The Monster: A Mafia Romance (Boston Belles Book 3)
The Monster: A Mafia Romance: Chapter 8

A week had passed since I’d visited Sam’s apartment.

A week of radio silence from his end, and my brothers trying their hardest to restore something resembling normalcy to our household.

They visited after work a few times a week to check in on Da, convinced the poisoning was either Mother’s doing or Gerald’s unspoken mistake.

I played along, showering Mother with attention, watching her with hawk eyes to ensure she didn’t try to harm herself, but the truth was, something had shifted within me, rearranging itself into a different shape. I was beginning to change, and I didn’t know how or why but the past few weeks had a lot to do with it.

Outwardly, I went through the usual motions. I caught up with Persy, Belle, and Sailor at an up-and-coming Indian restaurant downtown. I even pretended to muster an amused chuckle when Sailor frowned at her phone with a long-suffering sigh and showed us a picture of Cillian. “This is his version of sending me dick pics.”

“But it’s not a dick.” Persy had blinked, not getting it.

“Not an anatomical one, anyway,” Belle had murmured, tearing a piece of naan bread and dunking it into a mint and mango dip. Persy had protested us calling her husband a dick, but of course we all knew that he was—to everyone but her.

Mother continued moaning about how horrible my father had been to her, yet every time she ventured out of her den and he had tried to speak to her, she would make a sharp U-turn and dart back to the master bedroom, leaving a trail of tearful accusations echoing over the opulent hallway walls in her wake.

Da was still sleeping in one of the guest rooms, floating in and out of it like a ghost, his disheveled white hair sticking out in every direction, unshaven and haunted by the state of his marriage.

It didn’t help that he started getting mysterious, cryptic messages threatening to drain his secret bank accounts in Switzerland—accounts that according to Da no one knew about.

The first couple days after the messages started pouring in, my father had made it a point to shower, get dressed, and go into his office. He had left his door ajar and sat there, motionless and quiet, waiting to hear my mother’s door flinging open so he could talk to her.

Once he’d realized Mother was truly uninterested in talking things through, he had retreated to his current state of shambles, hardly leaving his own room.

And that, I realized, was the difference between this time and all the others. Normally, my parents entered this tango, a dance of sorts; it was difficult to follow and only they knew all the moves to it.

My father would screw up, my mother would get mad, and he would win her back. Snatch her into alcoves in the house or steal her away to the butterfly garden, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. He would court her. Make her feel desirable. Shower her with gifts and compliments. Send heated looks from across the table at dinnertime. Watch as she chipped before breaking completely and taking him back. Then he’d whisk her off on a lengthy vacation, make all these promises they both knew he couldn’t keep, and superglue their relationship back together, even though it had chunks missing and was hollow from within.

Only this time, it hadn’t worked. Da had been poisoned. He blamed my mother. My brothers suspected her, too. I guess Mother had decided she’d had enough and cut them out of her life. She refused to see Cillian and Hunter whenever they visited.

Which brought us to where we were now.

To the annual charity event my mother hosted.

“Aisling, could you be a darling and ask your brothers to go say hi to Mr. Arlington? He made such a substantial donation to our charity tonight, and I know he’s been vying for Cillian’s attention for a long time. He needs advice about his new offshore company.” Mother elbowed me sharply as we stood in the ballroom of the Bellmoor, a boutique hotel in the West End.

The room glimmered in French neoclassical style—all cream, gold and ornate chandeliers, and an Instagrammable stairway with golden railings.

Guests trickled in and out, drinking champagne and laughing loudly as they looked for their designated tables. Businesspeople mingled with each other, the men in tuxedoes, the women in elaborate ball gowns. Jane Fitzpatrick had an impeccable track record of throwing lavish parties, from debutante balls to charity events, and this one was no different, even if she knew her peers never quite recovered from the last headline her husband was responsible for.

My mother was the director of The Bipolar Aid Alliance, a nonprofit charity group, for which she threw events often. She wore a dignified gray dress, her hair pinned up in a bun. We had never spoken about the fact she had chosen this particular charity, above all others, to give all her attention and resources to, but I knew it was telling.

I’d come to learn nothing about my mother’s behavior was accidental. She was a calculated woman, and Cillian and I inherited that trait from her.

“I will, but for the record you’ll have to talk to them at some point,” I chided her, toying with my velvet gloves.

She stuck her nose in the air, examining her manicured fingernails.

