Your hiding under your bed while the gangster is on the phone, fighting with his girlfriend Emily.

"Don't hang up on me," The man says in a rumble that makes every hair on your body stand to attention. "You're coming along to the party tonight. Everything's arranged.*

You curl into a ball, trying to fold yourself into the tiniest shape possible to avoid detection.

Stupid. The man's having an argument with his girlfriend. He's hardly going to stop and peak beneath your bed.

"It's not like you have to do anything more than show up. I've arranged your dress, your hair, your makeup. How much easier do you need things to be." He growls into his phone.

His voice sounds oddly familiar, and you try to place it. An ad on TV? A late-night radio host? A teacher?

"If you don't get to the store before closing, we're finished. Do you understand me Emily?" He barks into his phone.

Suddenly you know who he is. The gangster pacing your bedroom isn't a man. It's a boy of eighteen- your age. Leo Hart. Son of Tony Hart. Your heart sinks so much you want to cry.

Your dad didn't just get into debt again. He got into debt with the largest crime family in the country.

"You'll be the one crying to your father when I dump you and find someone who doesn't need to count money to get wet." He hisses into his phone.

Something hits the wall, and it takes a second for you to realise it must be his phone.

Turning your head, you can see it, lying on the floor. Two boots appear either side of it. You hold your breath. He's so close that if you were a complete madwoman, you could reach out and touch his boots.

Leo crouches, one hand seizing the phone, the other dangling between his legs.

Your eyes bug out as your blood pressure goes full throttle. Spots dance in you vision as you hold your breath. The room dims.

Then a hand reaches under the bed, grabbing your hair, right up near the elastic band holding your hair in a ponytail, and drags you from underneath.