“Just as long as we’re clear.” We get comfortable on the mattress, rolling onto our sides. I engulf her in my arms. She’s not all that big, at least not compared to me, so it’s easy to take advantage. At the moment, she doesn’t seem to mind.

  “No disillusionment here.” She yawns.

  “Am I boring you?”

  “Not at all. You’re keeping your promise. It’s a refreshing change.” I hear the drowsiness in her voice.

  “I like to be underestimated.” I press my lips to her shoulder blade, listening to her breaths become deeper and deeper until I know she’s asleep.

  I lie there in the dark contemplating my next move. A smart man would disappear into the night and try his damnedest never to see her again. But I’m not a smart man. ’Cause I find myself closing my eyes, getting swept away by the soft sound of Fallon’s breathing like it’s the calming surf of a rolling sea.

  Fallon

  “Where do you think you’re sneaking away to?” Declan grabs my arm in the darkness. Fuck, busted. So much for slipping away quietly into the night.

  “I need to go.”

  “You need to stay.”

  “Stay?”

  “Yes. Stay. With me…”

  1

  Fallon

  2 years later

  “You need to be in Denver the day after tomorrow. I booked a plane. Then from there you fly to California. You only have twenty-four hours for that job. So, your ass needs to be quick. And then right back to New York. Sorry for the breakneck schedule. I’ll make sure you have extra hydrating cream packed for the jetlag,” March chews my fucking ear off.

  “Jesus, man, take a breath.”

  There is dead silence on his end. “Well, excuse me for keeping your shit together and this partnership running like a well-oiled machine. The mercenary business is booming, and you are number one on the most-wanted list. As in everyone wants to hire you ’cause you’re the motherfucking queen of the castle.” His tone is classic, snarky March.

  “Can you shut up for three seconds so I can take care of this job?” I have been sweltering on a hot New York City roof for an hour. My mark is late. Motherfucker.

  “That’s all you get. Three seconds.” Silence.

  That is surely not enough.

  “Can I continue now?”

  “You mean there’s more?”

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “With you? Yes.”

  He audibly sighs. “I have a date tonight. I have to spin you up on everything before my facial. I’ll be offline for the rest of day . . . and night, if I’m lucky.”

  “When don’t you get lucky?”

  “Meh, barely ever.” He’s such a cocky fuck sometimes. “You have a new email that needs your immediate attention, and Ronan Kennedy is requesting dinner. Again.”

  My stomach drops from the request. “I’ll check the email as soon as I’m done here, and give him my usual answer.”

  “You’re busy washing your hair? I think that excuse is so old it fossilized. He seemed quite insistent.”

  “I’m not interested. I work jobs for him. That’s it.”

  “I’ll relay the message. Again.”

  “Thank you.” I perk up as there is movement in the hotel room across the street. Finally, some action. I peer through the scope, getting a better look at the businessman who is about to meet his maker. And the prostitute who is keeping him company. Fuck. She’s a complication. Well, a minor complication.

  “You give that man one hell of the runaround.”

  I tune March out for a second as I watch the two move around the room, in and out of my line of sight.

  “I don’t give him the runaround . . .” I inhale a deep breath as they both stand by the window. He has his suit jacket off and the top of his white dress shirt unbuttoned. He looks like a douche. Stringy hair, smug expression, beer belly. I’m doing this pros a favor. Who the hell would want to fuck that? Even if he was paying.

  The moment strikes as she walks away, and I pull the trigger. The window explodes, and you can hear her scream clear across the street. He’s gone, and so am I. “I don’t give him the runaround,” I finish my sentence as I fold up my rifle in six seconds flat. “I straight up avoid him.” I slip the metal pieces into a black poster tube and secure the top. Grabbing my wide-brimmed summer hat, I slip it onto my head as I disappear into the stairwell.

  Adding a pair of dark sunglasses from my back pocket, I hightail it down the stairs as March yammers away. I swear he just talks to hear himself sometimes.

