Nothing and no one.

  I’ve worked too hard to get where I am. Come too far.

  I say who and I say when. In sex, love, and murder.

  Which is why Ronan’s proposal is weighing so heavily on me. He’ll want to take away all the privileges I’ve worked so hard for. It’s inevitable, even if he denies it. Even if that’s not his intent.

  At the end of the day, a man like Ronan commands, controls, and regulates.

  And me and rules just don’t mix.

  I stuff the papers back into the envelope and shove it in a kitchen drawer.

  I don’t want to deal with this right now. With any of it. Not with Ronan, or Declan, or the shitty position I find myself in. My life was so much simpler twenty-four hours ago.

  Dressed in a fierce black tank top and matching yoga pants, I leave to meet March. I need to clear my head, and beating the shit out of something will surely do the trick.

  I try not to think about Declan or Ronan as I jog the six blocks to the gym. But I can’t stop myself from wondering why all the men in my life have to be so fucking complicated.

  With the exception of March, of course.

  The only thing he complicates is my work schedule.

  Climbing the six flights of stairs to the gym entrance, I find March already shadowboxing in the ring. Nitro is an ultra-modern “workout lounge” with a knockout view of the Empire State.

  When he isn’t in the club, this is March’s second favorite place to hang out.

  “Well, the prodigal daughter miraculously appears,” March jabs in my direction. “I called you like twenty times last night, after you so rudely dropped the mic on me.” His snarl shines through.

  “I didn’t drop the mic.” I climb into the ring, ready for a fight. My skin feels like it’s prickling with a needlepoint tension. “I had an unexpected visitor.” I throw a punch, and March expertly dodges it. Like it was nothing. Like it was just a whiff of air.

  “Visitor? Do tell.” He lifts his wrapped fists, ready for combat.

  “It’s not important.” I attack, throwing a punch-jab-kick combo.

  March blocks like the pro he is. I’ve gotten in my fair share of fist fights over the years, and he has always been my toughest adversary. He’s taught me so much since I got into this unique line of work, and one of the most important things is to fight with your head before you fight with your fists.

  I’m clearly not taking his advice ’cause all I want to do is physically assault him until either he or I is bloody.

  I go after March again, full-force this time—kicking, punching, sweeping, kneeing—basically just pulling out every trick I have in my hat. I’m winded and sweaty within minutes, and March is, no surprise, holding his own. He’s dressed in his usual sleeveless sweatshirt and gym shorts. His loose, curly locks are damp with sweat, his buttery-brown skin is dewy with perspiration, and his big, amber eyes are alight with challenge.

  And not just a physical challenge. He wants to know every detail of last night, and I am just not ready to talk.

  “The fuck it’s not important.” He hits me with some wicked hand combo that takes my full concentration to defend.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You’re being extra fucking difficult. It must be damn juicy.” He kicks my leg out from underneath me, and I land hard on my side. This fight has just been taken to the ground. I’m not as skilled in wrestling or Jiu Jitsu as March, so I know he is literally going to squeeze the information out of me like juice. You might as well just call me ‘Fallon the fresh squeezed.’

  Despite the torment, I welcome the pain. I need to feel it. I need to exercise the demons out of me, if only for a little while.

  We grapple around, March much more skilled than I, but I fend him off for as long as I can, squirming out of his octopus-like hold once, then twice. My muscles fatigue way faster than I like. I have much more stamina on my feet. But I continue to fight, my will still strong. It’s what gets me through all of my strife. It’s what gets me through every single day.

  The body can achieve whatever the mind believes.

  March finally gets me in a solid submission hold. “Talk,” he demands, my limbs stretching in pain as he applies pressure.

  I bite my tongue. He compresses harder. “You’re not gonna win,” he taunts, knowing he has me just where he wants me.

  I grit my teeth, resisting him. Our skin hot and slippery from the sheen of sweat.

  “Who was your sneaky visitor who got you all spooked?” March continues to press. God, I fucking hate him sometimes.

