“What do you mean you both lost the package?” I almost yell, having to check my temper. This isn’t the time to lose it.

“Well Boss, he was there one minute then gone the next, we scourged the whole area for two hours but he was nowhere to be seen,” Randell slowly responds, his lips pressed together. I know he was worried about me shooting him but this wasn’t the time or place for that either.

I had been working with the therapist I met the other day at the bar on my anger…issues. No need to shoot men and be short handed when I could just work on my anger. At least that’s what she told me.

I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand down my face. Don’t lose it. The therapist’s voice echoes in my head: Count to ten. Breathe. Use your words.

One. Two. Three.

I flex my fingers, forcing them to stay loose instead of wrapping around the gun at my hip “Randell,” I say, as my voice sounds deceptively calm. “Let me get this straight. You both had one job today. One. Watch the package, don’t let it out of your sight. And yet—” I spread my hands, forcing a tight smile, “—he vanished like some kind of street magician?”

Randell swallows hard. “Boss, we did everything by the book. He was locked down, watched every second—then the fire alarm went off. The lights flickered. Completely chaos. Next thing we knew, he was gone.” He shifts on his feet, casting a nervous glance at Vinny, who’s standing just behind him, looking equally guilty.

Vinny clears his throat. “We think he might’ve had outside help. Or, uh, been planning this for a while.”

“You think so?” My response dripped sarcasm. Outside help. Right. That’s just what I need—another crew stepping on my toes, trying to pull one over on me. The idea that someone might’ve actually succeeded? It burns.

Four. Five. Six.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhaling deep through my nose. Therapist lady better be right about this breathing crap, because I swear to God—

“Alright,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level. “You both are going to fix this.”

Randell and Vinny exchange a nervous glance. “How, exactly?”

“By doing your damn jobs,” I snap, then exhale again. Seven, eight, nine…

Vinny shuffles his feet. “Uh, Boss? No offense, but—uh—you sure this is the best place to talk about this?” He gestures subtly around us.

It takes me a second to actually see my surroundings. The neatly trimmed grass. The bright plastic of a jungle gym. The sound of children laughing in the distance. A damn ice cream truck parked not twenty feet away.

Yeah.

I am standing in the middle of a public park, dressed in an expensive suit, discussing a missing hostage while my six-year-old daughter swings happily on the monkey bars.

Because of course, today was park day.

I glance toward her, noting that she is still wearing the bright pink jacket I bought her last week, her tiny sneakers kicking as she swings back and forth. She’s completely oblivious to the fact that her father is a high-profile mafia boss currently contemplating murder.

A deep, bone-tired sigh drags out of me.

Six years ago, I never thought I’d be the kind of guy bringing his kid to the park between meetings about missing hostages. But here we are.

I glance back at Randell and Vinny, both of whom are looking at me like they aren’t sure whether to run or wait for the explosion.

I nod toward the ice cream truck. “Go. Get something. Think. Then find me a solution. Or else I have a solution for you. ”

They don’t hesitate. They practically bolt.

I turn back toward my daughter just as she calls out. “Daddy! Watch me!”

I plaster on a smile. “I’m watching, baby.” As she beams and swings again, I take another deep breath and mutter under my breath, “Next time, I’m bringing the bodyguards and leaving you two idiots at home.”