  Making it to the first floor of the building, I exit the stairway and walk straight into a busy art gallery. There is a function going on. Lots of people dressed in black, just like me, sipping expensive champagne, fawning over some hideous piece of art. I stop to look at one that has drawn a crowd.

  “Masterful, no?” A man with a perfectly trimmed gray beard asks, utterly impressed.

  I stare at the black, red, and pink blob that looks like a distorted boob with an oversized nipple.

  “Exquisite,” I agree. “The artist is a genius.”

  Not.

  When I’ve shown enough face, I stride right out the front door with no one the wiser.

  I walk in the opposite direction the NYPD are headed, no doubt responding to the hotel’s 911 call.

  “Was the art really exquisite?” March asks. I almost forgot he was still on the phone.

  “Not a fucking bit,” I grunt.

  I grew up around fine art, and that shit definitely wasn’t it.

  “So, no investment piece then?”

  “No, not this time.” I hop into a cab and direct the driver where to go.

  “We should really take more advantage of cultural establishments at our fingertips.”

  “You can. I’ll pass. I’ve been to enough museums to last me three lifetimes.” I cringe thinking about all the Saturday afternoons I spent being dragged around by my parents. Them feeding me some bullshit about how knowing art would make me more well rounded. I only tolerated it because I knew we would end up getting ice cream afterward. I am well rounded, by the way, by so many more important things than fucking art.

  “You’re a party pooper,” he complains.

  “I know,” I pacify him.

  The cabbie pulls up to my building, and I hand him some cash with a big tip. I hop out of the car and back into the humid August afternoon with the smell of fresh coffee from the storefront down the street strong in the air.

  “Are we still hitting the gym in the morning?” March asks as I breeze into the modern lobby of my Chelsea apartment building.

  “If you’re not too hungover. I’m definitely in the mood to kick your ass.” I wave sweetly to Billy, the doorman. He smiles, like always, completely ignorant to what I do or who I really am. He just thinks I'm a Connecticut princess living off of Daddy’s money. Which is exactly what I want him to think. Plus, the first part isn’t so farfetched. The secret to a solid cover, adding in a layer of truth. Makes it easier to sell. Which I’ve been doing seamlessly for years.

  “I’m not going to make it so easy this time.” March laughs boisterously.

  “You always give it your best try,” I banter with him as I wait for the elevator. As much as March is a pain in my ass, he’s more my sanity, my organizer, and my best friend.

  When the doors ding open, there is a man standing inside, and my smile immediately slides off my face.

  “Hello, Fallon.” His deep, accented timbre vibrates across the white marble floor and right up my spine.

  I swallow thickly before saying a word. “I have to call you back.” I rip the customized earpiece out of my ear and shove it into my back pocket. It was a one-of-a-kind creation compliments of March.

  “How did you find me?” I’m on the defensive.

  “It wasn’t easy.” Ronan rocks back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. The door begins to slide closed, and he reaches out to keep it open. “Are you coming?”

  Every instinct I have says to resist. Says to make any excuse not to step into that elevator with him. But a scene in the lobby of the building I live in, the place that I love, is a monumental mistake. With air lodged in my lungs, I step over the threshold, and Ronan is clearly pleased.

  I. Am. So. Fucked.

  “What are you doing here, Ronan?” I ask cautiously as I calculate how long it will take me to reassemble my rifle and shoot if I need to.

  “I wanted to see you,” he says as if it’s so simple. And trust me when I tell you, there is nothing simple about Ronan Kennedy.

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a proposition for you.” The elevator dings open on my floor.

  “You could have just sent a message through March.”

  “Yes, I could have, but I wanted to see you.” He holds open the elevator door. “Shall we?” he offers expectantly. As if I have any other choice.