“Have to? I doubt it. I have to speak to my banker at some point to settle everything ahead of the divorce. And my landscaper—the rosebushes need a proper trim. Oh, and certainly my hairstylist. But my sons? There is nothing I need from them. If I want to see my grandchildren, I can talk directly to their wives. I would actually prefer that as Sailor and Persephone at least treat me like their equal and don’t believe I poisoned my own husband.”

“Speaking of your husband, what about him?” I inquired, smoothing a hand over my cap-sleeved, dark blue gown. “Will you be talking to him anytime in the next century, or are you going to spend the rest of your life dodging him?”

“Your father and I seem to have reached a boiling point after simmering over the edge of disaster for decades. He’s become paranoid and wrongfully mistrusting. Quite vulgar, seeing as I’m not the one who pops into the headlines every few months with a new affair. I hate to say this, Aisling my dear, but we might have reached the end of the road. I don’t see us coming back from this particular crisis.”

“Well, then I suggest you speak to him before you hand him divorce papers.” I gritted my teeth.

“He won’t believe me.”

“Try him.”

“Just tell your brothers to do as I say,” Mother huffed, like I was a teenager rather than a grown woman, waving me off.

I wasn’t an idiot. I knew people treated me like I was younger than my years because I let them. Because I was nice and timid and agreeable.

I shook my head, stomping over to Cillian and Hunter, who stood in a cluster with other men, smoking cigars and tutting loudly about the new tax plan.

You could tell they didn’t want to be here. Normally, they took their wives anywhere worth going. If they left Sailor and Persephone at home, it meant they planned an early exit and spared their wives of boredom.

They still, however, showed up to support my mother. I wished she could see this. How we all did what we could to support her, even if she behaved like a child.

I stopped by Hunter and Cillian.

“May I borrow you two for a moment?” I smiled politely.

“May? I’d pay you good money to get me out of here. Extra if you agree to put a bullet in my head,” Hunter whispered, taking a step away from the circle jerk he was engulfed in. Cillian, who had more finesse than that, threw an impatient smirk my way, but stayed put, a bevy of men swarming around him.

“What’s going on?” Hunter asked, sipping bottled water. He barely drank alcohol, and when he did, he limited himself to one drink. “The party’s in full swing and the donation box is jam-packed. Don’t tell me the old bat found a reason to be unhappy again. Let me guess, the flowers are not fresh enough or someone failed to compliment her on her dress—which, by the way, makes her look like drywall.”

I stomped on his foot, making him wince and clutch his toes.

“She asked if you two could introduce yourselves to Mr. Arlington, right over there.” Discreetly, I gestured to a plump, older man sitting at a table across the room, enjoying the shrimp cocktail much more than anyone should enjoy a shrimp cocktail, considering its foul taste. “He made a sizable donation and would like to ask you a few questions. Offshore business-related, I believe.”

“Since when did I sign up for Mother pimping me like I was a low-grade call girl in need of petty cash?” Cillian drawled in his usual, monotone voice, sidestepping away from the crowd surrounding him.

I turned to look at him, scowling. “You need to take some of the workload off of me. I’m the one she manages twenty-four-seven.”

“Your choice,” Cillian pointed out dryly.

“Speaking of fat checks…” a slow grin spread over Hunter’s chiseled face “…the Devil himself just entered the ballroom, and he brought an expensive-looking date.”

All heads snapped to the entrance, mine included, just in time to see Samuel Brennan waltzing in through the double doors with a tall, leggy brunette. The two doormen bowed to them. Sam wore an impeccably tailored tux, and the woman had a deep green, low-cut satin gown that made her eyes pop from across the room.

She was obviously a model.

And I was obviously—desperately jealous.

“And he brought a replica of our sister, no less,” Hunter muttered, squeezing his water bottle until it sloshed over his hands comically, spilling all over his shoes. Cillian remained silent, his eyes narrowing on Sam.

A man I didn’t know stepped in between us, gesturing to Sam with his champagne flute.

“They say he killed his first victim at thirteen. Under the guidance of his adoptive father, Troy Brennan. I worked at the DA’s office at the time. Read the postmortem report. The damage he inflicted was frightening. You know, we never found the bullet he used.”

That was because Sam kept all of them.

“He is my brother-in-law,” Hunter said through gritted teeth. “So unless you wish to share a fate with that poor corpse, I suggest you take a hike.”

“Oh …” The man visibly recoiled, wincing. “I had no idea. My apologies.”

My eyes didn’t waver from Sam and his date, not even for a second. I clutched my drink to my chest, watching them move together, arms linked, her hand placed on his forearm. As if sensing my gaze, Sam spun and turned in our direction sharply, heading toward us. My heart was in my throat, and something hot stirred inside my stomach.

