Layla sat in the back of the car exactly an hour later, feeling like Jackson King had bulldozed her. Everything had happened too quickly.
Jackson had come back into the room with a gigantic man dressed in all black, who he’d introduced as the head of Brit’s security. Who was Jackson to pull something like this that fast? Why did he have bodyguards on call? His earlier statement about needing to keep her safe went around in her head until it dawned on her that she’d dropped herself into some deeper s**t than merely Costas Markopoulos.
When she imagined someone in the Mafia or other criminal organisations, they looked just like Jackson. An air of authority around them and expensive suits that were a world beyond Costas’ cheesy suit, hairstyle, and gold chains. Though Costas had turned the