  Ronan is acting like the utmost gentleman, but I know it’s a farce. He is anything but gentlemanly. On the surface, he may have an endearing smile and smooth façade. I would even go so far as to call him roguishly handsome. But all that is his camouflage. Underneath it all, he’s a predator. A monster. A killer. The horror stories that preceded him are legendary. The grandson of one of the most notorious Irish gangsters of the twentieth century has thoroughly embraced the family legacy. He made a name for himself at a young age through intimidation, murder, and fear. It's why I’ve kept my distance all this time. I know which lines I shouldn’t cross and whose bed I should steer clear of. But Ronan is irritatingly persistent.

  Pressing my thumb on the fingerprint panel of the lock, the front door of my apartment clicks open.

  Here goes everything.

  Ronan follows me inside. He seems completely unruffled while all my senses are on high alert.

  “Would you like a drink?” I offer as I head into the kitchen.

  “Yes, very much so.” He spins around the living room inspecting the place. His expression communicates he likes the light, bright, open floor plan with the sweeping views of Manhattan's west side.

  Placing my hat, sunglasses, and the poster tube concealing my rifle on the kitchen counter, I pull out two wine glasses and a bottle of my favorite Bordeaux. “Red okay?”

  “I’m more a whiskey man, but red will do for now.” Ronan joins me in the kitchen.

  I pour two glasses while he watches.

  “Cheers.” He holds his glass up to mine.

  “What are we cheers-ing to?” I am a desperate woman on a hunt for answers.

  “Hopefully, a future partnership.”

  I freeze from his response. Partnership?

  Ronan reads my response. He smiles again. That movie-star smile that could captivate an entire Hollywood audience.

  “Fallon.” His Boston accent slips through. “I wanted to present this to you right. Will you indulge me?”

  I am at a total fucking loss. Morbid curiosity has me shaking my head yes, with the comfort of knowing I have firearms stashed all over my home. Chances are if he tries something, I’ll be within reaching distance of a gun.

  Ronan takes a sip of wine as he pulls out his phone and presses a button.

  “Hey, it's me. Bring it up.”

  That’s all he says, and I go into defense mode.

  “Bring what up?”

  “You’ll see, beautiful.” He takes a step toward me, looking like he wants to devour me in one bite. Then he reaches out to touch me, and I flinch. It’s purely a reflex.

  Ronan smirks, but he isn’t amused. He isn’t insulted either. “You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Before I can ask, “Then why are you here?” there’s a knock at my front door.

  “May I?” he inquires.

  I lift my hand, offering permission. I feel like I’m in the fucking twilight zone.

  Ronan opens the door to three more men. Two in black suits, clearly bodyguards, and one short, stocky one with a thick mustache and white apron that looks like a chef.

  “On the dining room table, please.”

  The man in the apron gets right to work, ordering the bodyguards around in a thick accent. They’re carrying what I can only identify as insulated pizza bags.

  “I hope you like Italian.” Ronan watches the men work. He seems quite entertained.

  “I love it,” I confirm.

  “Good, ’cause Luigi makes the best spaghetti Bolognese on the East Coast. And his insalata mista with shaved parmesan is primo.” He kisses his fingers.

  “I’m hungry already.”

  Ronan flashes me a smile. I have clearly stroked his ego to perfection.

  After what is only a few minutes, the entire table is set, pillar candles lit and all.

  “Enjoy.” Luigi bows at Ronan before making his exit.

  “Do you do this with all your business propositions?” I ask as Ronan pulls out a chair for me.

  “Who said anything about business?” He sits right next to me. Luigi clearly set the table methodically, keeping our place settings close to the corners of the square glass. “My proposition is personal.”

  “I won’t lie and say I’m not intrigued.” He has gone to some pretty great lengths to get my attention. But I still don’t trust him, even with all the niceties.

  Ronan runs his fingers through his wavy, auburn hair. It’s much darker and browner than mine. My color red always seems to stick out. Not nearly enough orange, or brown, or blonde. Just a unique shade of shiny copper. The only other person I've ever seen it on was my mean, nasty old grandmother who was a copperhead until the day she died.