  I tap out. If I can’t breathe, I can’t talk.

  He loosens just enough for me to erupt. “Ronan, okay! Ronan fucking Kennedy!”

  “What?” March lets go, and I roll over immediately, doing a push-up onto my feet.

  I go on the offensive, kicking and punching him as I speak. “He showed up and offered me a proposition.”—I throw a right hook.—“He wants a bodyguard with benefits.” I knee him with a grunt. “We fucked all night.”

  March pushes me back several steps. “Say truth.” He’s having a hard time believing me.

  “Truth. He found me. And he wants me.”

  March is clearly dumbfounded. It’s written all over his gaping-mouthed face.

  “How the fuck did he find you?”

  “I have no idea. But he did. And he said when he wants something, he gets it.”

  “And he wants you,” March muses.

  “Yes, he does.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Me?” I crack my knuckles. “To stop talking about Ronan and kick your fucking ass.” I run at him and leap into the air, assailing him with a flying side kick.

  “Aggressive much?” March masterly steps aside at a forty-five-degree angle, evading me completely. “If you got laid all night, you should be more relaxed, no? Was he that bad in bed?”

  “He was perfectly fine in bed.” I grit my teeth and punch. I jab-cross-jab-cross in quick succession.

  “Then what’s the fucking issue?” March hits me with an uppercut, and my teeth clank. Son of a bitch. “If you were gonna play dirty, we should have put the gloves on.” He dances back and forth on his toes.

  “Gloves are for pussies.”

  March barks a laugh. “Tell that to Conor McGregor.”

  The mention of the Irishman makes my blood pressure spike.

  “Ugh.” I swing sloppily at him.

  March picks up on the change in my form.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I grunt and groan, not even sure why I’m all wound up. “He has a job for me.” I throw a right kick, and he defends.

  “A job? That's what I’m for.” March tries to land a left hook, but I bob back just enough for him to miss me.

  “That's what I told him,” I huff, out of breath.

  “Well, what's the job?”

  I pause for a split second before I go after him again. A surge of pent-up aggression exploding from inside of me.

  “Declan O’Dea.”

  The name registers with March immediately. “The Holy-Hot Irishman?” He drops his guard just as I jab. My fist connects with his nose, and it bursts with blood like a ripe tomato.

  “March!” I rush him, placing my hands over his. “Why the fuck did you let your guard down!”

  “’Cause you fucking surprised me!”

  “Hey!” One of the trainers tosses me a clean towel.

  “Thank you.” I place it over March’s gushing nose.

  “Fuck, that smarts.” He walks it off, pressing the towel to his face.

  “I’m sorry.” I trail after him like a worried puppy.

  “I know you are.” He looks at me with watery, amber eyes.

  I cover my mouth apologetically.

  “You owe me a fucking spiked shake.” March climbs out of the ring and heads to the smoothie bar. Our workout is officially done.

  I follow behind him as he takes a seat at one of the tall tables next to the window. Quick to order, I ask for two Hot Rod shakes since that is March’s favorite. A little sucking up can’t hurt right now.

  “Nice jab, lady warrior,” someone says from behind me. I turn to find Deak standing there with his defined, muscled arms crossed, and a perfect, bright smile on his face. He’s the trainer who threw me the towel.

  “Thanks,” I smirk. “Not sure March feels the same way.”

  “He’ll be fine once the swelling goes down. I’ve seen him take way harder hits than that. You just happened to pop him in the sweet spot.” He touches the bridge of my nose lightly. Flirtatiously, actually.

  “Lucky strike,” I try to play it off.

  “That wasn’t lucky. I watch you. You know what you’re doing.”

  I suddenly don’t like the direction this conversation is going. Harmless flirting I can deal with, but when someone starts to see more than meets the eye, it’s time to shut it down. Luckily, our shakes arrive just in time.

  “March is a good teacher.” I smile simply, playing my trust-fund baby part.

