The lock clicks as I step into the narrow stairwell, the faint smell of oil and dust hitting my nose. And there he is, Sean Murphy. He’s leaning against the banister like he’s been waiting for me, arms crossed and smirk already in place.
“Heading out, McKenna?” His Dublin lilt is lighter than Belfast, easier on the ears. He’s all cocky grin and lazy posture,but his eyes are sharp and quick. They’re trying to take me apart piece by piece.
I school my face into calm. “Just grabbing some lunch.”
Then, I slide my palm into my jacket, fingers grazing the pack with my micro-ear and a cheap lighter I’ll never use. I watch Sean watch the stairwell for a second, checking the exit routes while pretending to smooth my sleeve. It’s habit, make the mundane cover the dangerous.
One brow arches. “Lunch, huh? Alone?”
“Yes.” Short. Clipped. The less I say, the better.
Sean pushes off the banister, closing the space between us in that way men like him do. It’s casual enough to be brushed off but deliberate enough to make a point. His leather jacket creaks as he folds his arms, head tilted like he’s trying to read the truth behind my sunglasses.
I don’t give him shite.
“You’ve been in New York a few days, and I haven’t seen you eat a thing.” His grin deepens. “Unless you’ve been sneaking out on me already?”
I force a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Good thing I wasn’t offering. I was offering my company.” He flashes that wolfish grin again. “And maybe the best sandwich in Manhattan.”
“No.” My answer is immediate, maybe too sharp. “I work better alone.”
His smile falters just enough to show me I hit a nerve, but he recovers quickly. “Suit yourself, gorgeous. Just don’t get lost.”
I sidestep him, boots clicking on the stairs.
“It’s been almost a week since you arrived, McKenna. When are you going to make your move?”
Right. I almost forgot he doesn’t know about my first failed attempt.
“Don’t rush me, Murphy,” I call out over my shoulder. “I know what I’m doing.” I don’t look back because if I do, he’ll see too much.
Because the truth is, I’m not going for lunch.
I’m going to see Matteo.
Surveillance, I tell myself. Just a look. Just to map his patterns, learn his routes. It’s the logical prep work of an assassin. But the truth coils deeper. Darker. I need to see him again.
To remind myself of what he is, cocky, dangerous, and untouchable. Not the boy who kissed me under Sicilian stars.
Because if I don’t keep that picture sharp in my mind, if I keep slipping into memory, I’ll never pull the trigger. And if I don’t pull the trigger, there will be no mercy, no second chances. Tiernan Quinlan will kill me himself.
So I walk faster, out into the noise and grit of Manhattan, my pulse already ticking like a countdown.
By the time I make it uptown, the afternoon sky is split between glass towers and the haze of spring. Midtown hums with its usual chaos of horns blaring, steam rising from grates, and men in suits moving like a school of sharks. I tuck myself into the flow, head down, just another shadow.
And then I see him.
Matteo Rossi.
My heart stutters. I press my hand over the traitorous flutter and picture the tattoo inked over my flesh. The orange blossom. The pretty, frilly lettering. Then I draw in a steadying breath.
He exits the revolving doors of Gemini Tower, the mirrored glass gleaming behind him. His tall frame cuts through theswarm like he owns the pavement. Maybe he does. In his world, the Rossis own everything.
I map the building exits mentally, the revolving doors, two cab zones on the north side, a bike rack that covers the alleyway. If I need to check for a tail, I’ll buy something at the corner deli; if I need a bullet, I could stash a gun in the hollow of the bench behind the café.
My eyes trace over him with the detachment of a professional. Or so I force myself to believe.It’s just a job, Cat. Like any other.