  “Fallon, you have captivated me from the moment I met you. I knew you were different. That you were someone I needed to get to know.” It’s a strong start. I’ll give him that. “I’m sure you’re aware of what happened within my family a few weeks ago?” His muddy brown eyes become sharper than icicles.

  I nod. Everyone knows. Rumors ripped through the criminal underworld like brushfire. For a minute, it was believed the Kennedy clan was done for, but Ronan proved everyone wrong. He emerged, the brand-new leader. The last one standing. And is now slowly piecing together an entirely new empire. “My whole family was slaughtered,” he speaks with a controlled rage. “Right in front of my eyes. My father, my mother, my sister. Those fucking San Gennaro bastards turned on us. After we gave them everything. After we joined our fucking families. After we made them fucking strong. They had it planned from the beginning.” He slams his fist down on the table, and all the glasses and plates rattle.

  “Jesus. Sorry.” He reaches for me. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I’m fine.” I smile, unnerved. Even though underneath it all I am. “I’m sorry about what happened. It’s tragic, really.” I calmly take a large sip of wine.

  “It is a tragedy. And that’s exactly why I need you.”

  “Need me?”

  Ronan nods. “Yes, I need a woman like you by my side. To help me lead. I need someone strong, and powerful, and deadly, and beautiful.” He slides his hand across the table and places it over mine. “I need an equal. A queen.”

  Queen?

  “Ronan,” I flutter my eyelashes, perplexed, at a loss on how to respond

  “You don’t need to give me an answer tonight. You can think about it.” His stare is shrewd. It’s probing, and scheming. He is the devil. There is no doubt. No matter how docile his tone is, or how earnest his gestures seem to be. He’s a boa constrictor trying to coil himself around me.

  “How about you wine and dine me and we see what happens from there?” I indulge him for now. On the surface, his offer is a sweet one for a woman like me. But I’ve never been interested in power. Or being a leader. Or being on the arm of one of the most notorious gangsters of my generation. I’m a loner. A stray. I’m not sure how I would fair with responsibilities, or boundaries, or an owner. I’ve been watched. Been controlled. Had limits forced upon me. I didn’t thrive well in that environment. I don’t know if I could revert. I’ve played by my own rules for so long. I don’t know how I would tolerate someone else’s game.

  Ronan and I share a delectable dinner under a New York City sunset. It’s surprisingly pleasant. He’s charming, and funny, and shockingly well versed in politics. I also had no idea he had a law degree.

  Ronan Kennedy is a man of many, many surprises.

  After my third glass of wine, I am feeling no pain, and the anxiety of Ronan’s visit has deescalated. Our conversation doesn’t delve deeper than superficial things, like favorite movies, or favorite foods, or the weather. We don’t get too personal. It doesn’t behoove either of us. We both have underbellies. And trust is something that takes a long time to establish for people like us.

  I clear the plates after dinner. They aren’t some cheap disposable kind either. They’re genuine china that reads “hand wash only.” I’m not the kind of girl to slave over a sink and wash dishes. I’m more inclined to just throw them away, even if they are expensive, but I’m itching to keep myself occupied. To keep my hands busy while Ronan is here, so I turn on the water and proceed to do the domestic thing and wash the damn dishes.

  It is surprisingly calming. I sort of get swept away for a moment in the running water and lemon scent of the soap.

  With my guard down, Ronan takes advantage and sneaks up behind me. “You look good in the kitchen.” He places his hands on my hips and rasps in my ear. As startled as I am, I keep a firm grasp on the white plate and my cool.

  “I wouldn’t get used to it. The kitchen isn’t my scene.”

  “I can overlook that.” He pushes my hair aside and runs the tip of his nose up the curve of my neck. I break out in chills from the sensual contact. “I have an entire waitstaff that can cook. We’ll just use the kitchen when I want you for dinner.”

  A naughty image of Ronan fucking me on his kitchen island plays through my mind. It’s the first time I have ever found myself fantasizing about him.

  “That sounds dirty.”

  “I can definitely be dirty,” he promises.