  “I can be a good teacher, too.” Deak places his hand on my arm. I glance down at it, and then back up to his face. There is a haze of desire in his deep-brown eyes.

  “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever need a substitute sparring partner.”

  “Or a date Friday night?” He throws that out there.

  I’m flattered, I am, but I would chew up a man like Deak like bubble gum and spit him out before he even knew what happened. I’ll stick with the boys from my neighborhood. You know, the ones who don’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

  “That’s sweet, but I’m busy. Maybe another time.”

  “Any time,” he appeals, and it’s such a genuine request. If I had a heart, it just might melt.

  “I’ll let you know.” It’s an empty promise.

  I excuse myself like the polite little Connecticut socialite I portray myself to be.

  I place March’s shake in front of him, then sit. My butt isn’t in the seat one second before he’s giving me ‘that look’.

  “What?”

  “Another suitor vying for your attention?”

  I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

  “I think the saying is wrong.” March removes the bloody towel from his face. “Redheads have more fun.”

  “Oh, dear God, shut up.”

  “Seriously, is there not a man on this earth who doesn’t want to fuck you?”

  “Yes,” I snap. “And he’s sitting across from me.”

  “Nope, not true.” March shakes his head as he sucks on his straw. “I totally wanted to fuck you when we first met.”

  “Oh yeah, what changed?”

  “You started talking.”

  “Should I be insulted by that comment?”

  He shrugs with two cheek-fulls of shake. “Maybe only half. And after we went into business together, all bets were off. I don’t shit where I eat.”

  “I tried to live by that rule, too. Look where it got me.” I stir the thick, brown liquid in my plastic cup.

  “You put up a good fight,” March placates me.

  I lift my eyes to him. He’s smirking, the small gap in his front teeth visible.

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “You’re right, it’s not. It’s diabolical. Your new lover wants you to assassinate your old lover.” He’s rolling in this.

  “Please stop saying lover.

  “Lover, lover, lover, lover.”

  “Do I have to hit you again?” I threaten.

  “No.” March slinks back and covers his swollen nose. “You’re so lucky I don’t have a date tonight.”

  “I didn’t mean it . . . not entirely.” I only feel half guilty.

  “You totally meant it.”

  “You dropped your guard,” I argue.

  “Yup, and see what happens when you drop your guard? You get popped in the nose.” The statement isn’t a funny one. It has an underlying meaning.

  I pause. Thinning my eyes at March. “Are you trying to get all psychological on me?”

  “Me? Never. I’m not that smart.”

  “You are full of shit is what you are.”

  March raises his hands and eyebrows. Never copping to anything. “I’m just saying, are you sure you want to travel down that emerald-brick road?”

  “As long as I spill blood all over it, it’ll be fine.”

  March’s facial expression changes subtly. It becomes much more serious. And I hate it.

  “Don’t,” I warn him.

  “Don’t what? Remind you how heartbroken he left you.”

  “First of all,”—I put my finger right in his face—“I was not heartbroken. I barely even have a heart. I was pissed off. He ghosted me after I tried to ghost him first.”

  March arches his eyebrow, like that explanation is barely a scratch on the surface.

  “You liked him.” He gently pushes my finger away.

  “I liked him before. I hate him now.”

  “Past tense. Present tense. Still doesn’t change the fact that he got under your skin.”

  “We hung out for like forty-eight hours. And he was amazing in bed. That hardly constitutes getting under my skin. Now between my legs, that’s another story.”

  “You were not the same when you got back from New Orleans.”

  “Does this conversation have a point?”

  “Yes, my point is, I don’t want you to let your guard down and get popped in the nose. Or worse. Take a bullet to the chest.” He points his fingers at me like he’s holding a semi sideways. “These are dangerous men. You need to be careful.”

  “Please, I’ve dealt with dangerous men my whole life. And I didn’t ask to be put in this situation. I tried to avoid it at all costs. But here I am. What am I supposed to do? At the very least, I have to do the job, and then figure out what to do about Ronan.”