In all the times he taunted and provoked me over the years, and especially the last weeks, he’d never thrown other women in my face before.

This was an escalation. A new step in our screwed-up game.

He knew I’d be here.

Knew I’d helped Mother organize this charity event.

This was a blunt incitement.

Designed to get a rise out of me.

To show me how much he didn’t care.

Sam and the woman stopped in front of us.

“Saw Congressman Weismann heading out just now…” Sam jerked a thumb behind his shoulder, speaking to my brothers and them alone “…your mother must’ve pulled some strings to get him to show his face here after the undocumented housekeeper scandal.”

“I understand that you have the manners of a soiled diaper, but in cultured society, it is expected to introduce your date to your friends, which is what you will do now,” Cillian bit out icily, his eyes gliding from Sam to his date. There was no approval in them. My brother only had eyes for his wife, no matter how many beautiful women had thrown themselves at his feet. But I could tell he was unnerved by how alike me and the woman in front of us were.

Hell, she could sense it, too. We both eyed each other curiously as if looking through a distorted mirror.

“Getting a little touchy, Kill.” Sam looked mildly entertained. “It’s just a woman. They make over fifty percent of the world’s population, last I checked. Is Persephone failing in her duties to keep you entertained?”

The woman shifted on her heels awkwardly, obviously not appreciating being spoken about like mystery meat in a dodgy deli sandwich. Despite everything, I felt bad for her. She was a prop, and she deserved more than whatever Sam had in store for her.

“This is Becca…” Sam gestured toward her, without looking at her, like a salesman exhibiting a flashy car “…Becca, this is Cillian, the CEO of Royal Pipelines, and Hunter, my brother-in-law and the head of the PR department of the company. And this is Aisling …” He jerked his chin in my direction offhandedly, the way you would the family dog. All eyes snapped to me. “She is their younger sibling, of undisclosed occupation. I’m sure it is something interesting, but I never mustered enough interest to replace out.”

“Aisling is a doctor,” Cillian snapped.

“And I’m Marie Antoinette.” Sam bowed theatrically. “Fancy some cake?”

“The first time you acknowledge my sister, and you talk to her like she is trash.” Hunter frowned, getting heated. “Now I remember why none of us wanted you anywhere near her.”

“Hello. I’m right here!” I waved my hand in the air, trying to seem unfazed. “No need to fight my battles for me. Also, I think it’s time to use your right to remain silent, Brennan.” I bared my teeth, rage humming beneath my skin. “Nothing that comes out of your mouth is worth listening to anyway.”

He directed his gray eyes at me, and they sparkled with open delight. The first time I’d seen him happy since Halloween. Since we shared a sordid night together.

“Is it shark week for the entire Fitzpatrick clan? I hear women who live together get their period at the same time.”

“I suspect you lost all rights to make blood jokes with your track record, Sam.” I arched an eyebrow in his direction.

He threw his head back, full-blown laughing now.

“Touché, Nix.”

Hunter dropped his water bottle. Cillian choked on his whiskey. Everything stopped, my heart included.

“Nix?” both my brothers asked in unison.

For the first time since Sam walked in, I forced myself to cool my jets, interested to see how he was going to get out of it. Becca octopused her arms around Sam possessively, the realization that she stepped into something bigger than her trickling into her system.

I smiled coolly.

“Oh, do tell them the story of how I got my nickname, Sam. It’s a good one.”

The carnival.

The kiss.

The confessions.

You’re a monster and I’m a monster. We’re both demons, looking for our next pound of flesh.

A platinum bullet could kill a Nix, but no, you gave me gold. You want me alive, Brennan. Well and capable of fighting back.

Becca clutched tighter onto Sam’s arm, treating him as a human life preserver, not knowing his job was to make people drown. She had not spoken a word since she entered the ballroom, and I knew it wasn’t accidental. He must’ve told her to keep her mouth shut.

Sam’s silver eyes flashed with malice. “You sure you want me to tell them?”

“Now’s not the time to act chivalrous,” Cillian snapped. “Aisling and you have never exchanged as much as a sentence, yet you have a nickname for her? You’re going to have to give me an explanation, seeing as I pay you extra not to touch my sister.”

A ball formed in my throat, and I knew if I opened my mouth, I would scream.

How dare my brothers interfere with my love life?

How dare they dictate who I could and couldn’t see?

And how pathetic was I that Cillian had no trouble at all saying this right in front of me?

I was Aisling. Sweet, angelic Aisling. The doctor. The nurturer. The good one.

