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I nod. “Have it your way. My offer stands.”

As I navigate through the long line of traffic, my mood sours.

What the hell is it with men?

First, my hitman fucks me and disappears into thin air. Then Hades obviously fucked up and made Presley cry.

I squeeze through traffic, determined to get away from Greycourt. I’ve always loved Halloween, but this one sucks.

She gives me directions, and I gun it, pull onto the main road, and force the guy behind me to slam on his brakes and blare his horn.

I flick him off in my rearview mirror.

I’ve had it with men tonight.

By the time I’ve pulled up in front of Presley’s house in the woods, I’m no longer sad.

I’m determined.

I pat her on the arm and offer advice that applies to me, too. “Cry if you must. Then put on a sexy outfit, some makeup, and show the bastard what he’s missing.”

She gives me a tiny smile. “Thanks, Callie.”

I wave at her, then pull away.

Dragula by Rob Zombie is playing on satellite radio. I turn it up so loud I can’t hear my thoughts.

Before I head home, I do one final lap through town, searching for Roman.

When I don’t find him, I head home.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t have tortured myself like that.

I should’ve just gone home and gone to bed.

11

ROMAN

I’m thirty-six fucking years old, and I've been grounded.

I stare at the ceiling above the bed, wondering how exactly my life came to this.

I’ve been doing this job for eleven years.

I've taken bullets.

I've spent forty-eight hours in a basement waiting for a target to finally show his face.

I've crossed borders under names that weren't mine and walked away from situations that should've ended with me in a body bag.

Apparently, my downfall is a five-foot-six blonde dressed like a cat.

I close my eyes and immediately see green eyes.

Fuck.