  “I don’t know what worries me more. The job or Ronan.”

  “The job will be fine,” I brush it off. “I’ll do it and be done.”

  March graces me with one of those twisted, deadpan, I-don’t-buy-it looks. “Berry Girl,”—that’s the nickname he uses when he’s about to get real—“you may be a badass bitch and claim you have no heart, but I know you better than anyone. And what I know is, when someone makes it into here,”—he touches his heart—“they have a hell of a hard time getting out.”

  “Declan never made it into there.” I poke him hard in the chest, resenting what he’s saying. “The only people I have in my heart are you and Farrah. That’s it. There isn’t room for anyone else.”

  “You keep believing that, Berry Girl.”

  “I will. ’Cause it’s the damn truth. Now, are you going to help me track down Declan or what? There was zero information in that fucking file Ronan left me.”

  March smiles obnoxiously. “Is my middle name León, or what?”

  I laugh. “It is. Your mother had a sense of humor when she saw your mane full of curls.”

  “That she did. And now I’ll be on the prowl. There’s nowhere the Holy-Hot Irishman can hide.”

  I nod at March. “That’s what I’m banking on.”

  2

  Fallon

  I will give it to Declan O'Dea. He’s a slick motherfucker. It took us nearly three months to track him down, and lo and behold, where do we find him holed up? In a posh apartment building in Fort Point, Boston. Right in Ronan’s damn backyard. Not at all where we expected him to be. But that’s what makes it genius. If I were on the run, I’d be, well, running, for one, and moving every few days. But from all the recon I’ve done, he isn’t looking to move anytime soon. Which is so bizarre. Why stay in the same place and risk being found? I find it so uncharacteristic for a man with his background. A man who knows how to operate like the law doesn’t exist.

  Whatever his reasons, they don’t matter to me. I’m here for two things. Kill the guy, get the girl. Easy peasy. March and I devised a plan. We’ve been staking him out for over a week. He doesn’t leave the apartment, but he does have plenty of things delivered. Funny enough, March was able to hack into a local liquor store’s database where Declan likes to order his spirits from.

  Spend a long weekend in New Orleans with a bloke, and you learn pretty quick what he likes to drink. A pint of black stuff with an Irish Catholic whiskey chaser. Between my insider info and March’s mad computer infiltration skills, we were able to come up with a strategy to get inside without tipping Declan off.

  And that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

  Trailing the lanky delivery boy, I wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. Dusk comes early this time of year, so it’s easy to hide in a narrow alleyway. I pull out my pistol and crack him across the head at the opportune moment. He’s out cold in a second flat. Dragging his limp body into the shadows, I stash him behind the dumpster, making sure his feet are tucked away tightly. He’ll wake up with a nasty headache, but that’s more than most people can say when they cross paths with me. Consider yourself lucky, buddy.

  I steal the black cap off his head that reads “Quality Liquor” and place it over my blonde bob wig. Then I pick up the brown canvas delivery bag, impressed the glass bottle of Jameson didn’t shatter. I thought for sure it cracked when it hit the ground.

  Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I peek out of the alleyway.

  Coast clear.

  I emerge onto the sidewalk and stroll down the street like I belong there with my gun snugly secured in the back of my waistband.

  Making it to the entrance of the building, I push through the double doors into a lobby with a sky-high ceiling, adorned with overgrown greenery on every open level. It's an impressive place to hide out. I’ll give Declan that.

  “Delivery for 8121,” I tell front-desk security.

  The woman with jet-black hair pulled back in a bun glances at my hat, and without a second thought, picks up the phone and calls Declan. She confirms the delivery, and then sends me on my merry way.

  Easy. As. Pie.

  “Scott not working tonight?” she calls as I push the button on the elevator.

  “Nah, said he has a killer migraine. I’m doing a favor for Joe.” I drop the liquor store owner’s name, avoiding eye contact with her as I speak.