Strategy Meeting
Fallon claimed she only signed up to meet people in the building. To live a life not just made up of friendly nods, but genuine smiles and maybe even a little small talk. But within five minutes in the meeting room, she is barking orders like she’s commanding an elite strike force.
“Garland over the elevator arch. And tight, not like last year’s drooping, sad noodles. The ornaments will go on the tree by color family, not size. We want cohesion, people!”
I lean against the wall, quietly horrified but secretly impressed as she dictates rules on how to string the lights and how to wrap the fake gifts under the lobby tree.
She’s relentless against the resistance of lazy ideas. Precise with her instructions. And brilliant in her strategy.
She hands out sheets that show a detailed diagram of how the ornaments should hang. When and where she got these printed is the stark reminder that while I’m sleeping off a kill, or stalking someone, she’s whistling happily at a print shop.
As the group scans it over, a few very stupid people choose to laugh at it. She just blinks at them, confused, like she can’t fathom what’s funny about excellence. Their chuckles die when their eyes meet my death glare.Thenthey focus and show their appreciation.
All I can think of is how I want to destroy every person who doesn’t respect her. I’ll be spending my life maiming or murdering a lot of people because Fallon is different, and people are cruel arseholes.
More people need to see the passion burning in her as a gift, like I do. And God help me, I want more of this in my life.
More ofher.
Operation Lobby Decorating Commencement
On the night of the actual decorating, Fallon moves like a platoon commander, and the residents obey her without question. Ribbons are tied around the banisters, bows are fluffed on the portico poles, and the lights wrapped around the pine garland are spaced perfectly.
I don’t know how she roped me into being the tree guardian, but I’m supposed to inspect all the donated trimmings and make sure the placements adhere to her plan.
Once it’s approved by the general, I string the tree lights while she directs the angles. When she goes quiet, I peek over my shoulder to see her adorable nose crinkled in concentration. Her tongue peeks out between her teeth, and her eyes narrow the way mine do when I’m focusing on a kill shot.
The shudder that runs through me feels like an aftershock.
With all the trimmings laid out for placement on a folding table, I notice she’s labeled our ornaments with tiny stickers that sayRhys and Fallon. Where she got thosemade, I have no idea. But I want a set.
When the tree is finally decorated, she steps back, sighing like she’s the coordinator for the tree at Rockefeller Center. Fuck, if she applies for that job, I will hold the hiring manager at gunpoint until they give it to her.
I’m in complete and utter awe of Fallon. Every year, I waltzed through this lobby and never gave a thought to how any of the holiday decorations got here. But I always liked how it looked, how it made me feel.
Fallon was behind this comfort before I even realized it.
Operation Neighborhood Caroling
On caroling night, I expect reluctant and sarcastic adults. Instead, it’s children. A dozen nine-year-olds from a nearby school. Once again, my elf made her magic happen by meeting with the principal to arrange this event.
She doesn’t even have a kid in the school. I don’t question how some woman who shows up in candy-cane tights and her hair in a braid with red and gold ribbons passed for a responsible adult to chaperone children, but here we are. Parents wait on a street corner and just hand over their kids to herandher assassin boyfriend. Honestly, they all look like they need a break, a drink, or both.
Fallon walks ahead, leading the pack down a street of townhomes strung with lights against the crisp night air. I breathe in relief when I see a couple of parents taking up the rear so no kids get snatched.
When I notice the street sign, shivers run down my spine. We’re on Griffin’s block.
Before I can stop her, Fallon bounds past the iron gate to his townhouse in a Santa hat and the world’s shortest skirt. She’s about to knock on the door of the head of the Irish Mob, who can flick his wrist to one of his eightguards, and she’ll be toast.
I can already see the headlines:Mob Boss Levels Carolers. Neighborhood Kids Traumatized.
Not that Griffin would ever want to hurt a woman. That’s not how the Quinlans operate. Hell, Raina kept breaking into Connor’s flat to kill him, and he not only let her live, but he also fell in love and married her.
Fallon knocks before I can stop her, and I hold my breath. Of course, this is the one night Griffin answers the door himself.
I watch as his eyes flick over her. He’s married, not dead. When he sees the children, the sheet music, and the Santa hats, the guy smiles, and I relax.
Griffin calls over his shoulder, “Siren, come see this!”