Becca looked agonizingly embarrassed as the pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. She took a step sideways, away from Sam. He didn’t even notice.

Sam turned to look at Hunter and Cillian, his expression grave.

“It was the first time I saw your sister. At dinner when Sailor and Hunter started living together.” Uh-huh. Already, he was lying. That wasn’t the first time we’d met. “I excused myself to go to the bathroom just as she got out of it. Her dress was stuffed inside her underwear from behind, her ass and legs on full display. I told her that she needed to untuck her dress. She cried in horror and said, ‘Oh, no, my knickers!’ She explained to me that underwear are called knickers in British English. Since then, I call her Nix, because she is a goofball who can’t dress properly. Isn’t that right, Nix?” He winked, flicking my nose like some protective big brother.

I felt close to nuclear explosion.

Frustrated.

Humiliated.

Fuming.

Sam stared at me, waiting for me to call him out on his bullshit.

“Since when do you date?” Hunter changed the topic, obviously unamused by Sam’s story.

“Since I changed my mind about marriage.”

“You changed your mind about marriage?” Cillian sneered at him, skepticism all but leaking from his cold gaze. My older brother played with the golden band of his wedding ring as he spoke. “Riveting. I clearly remember you giving me a one-hour speech about the merits of staying single shortly before I married Persephone. Should I bill you for my lost time?”

“People change.” Sam’s eyes turned into slits. “You should know that better than anyone.”

“People, yes. Monsters, no.”

“So is Becca the one?” Hunter goaded, and I wanted to throw up all of a sudden. Because Sam was exactly the kind of psychopath to marry someone else just to spite me. I wouldn’t put it past him. Buy into the idea that he could be happy with a replica of me and forget about the real thing.

Sam looked down at Becca, tugging her close.

“I hope so,” he whispered, placing a chaste kiss to her mouth. “She has everything I look for in a woman. Beautiful, well-educated, and honest. Bonus points: her family is not a complete mess.”

Jealousy made way to anger, and I groaned, turning my back to Sam and Becca, looking directly at Hunter and Cillian.

“Anyway, I delivered the message Mother sent me here for. Do with it what you will. Enjoy your evening.”

With that, I stormed off. I could faintly hear my brothers calling Sam a jackass behind my back, which only served to make me feel worse. Like a charity case. A silly, naïve girl incapable of standing up for herself in front of the big bad wolf.

I never felt a part of them anyway. Cillian, Hunter, and Sam had their own friendship going, and Persephone and Sailor were a part of it because they were a part of my brothers. Emmabelle and I were always pushed aside, associated but not initiated into their pseudo-secret society.

I spent the rest of the night being the perfect daughter to my mother. I listened to stale jokes, laughed, clutched my pearls whenever was appropriate during longwinded, boring stories, took pictures with donors, and even introduced my mother onstage when it was time for her to deliver her speech.

No one dared to ask where Gerald Fitzpatrick was. Not even one soul. The unspoken assumption was that my parents were going through something, as they always did, and most guests thought nothing of it. This was simply the way Jane and Gerald Fitzpatrick were.

One piece of expensive jewelry and a vacation away from reconciliation.

Throughout the night, I refused to steal glances at Sam and Becca, no matter how hot the temptation burned in me.

It was unlike him to stick around for more than ten minutes at a charity event.

It was even more unlike him to show up with a date.

It was obvious this was designed to torture me, and I refused to give him the pleasure of agreeing to be tortured.

Finally, when the clock hit midnight, I told my mother I was heading home.

“I have an early shift tomorrow. I’ll catch up with you in the morning. It was a lovely event.” I kissed her cold cheek, heading to the cloakroom to grab my coat, clutching the wrinkled ticket to hand the clerk in exchange for my Armani jacket. When I reached the elaborate oak counter, it was empty.

The door behind was closed.

Merde.

I looked around, trying to replace an available staff member to help me out. When none were found, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I wasn’t going to stick around, waiting to be cornered by Sam and Becca, like a sitting duck. I rounded the counter and flung the door to the cloakroom open, taking a step inside.

I came to a halt immediately.

“Oh my gosh!” I heard a screech. It came from Becca’s mouth. The first time I’d heard her voice. Shrill and nasally. I blinked away my shock, letting the scene in front of me register.

Becca was splayed across a mountain of coats and blazers, her dress pushed up her thighs—much like mine was that cursed Halloween night—with Sam standing a few feet from her, a hand on his zipper. The heat around my eyes signaled tears were on their way, and I forced myself to swallow the bile rising in my throat.

