PROLOGUE
PATRICK
Despite what I’ve told myself these last few months, there’s no such thing as full retirement for men like me.
Even when I take an afternoon for myself—peppermint tea steaming gently in front of me, hands blood-free, a Sig tucked in an ankle holster instead of my preferred Glock sitting familiarly on my hip—I’m still an experienced killer.
And an experienced killer always pays attention.
That’s why I noticedher.
She arrived at the quiet coffeehouse about twenty minutes ago. I chose this seat on purpose about ten minutes before that. It has the best sight lines, and I murmured in appreciation when she hurried inside,the wind blowing her cherry-red hair around a face far more innocent than the curvy body that belonged to it. She had a laptop clutched to her impressive chest, and a panicked look in her deep brown eyes as she hurried toward the counter to order.
Around us, the pretentious coffeehouse I habitually visit because no other Dragonfly does hummed with performance. A week before Thanksgiving, people were laughing a little too loudly, angling their laptops just right, pretending they were busy instead of all alone. Everyone here wants something, I believe, and it’s not just the overpriced coffees and teas they serve. The men and women in their businesswear crave attention.Validation. Most of all, a reason to be seen.
Not her.
After accepting her drink, she sat down at a corner table across the coffeehouse from me. Unlike everyone else, I don’t have a laptop to use as a prop. It’s just me, my tea, and the sense that, suddenly, I’m nowhere near as relaxed as I seem to be as I shift my position, not-so-casually watching her.
She’s hunched over in her seat, that windblown, wild red hair falling into her face as she types. Coffee forgotten, her fingers beat at the keyboard, each press of her finger a stab at one of the keys.
Once or twice, she wipes at her eyes with the heelof her hand, impatient with herself or whatever she’s working on, but she keeps going regardless.
I don’t mean to spy on her so intently, but I can’t seem to stop.
I don’twantto.
Even worse, I know better, but the truth is that I’ve ‘retired’ from being a Dragonfly enforcer for a reason. I’m closer to forty than thirty-five these days, and I’ve been in the life since organized crime slunk into Springfield back when I was a kid. I’m done with it for the moment; at least, that’s what I tell myself. Let other men take the bloody wet work off my hands. It’s time I let myself breathe. That’s what the boss did, right? Damien Libellula… he’s married now. He got himself a wife who knows exactly what he is and who chose him as hers anyway. Hell, Savannah Libellula was the last enforcer I teamed up with before I told the boss I was done.
I’ve gone private, only taking jobs when they interest me. If Damien needs my skills for old times’ sake, he knows my number. Still, since earlier this year, ‘Saint’ Patrick North has gone as straight as a professional murderer can with only a handful of kills since January.
The boss understood. When I pointed out how content… no, how fuckinghappyhe is with his missus, I didn’t have to tell him that there was a sliver of my black heart that wanted that. Enforcers own women,but that was never my style. Fuck ‘em sure, enjoy their company, then move on.
But I’m sort of retired now, and if I want to sip my tea and wonder what has her dashing away angry tears as she takes her frustration out on her computer, I will. And if I fantasize about what those lush lips could do when they’re not pursed in clear distress… hell, I’m only a man.
There’s something about her. She’s beautiful, yes, but not polished in the way that so many Dragonfly women are—both those claimed and those who want to have one of the mafia men for their own. She’s not fragile, either; with thighs like those, she could crush a man’s skull, and he’d probably thank her for it if he got to bury his face in her pussy first. In fact, the more I look, the more I admit that there isn’t anything soft about the way she holds herself. Her mouth is set stubbornly, lips pressed together like she’s holding something back. Her body is solid and unapologetic, taking up as much space as she wants without asking anyone’s permission.
She sniffles once, inhales sharply, and keeps typing.
Good, I think, lips curling around my cup as I take another sip of my rapidly cooling tea. Don’t stop.
Not yet.
My chilled drink gives me an excuse to climb to my feet, moving leisurely toward the counter. I place asecond order, adding a cranberry and orange muffin to give me another reason to linger, then give the girl behind the counter a friendly and disarming smile, so specifically sincere, she’ll never doubt my intentions.
By the time I’m cupping another tea, someone has taken my seat. I expected that. At this time of day, the coffeehouse is packed, and I grabbed my coat when I got up so that it was free for the next customer. I did that on purpose. Now, as I turn back toward the tables, I zero in on the empty seat one over from the redhead. I sidle up to it, easing down onto it as though it was the most convenient one to take. My coat gets tossed on the empty chair opposite me, and though I don’t have the best eyes on the front door, if I edge a little this way, I can see enough of her screen to notice that she’s tapped out a header, added some kind of picture, then typed about five or six more lines.
The header is in a big, bold font:My Wish List. I can’t read what’s under it—yet—but she definitely has me curious as to what a woman like her would want—and why she looked so pissed as she made her list a month out from the holidays.
She’s stopped typing. Holding her cup between two hands, she brings it to her lips, sipping slowly. In between tastes, she shudders out a breath, and when she sets the cup down on her tabletop, a small, relieved smile tugs on her lips. I see all of this out of the cornerof my eye, and when she smiles, I feel an answering tug in my gut—and a twitch below my belt.
My cock is as interested in this woman as I am, but it’s those angry tears… I have this sudden desire to find out who made her cry and make them pay for it. True, I can’t see how that has anything to do with an ‘I want’ list, but I get my chance a few moments later without even expecting it.
I’d pulled my phone out of my pocket, scrolling through my messages, fading into the background so that I could observe her without sending her running out the door. It’s a special skill of mine. Between some faux charm and a classically handsome yet forgettable face, I can fool most of the public into believing that I’m harmless. My suit means I could be just another businessman hard at work, not a contract killer on a break.
I’m Patrick, not Saint, and when she climbs up from her seat, eyes darting around the coffeehouse as she searches for… ah, yes, the bathroom… it’s Patrick that she smiles nervously at.
“Um. Excuse me. I’m just going to run to the restroom for a second. Would it be alright if you kept an eye on my computer? It’s okay if you don’t want to?—”
