I can recommend a good henna artist only two blocks away.”

---

I leave the henna shop feeling like I regained a shred of control over my life.

Debt or no debt, at least it’s clear now—semi-permanently—that I’ll never be any man’s property. That wisp of positivity carries me all the way home, only to be doused by a cold rush of fear when I open my bedroom door and find a box on the bed.

No insignia or logo, just a big, shiny black box that’s the perfect size to hold an assortment of severed limbs.

Good God. When did I start thinking like this?

My inner voice doesn’t bother to respond because the answer is obvious. It’s not like there’s any doubt in my mind as to who it’s from.

I grab my phone and call Magnolia.

“Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

“Nothing irreparably stupid.”

Her sigh of relief comes through my speaker. “You didn’t go try to find him?”

“No, but I’m staring at a box on my bed that he or his people clearly left.”

“What’s in it?”

“I haven’t opened it.”

“What the hell are you waiting for, girl?”

“What if there are body parts inside?”

She’s silent for a beat. “You haven’t tried to run. You haven’t done anything stupid. There’s no way he’s sending you body parts. Open the damn box, Ke-ke.”

That she so matter-of-factly lists those circumstances as being the reason I haven’t received body parts reminds me just how serious my situation is. My little jaunt to the henna shop seems beyond ridiculous now. At least they wouldn’t tattoo me at Voodoo . . .

“I don’t want to open it.” My tone sounds stubborn and willful, like a child who won’t eat her vegetables.

“Don’t make me come over there and do it myself because your stubborn little Irish ass won’t. Put me on speaker, put the phone down, and open the damn box.”

“Okay, fine.” I toss the phone with the speaker engaged on my gray-and-white coverlet and reach for the top of the box to lift it off.

“You’re not screaming, so I presume we’re good on the body-part angle?”

The fact that Magnolia can be so glib about this situation is beyond me, but it’s another indicator that her life and mine, at least before this last week, are totally and completely different.

“There’s tissue paper. It’s black.”

“Well, flip that shit open, girl. I’m dying of suspense here.”

I fold back the paper, and beneath it is black silk fabric that slides through my fingers like water. I lift out a dress that has to cost more than my car.

“It’s a dress. Short and black. Silk, maybe?”

“Better than a body part. Much better. Bet it’s expensive too.”

I can’t imagine a man with Mount’s reputation taking the time to choose what he wants me to wear while he collects on his debt. He probably didn’t. Maybe he has a personal shopper for these situations.

I check the size. Of course it’s right. I start to ask how he’d know, but I remember that they’ve clearly been in my apartment more than once. And then I realize the name on the tag. Versace. Jesus. This thing is definitely worth more than the Honda.

“So, what else?”

“Hold on. I’m getting to it.”

I lay the dress on the coverlet and find more tissue wrapped around a sheer black lingerie set encrusted with tiny crystals that sparkle like diamond dust.

What if they are diamonds?

I remember reading about the bra that was solid diamonds, and I’ve definitely walked past windows of stores selling gorgeous lingerie, but I’ve never bothered to go inside because I could barely afford half a thong.

Seeing this, owning this, should fill me with excitement, but all I feel is burning rage and building resentment.

“I hear more tissue. What else are you finding in there?”

“Lingerie.”

“Of course. Bet it’s the good stuff.”

“It probably costs more than my rent,” I mumble as I unwrap another tissue-covered object in the corner.

“And shoes.” I lift one black crystal-encrusted stiletto and survey the icepick-like heel, and the delicate straps that will wrap up my calves.

“What kind?”

Of course she’d want to know.

“Manolo Blahnik.” I definitely never thought I’d own a pair of these either. And now I can’t even enjoy them because I’m wearing them because he has decreed it.

“Damn, girl. He went for the good stuff. I’d take that as a good sign.”

The knot in the pit of my stomach disagrees with her completely.

“Anything else?”

I lift out the other shoe to find a note at the bottom written in the same black scrawl as all the others.

---

---

I read it to Magnolia.

“You best let me go and start getting ready. You need to knock him dead, Ke-ke. Fuck with his head instead of letting him fuck with yours.”

I think of my stop earlier today. “I’ll do my best.” Another thought slams into my brain, and I choke out a few more words. “If . . . if anything happens to me, will you tell my parents and my sisters—”

Magnolia cuts me off. “You’re not going to die tonight, baby. I swear. Give that man what he doesn’t even know he wants—which is everything that’s you—and you’ll be just fine. Now, get going. Put that armor on and go slay yourself a dragon of a man.”

I hang up the phone and stare at the array of couture spread out on the bed. I should feel like a princess getting dressed for a ball, not a prisoner on the way to her execution. But no princess ever faced off with Mount. At least, that I know of.

I pick up the note.

There’s no signature. No instructions or orders to wear the clothes provided. Nothing beyond the simple piece of information stating what time I’ll be collected. The word itself stokes the fire in my veins.

This man is so completely used to getting what he wants, he would never expect anything less than full compliance with his orders, explicit or implied.

Screw him.

Everything in me implores me to rebel. Then there’s the tiny sliver that screams, Throw a few things in a bag and run to the airport and get on a plane to Madagascar.

I close my eyes and think of the pictures I’ve received over the last week. My sisters. My parents. Magnolia. My employees.

The image of a woman dancing on shattered glass. The nightmares that would become reality if I don’t comply. Running would be the ultimate act of selfishness, and I’m better than that.

Mount can take his pound of flesh, but that’s all he’s ever going to get from me.