This was the second attempt in just 48 hours of the New Year. Frida sighed, running a hand through her hair.
Laz was asleep now, resting peacefully, but he still hadn't told her who had just tried to shoot them.
The thought weighed heavily on her. She knew she shouldn't leave him alone—not now—but she needed answers. She needed space.
Standing, she decided to head out. A quick shower and grabbing some fresh clothes for both her and Laz when he was discharged seemed like the most practical course of action.
As she stepped outside, the icy air hit her, but it wasn't the cold that froze her in place. It was her.
That awful, perfectly styled shade of blonde hair caught her eye. The woman leaned casually against a sleek Lamborghini, her French coat impeccable, a cigarette balanced between her fingers. She arched her neck, and her designer sunglasses reflected the sunlight like a challenge.
"Need a ride?" Delancie asked, her voice smooth, nonchalant.