You are twenty-seven years old. Don’t you dare cry.

“My, my. You give tacky a whole new meaning, don’t you, Mr. Brennan.” I pinched my lips, fixing my eyes on Sam, careful to keep Becca’s name out of my mouth. No matter how much I despised her by association, it wasn’t her fault. “You know, Samuel, that’s what separates the nouveau riche from true aristocrats. Your impartialness to knockoffs. Couldn’t get your hands on the real thing, so you decided to settle for a replica.” I smiled sweetly.

I was angry and sad and feverish with the emotions crawling inside me.

I opened my purse and took a condom out of it—I always kept one handy for when Belle ran out and decided to end the night with someone when we went out—and flung it on the floor in Sam’s general direction.

“Did you tell her you hate women? That you don’t want children? How much you loathe yourself? Did she see your apartment? Your inside? All your dirty secrets?” I was still smiling, but my heart felt like it was soaked in my own blood. I had only a few more precious seconds before they started falling. Becca’s mouth hung open in fascination and horror.

I shrugged. “Yeah. I guess not. A word to the wise…” I turned in her direction “…run, don’t walk. He is trouble and not the tamable kind. He will use you, play you, and discard you. That’s the only thing he knows how to do. Because that’s what was done to him.”

I spun on my heels and ran back to the ballroom, trying to replace a place where I could cry alone. Break down and let it all out. I headed straight to one of the balconies. I could see from behind the glass doors they were all empty. No one was crazy enough to sit outside on the cusp of Christmas in Boston. Not willingly, anyway. I flung open the door and ran to the stone bannister, clutching it as I gasped, the fresh, cold air rushing into my lungs like ice water.

I heaved, letting out a feral growl that echoed inside my body.

I loved him and I hated him and I loathed him and I craved him.

One thing was for sure—I was close to quitting him.

He wanted me to let go, to turn my back on him, to forget, to leave him just like every other woman in his life. Every woman other than Sparrow. And I was close to giving him exactly what he was after.

I collapsed against the wide bannister, pressing my forehead against its coolness, trying to regulate my breath as I closed my eyes.

Breathe, mon cheri. He is just a man. A bad one at that, I heard her voice.

I didn’t know how much time I’d stayed there, but when I finally turned around to leave, I saw him.

He blocked the doorway, standing there alone, his broad shoulders shielding the party’s view from me and vice versa.

“Are you done?” He sounded bored.

I didn’t answer. I had to remind myself this man was about to have sex with another woman only moments ago. Maybe he went ahead and did it anyway.

“Step aside,” I said quietly. “I want to leave.”

“You’re very prone to dramatics, know that, Nix?” He ignored my words completely, ambling toward me. He stopped when we were close, too close, and gently tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “I am used to women who are rougher around the edges. Sparrow. Sailor. Even Cat. They have masculine strength about them. They refuse to be pushed around and never shed a tear.”

“Crying doesn’t make you weak,” I said, sniffing and turning away from him. “It just means you’re in touch with your emotions.”

He cocked a brow.

“I didn’t say you were weak. But you are a complex little thing, and I never know if I get the ball-busting version of you or the docile one who trails behind her mother like a toddler.”

“Thank you for the psychological assessment. Did you enjoy your rendezvous with your date?”

He tilted his head sideways, studying me intently. “What’s with the French words? Why not say hookup like the rest of modern civilization?”

I shrugged. “My governess was French. It stuck with me.”

“You had a governess,” he said, not as a question. Rather, he mulled the information over, filing it somewhere in his head. “Well, as it happens, I didn’t enjoy Becca at all because you scared the living shit out of her. This is now the second fuck you’ve cost me, Nix.”

“Nix like knickers, right?” I rolled my eyes, fresh anger coursing through my veins.

He grinned, looking like he was in a fantastic mood, which made me hate him even more.

He pushed another wisp of my hair behind my ear. “I had to think on my feet.”

“I think I should go.” I turned to make a beeline back into the ballroom, but he stepped in the same direction, blocking my path.

“No.”

“Sam, you have a date waiting inside.”

“She left. I called her an Uber.”

“You still brought her here. That’s the point.” I took a step back, avoiding his touch at all costs. “You still paraded her. Flaunted her. Kissed her in the cloakroom.”

“I didn’t kiss her,” he growled, his mouth twisting in annoyance.

“But when I came in you were—”

“I skipped that part,” he quipped. “The kissing part. I wanted you to get the general picture.”

