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“I’m so sorry, Genesis.”My father points a gun at me when I enter his office. “We were desperate, and they wanted you.”

Classical music plays around us as he stares me down from behind his desk. His eyes are bloodshot, and sweat drenches his wrinkled forehead and shirt collar. A lit cigar in an ivory ashtray and a bottle of bourbon sit in front of him.

In panic, I slip my gaze from him to the gun. My heart beats so wildly that I feel it thrumming in my throat.

Carlisle Astor isn’t a man of violence. He’s a top donor to charities and politicians who vow to rid the New York streets of gun violence.

Before I can ask even one of the million questions floating in my mind, he straightens in his chair, struck by a sudden alarm.

“They’re here.” His finger toys with the gun trigger.

“Who?” I step out of his line of fire and follow his gaze to the shut door.

I stand there, waiting for intruders I’m unsure even exist.

Seconds pass as we wait.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoes through the office, and I jump.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds pass.

The door remains closed.

My breathing shallows as I slowly turn to my father, and terror rises through me.

He’s hunched over the desk, a gunshot wound marring his forehead. His arm hangs limply over the chair armrest, his lifeless hand still gripping the gun. Splatters of blood cover the wall, bookshelves, and the framed photo of us dressed as zombies for Halloween behind him.

“Dad!” I cry out, rushing to his side.

Blood seeps from his head, trickling down his neck, and covers my palm when I check his pulse.

Not even one weak beat.

I choke back a sob, telling myself to remain calm and not break down, as I frantically search for his phone to call for help since I’d forgotten mine in my car.

I find no luck on the desk or in the drawers.

My hunt stops when pounding comes from the other side of the door.

My father wasn’t paranoid.

They are here.

Scanning the office, I search for an escape, but there’s nowhere. My father put millions into this home. Why couldn’t he have sprung a few more dollars for a hidden bookshelf leading into a secret room?

I duck behind the desk when someone kicks in the door. Peeking around the corner, I see three armed men enter the office. Their large frames darken the doorframe like the boogeymen in your nightmares.

My father’s handgun has nothing on the automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.

“Come out, come out,” the man in the middle taunts, his Russian accent thick. He whistles loudly while scanning the room. “I’m ready to meet my bride.”

His bride?

I crouch lower, losing sight of them.

Screw the view.