It’s a miracle this mouthy, overconfident little demon can look so sweet and innocent, but she manages it.
As I lower her onto the bed in the master bedroom, she blinks sleepily up at me. Her eyelids are heavy. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair spills over the pillow, a mess of silky dark tresses I’d like to comb my fingers through—no. Christ. What am I thinking?
She’d bite them off.
Gazing up at me, she mumbles, “I want to tell you something, but I’m not talking to you. G’night, gangster.”
Then she rolls over onto her side and promptly falls back asleep.
I stand at the edge of the bed and stare down at her, amazed. She didn’t even ask where we are. Or where we’re going. She also didn’t bat an eyelash at all the corpses we left behind us.
I’ve never met anyone so resilient. So fearless. So damn…
Annoying.
Or so fit. She’s got legs like a dancer’s, long and lithe, and an arse I could bounce a quarter off. And those tits of hers—
Stop.
Frustrated with myself, I close my eyes and draw a deep breath.
I’m not normally distracted like this. Even around a woman with a tight little body like hers. Especially around a woman with such an extreme case of verbal diarrhea.
I like the quiet ones. The submissive ones. The ones who don’t make me want to tear out my hair and set myself on fire. For every hour I spend in her company, my sympathy for her ex-boyfriend Stavros grows.
Ex-lover. Ex-whatever. I’m starting to think the man is a saint.
I kick off my shoes and head into the kitchen to pour myself a whiskey. I drink that one and pour another. Then I go to the wall of windows in the living room and stand looking at the incredible glittering view of Boston at night and swallow a scream.
I never wanted this.
This responsibility. This life.
I was always the man in the background. The one behind the curtain, cleaning up messes and bringing up the rear.
I have no appetite for fame. I prefer to operate in the shadows. Now I’ll have every single head of organized crime around the world in my fucking face.
I’ll have to negotiate with them. Make treaties with them. Work with them, when all I want to do is burn their brutal empires to the ground.
But as a wise man once told me long ago, the best way to kill a nest of snakes is from the inside. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer and all that shite.
The Russians. The Chinese. The Italians. The Armenians. The Mexicans…the list goes on. When I started this so long ago, I thought I’d be making the world a better place. I thought I’d be making innocent people safer.
But I’ve learned the hard way that as soon as one snake dies, another takes its place. There are always more bad guys. There’s an endless, unlimited supply.
It makes me wonder if I’ve made any difference at all.
I pass a hand over my face, shake off the gloom, and go back to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. I leave it on the nightstand next to a quietly slumbering Sloane, then head to the shower.
After that, I dress in a fresh suit and put on a pot of strong black coffee.
I’ll need it.
Because as soon as the sun comes up, a parade of visitors will arrive from all over to pay their respects to their new king.