“Well…” I smiled sadly “…I got it, all right. Mission accomplished. I now know you will go to extreme lengths to push me away. We have such a frightening ability to get under each other’s skin in the worst, most terrible way. I think I’m finally done with you.”

I didn’t necessarily speak the truth, but my wounded pride wouldn’t let me yield to my heart’s desire.

He stepped forward, his heat radiating through me. I took a step back toward the bannisters.

“Why do I have a feeling you are playing me, Aisling?” he asked.

Low. Calmly. Deadly.

I swallowed, stepping backward for the millionth time. “Who said I wasn’t?”

“Your doe-like, please-don’t-eat-me eyes. But I’m starting to see there’s much more to you than I initially thought.”

“Your opinion of me wasn’t very high in the first place, so that’s not saying much.”

I retreated again. He advanced toward me. This terrible tango of wills.

“I checked your IRS file. You don’t have an income. Whatever you do is either voluntary or paid under the table. With your family going through audits every single year, I doubt you are stupid enough to meddle with money.”

“What?” I gasped, scandalized. “How dare you—”

“Easily. That’s how. Now it’s your turn to answer a question. What is it that you do in this clinic, Nix?”

I felt my back hitting the edge of the bannister, the stone digging into my spine.

I lost my balance and tipped over, my arms thrashing in the air. My torso flew right over the balcony, but Sam grabbed me by the waist, the only thing to keep me suspended in the air, six floors above ground, from sure death.

A thin crust of ice covered the stone, making it even more slippery.

My heart lurched, beating wildly and hysterically.

“Pull me back!” I cried out, my hands desperately trying to clutch onto his tux. “Please!”

He dodged my attempts, pinning my waist harder against the stone but not letting me touch any part of him.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart. First, you owe me a few truths. You’ll start by telling me what you did outside my apartment a week ago. Because looking back, you couldn’t have come there just because you needed a shoulder to cry on.”

“I did!” I gasped, swallowing air. “I—”

“You took one of my bullets,” he snapped, loosening his grip on my waist. My body dangled between life and death, hanging on the balance between his fingers fluttering against my middle.

He did this on purpose.

The realization hit me more violently than any slap would.

He cornered me, made me walk backward to try to get away from him, and got me right where he wanted me. At his mercy. Now he was threatening to kill me if I didn’t tell him the truth.

The worst part was he could get away with it, too. It was going to look like a sure accident. I had more than a few drinks throughout the night, and Sam could easily slip out of here undetected.

“Let me go!” I wheezed.

“You sure about that?” I heard his grave chuckle. I couldn’t see anything other than the black velvet sky above me, the stars shimmering like fairy dust, watching intently to see how my night played out. “Why did you take the bullet, Nix?”

“Sam, please—”

“Answer me.”

“I’m scared,” I whispered, my voice cold and low.

“Tell me the truth and you’ll have no reason to be.”

“Because I knew it was from the man you killed at the carnival!” I screamed, getting it out of my system. “My obsession with you started right after that damned carnival. I checked the news to see who was killed there, guessing correctly that they’d found the body. I found his name—Mason Kipling—and read that he was a human trafficker who had been wanted by the FBI. I put two and two together. Realized you had some beef with the guy. When I saw the bullet, M.K., I couldn’t help myself. I took it. Happy?”

He was quiet for a few seconds. I was scared he’d get tired of holding my waist and would let go. A shiver ran through my body from head to toe. My tears flew downward, trickling from my forehead, as they landed somewhere under the ballroom. Probably in the empty hotel pool.

“Now tell me why you came to my apartment.” His voice was silk and leather, traveling over my skin like a whip, promising both pain and pleasure.

“No.”

“Tell me what you do in that clinic.”

“No.”

“Aisling …” He began to loosen his grip on my waist even more, and I sucked in a sharp breath, telling myself that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let me die. Not because he had a conscience but because I meant something to him.

That was why he couldn’t touch other women and not for lack of trying.

That was why we kept coming back to each other over and over again, drawn together like magnets.

Whatever we had, it was screwed-up and poisonous and destructive, but it was there, and it was ours. It had a pulse and a breath and a soul.

We couldn’t walk away from it, and it was too late to pretend as if nothing happened, but at the same time, we both had no clue where to go to from here.

“You’re going to fall,” he whispered, his hot breath wafting over the column of my throat, causing goose bumps to rise on my skin. On instinct, I wrapped my legs around his waist, my limbs everywhere, folding myself around him like I wanted to swallow him whole.

My mouth found his ear. “So are you. I’ll be taking you with me, Monster.”

“I’m not afraid of falling, Nix.” His teeth dragged along my neck, nibbling at the sensitive hollow along my shoulder blade.

“Yes, you are. That’s why you’re torturing me. That’s why you’re here.”

Suddenly, his mouth was on mine, hot and hungry and demanding, and he pulled us backward, stumbling unevenly as he pried my mouth with his tongue, thrusting it inside harshly. I kissed him back, deep and raw, his scent dripping into my body. Cigarettes and man and expensive clothes. Not a trace of Becca in his system. My mouth was full of his kiss, and my bones felt brittle and hot as I murmured, “Next time you pull a Becca stunt on me, I will cut your balls off.”

“I’d like to see you try.” His fingers dug into my ass roughly, and I moaned, desperately rubbing against his erection. “Fuck,” he growled. “Why can’t I stay away from you?”

I licked a path down his throat, and he yanked my head back by my hair, peppering the edge of my cleavage with intoxicating kisses.

“You really need to quit smoking. You smell horrible,” I taunted.

“Never heard any complaints before.”

“They were all scared of you.” I sucked on his throat while he mauled the edge of my breasts. I was desperate to leave a love bite. To make him think of me tomorrow morning. And the mornings after that.

Because who knew when would be the next time we’d see each other? A week? Two weeks? A month? For all I knew, Sam could die in one of his street fights tomorrow. This could be the last time I saw him, touched him, felt him.

It was true for any person you were in love with, but especially for Sam, which made him even more precious to me. I was always on the verge of losing him, and sometimes at night, when I thought about what kind of dangers he was exposed to out there, I could barely breathe.

“No one wants to put a mirror to your face because they know you won’t like what you see there. Everyone is afraid of your wrath,” I continued.

“And you?” He pulled his lips from my breasts, glaring at me intensely. We were hidden by the wall next to the glass door, but I knew we needed to stop this sooner rather than later before anyone saw us. “Are you scared of me?”

“I was never truly scared of you.” I rolled my thumb along his jaw, feeling blush creeping to my cheeks. “Not when I was seventeen and not a decade later. To me you’ll always be beautifully misunderstood. And maybe I’m an idiot to care, Sam. In fact, I probably am, but I still want you to quit smoking because I want you to grow old and gray and be healthy. Even if I can never have you.”

His eyes narrowed and something passed between us. I shuddered uncontrollably in his arms, like he’d managed to put something inside me with this one look.

“Aisling, I—” Sam started.

A blood-chilling shriek pierced through the ballroom just then, making him stop midsentence, followed by a commotion, the sound of breaking glass, and hysterical crying.

“Someone call 9-1-1!”

“We need an ambulance!”

“Oh, dear God! What’s happening?”

I broke free from Sam’s arms. We both rushed into the ballroom.

I stopped dead when I realized what the spectacle was all about.

In the middle of the room was my father, Gerald Fitzpatrick, dressed in his flannel pajamas and a house robe, looking like a homeless person with his hair wild and his eyes bloodshot. He held my mother by the throat, shaking her, looking drunk and out of focus, in front of an audience consisting of the cleaning crew, waitresses, and a few odd guests who still hadn’t left.

“The family heirloom!” he raged. “Where is it, Jane? Tell me now. I know that it’s you who stole it. You who sent those threatening letters.”

My mother fainted in his arms, just as my brothers jumped in to pry him away from her.

Sam

Cillian dragged a kicking and screaming Gerald off of Jane while Hunter scooped his limp mother in his arms, shouldering past people as he rushed her out of the limelight.

British Clark Kent, AKA Devon Whitehall, appeared out of nowhere, making a beeline straight to the doors, having security close them as he demanded the staff to dispose of their phones so he could delete any sensitive material that might be leaked. The night had tapered off and only a handful of guests and the cleaning crew remained.

Aisling trembled next to me like a leaf, watching her family go down in flames.

Gerald had finally realized the cufflinks I took were missing, and he was blaming Jane for it.

His sanity was evaporating into thin air, along with his common sense.

The crazy hair. The pajamas and robe. The drastic weight loss. The drunkenness.

In public.

I imagined he had his driver bring him in, mumbling incoherently the whole way here. Poor asshole was probably going to get fired by Jane.

He was on the fast track to oblivion. Everything was going according to plan.

At some point, Aisling sneaked away from next to me, catching Cillian’s steps, pushing Gerald out of the ballroom while people around them gossiped and gasped.

Her face was tight with emotions, her eyes glassy with concern.

Suddenly, I grappled with a feeling completely foreign to me. I never felt it before, so I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. It was a mixture of nausea and dread with some anger thrown into the mix.

Had I been poisoned?

Funny, because I couldn’t replace two fucks to give about Cillian and Hunter crapping bricks right now, even if I looked for said fucks with a search unit. I couldn’t bring myself to care about Becca, for that matter, who was currently tucked in an Uber, heading back to wherever-the-hell she came from, probably cursing me all the way to next Tuesday for bailing on her ass as soon as Aisling showed up in the cloakroom.

Guilt.

That was what was seeping its way through me like poison.

After all this time, and all the sins I’d committed, it had finally wormed its way through my exterior.

It was new.

And it felt like shit.

At the same time, I knew backing down wasn’t an option. Not like this. Not right now. Gerald had ruined my life. He had to pay.

He killed my fucking unborn brother.

Drove my mother away.

Then had me do all his dirty work—his arm bending, his illegal dabbling—all while throwing in fat bonuses to make sure I didn’t touch and sully his precious princess.

“Give us a ride home.” Someone clapped my shoulder from behind. When I turned around to inform them I wasn’t a fucking Uber driver, I was surprised to see Troy and Sparrow, hand in hand.

“Didn’t know you were here.”

Troy tucked his free hand into his front pocket, glancing around the apocalyptic scene in front of us with indifference.

“Got here ten minutes ago from dinner with friends just to drop off the check. We stayed for the entertainment. Our taxi driver has left.”

Sparrow smacked wet, lipstick-stained kisses on both my cheeks. She stopped, hovering an inch over my mouth, smelling Aisling. A private smirk marred her face.

“No heavy petting in the backseat,” I quipped, taking out my car keys and flipping them in my hand.

“Can’t promise anything,” Troy deadpanned.

“Well, I can. I’ll push you out on the highway without even blinking,” I reminded him, meaning every word. I hated public displays of affection. “Your wife, I’ll spare.”

In the car, Troy asked from the passenger seat, “So, when are you going to quit your blood-thirsty vendetta?”

My eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, searching for Sparrow’s reaction. She sat in the backseat, looking at me pointedly without offering her words.

Did she know? Of course she did. Fucker told her the aroma and frequency of his farts, not to mention all of his secrets. Mine too.

“I’ll stop when he comes clean.”

“That might never happen,” Troy pointed out.

“Then I might never stop,” I volleyed back.

“Are you planning to kill him?”

I opened my mouth to say yes but stopped short when I thought about Aisling.

Her unexplainable love for her shitty parents grated on my nerves. Developing sentiments for people just because they gave you their shitty DNA was a concept I would never understand. I settled for a brash, “I don’t know.”

“That’s a first, smartass,” Troy groaned.

“Huh?”

“You. Not knowing shit. You’ve always been like this.” Troy sat back, stroking his chin, half-entertained. “Took what you wanted, even if you had to set the world on fire in the process.”

“It’s called being a go-getter. Not a bad thing,” I pointed out, stopping in front of their place and killing the engine.

“That depends on how you look at it,” Sparrow offered from behind. “It might be a very bad thing for you.”

“Cut the riddles, Dr. Seuss.” I turned around, scowling at her. “If you have something to say, say it, and be fast about it. I outgrew tonight about three days ago.”

“What your mother is saying, and you are too stubborn to comprehend,” Troy ground out slowly, the edge of his tone warning me not to give his wife lip, “is that what you want might end up not wanting you back if you slaughter everything on your way to get to it.”

“Do you know what you want?” Sparrow leaned forward, her face almost touching mine, her green eyes dark and intense.

“Yes,” I hissed slowly, holding her gaze. “I want you both to fuck off.”

“No, Sam. You think you want revenge. But what you want…” she trailed off, shaking her head “…what you really want is completely different.”

“Even if I wanted the things you think I want, getting them would ruin everything. I’m a monster,” I growled, feeling the invisible chain to my resolve tightening, ready to snap, unleashing all my pent-up anger.

Sparrow palmed my cheek, flashing me a sad smile. “If a monster can be made, it can be unmade, too. Good night, my darling boy.” She kissed my nose and slid out of the car.

Troy followed her.

For a few seconds, it was just me and the car and the silence, punctuated by the wails of an ambulance a good few yards away.

Then I started laughing.

A good, deep laugh.

One that rumbled through my whole body.

“I don’t want Aisling, you fools.” I kicked my car into drive. “But I will have her.”

It was time to take what Aisling had offered me so freely.

First, I would have what I’d deprived myself of for so long. An American Princess.

Then I would ruin her father.

It would piss him off more anyway.