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“Making sure that you don’t get killed before I get to fuck your brains out.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see her jaw swing open. Amusement prickles at my skin. I know Dahlia has seen some shit in her lifetime because she’s desensitized. Last night, she didn’t comment on my blood-splattered clothes or bat a thick eyelash when I told her I’d killed a man just an hour or so earlier. So it’s almost pleasurable trying to find things that still shock her.
The sound of tires crunching over gravel makes her swing round in the passenger seat. While she cranes her neck out the back window, I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror to make sure it’s who I was expecting.
“Stay here.”
I get out of the car and stride towards the Tesla. Donnacha steps out of the driver’s seat and whips the mirrored aviators off his face. “Full tank of gas and an out-of-state plate,” he says, slapping the hood. Then he leans against it, crosses his arms and says, “You’ve got yourself into a right fucking mess.”
“Yeah,” I grunt, rubbing my hand over my head. “You only know half of it.”
He lets out a low whistle. “First you kill the Van der Boors, then set fire to one of their hitmen.” He checks the glittering Rolex on his wrist and adds, “I don’t have time to deep-dive into what the fuck must have been running through your head.”
Something catches his eye. They narrow and a frown creases his forehead. I follow his glare towards the car and see what he sees: A pair of wide, sea-glass eyes staring at us through the rear window. They widen, then dart behind the headrest. “Well, I think I’ve just found what was running through your head.”
Before I can stop him, his boots are crunching over the gravel towards my Bentley. He stops at the open passenger window and crouches down. “Now who do we have here?” He cocks his head and adds, “Wait, I know you.”
Curiosity prickles my skin and I join him at the door. Looking into the car, Dahlia is a deer in headlights. She’s suddenly deathly pale, bottom lip quivering.
“I-I don’t think you do,” she stammers.
My jaw ticks. My rule of not asking questions is iron-clad, but I’d really like to fucking know why a girl like Dahlia Rose would be recognized by a man like Donnacha Quinn. And why she’s now trembling like a leaf.
Donnacha drums his beefy fingers on the side of the car. “I do,” he muses, scratching his beard with his free hand. “I recognize your face.”
She lowers her lashes and says, “I-I just have that look. I hear it a lot actually. I guess I just have pretty generic features, and no distinctive qualities, you know? Like, my hair is just mid-length and dark and I’m an average height and weight and have no tattoos—”
“You’re rambling again,” I say quietly over his shoulder, pinning her with a gaze.
She meets it and there’s a look of desperation in her eyes.
Help me.
Strangely, it tugs at a part of me that died a long time ago.
I find myself clapping Donnacha on the back and saying, “She don’t know you, asshole. Drop it.”
Donnacha studies her for a few moments longer, then slowly rises to his feet. “A word?” he says through the side of his mouth.
We walk back to the Tesla.
“Tell me you didn’t kill the Van der Boors for a chick.”
“I didn’t kill the Van der Boors for a chick.”
“All right, now say it again without lying.”
We lock eyes and I sigh. “Fine. I killed the Van der Boors for a chick.”
He groans, looking up to the sun and muttering an oath to God. “Not you, Cill. It would never be you.”
“What does that mean?” I growl, clenching my fists.
Donnacha challenges me with a glare. “You’re the best hitman I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Know why?” He stabs his finger into my breastbone. “‘Cause you don’t have one ofthose.There ain’t a heart in there, never has been. You think withthat.” he taps my temple, and another growl rips from my lips. “Now, I don’t know what fucked-up things have happened to you in your life to make you not be able to feel emotion—although I’m sure my god-awful cousin had something to do with it—but that’s what makes you the best. The last thing you need is to get pussy-whipped, and especially not by her.” Then, more to himself than to me, he adds, “I know I recognize her from somewhere…”
I grind my back molars together. “Chill, Don. It isn’t that deep. The Van der Boors were pissing me off and she just happened to be there when I pulled the trigger. She’s nothing but a fuck and something to pass my time while I lay low for the next few weeks.” I meet his dubious stare and say, “It’s not your job to worry about me anymore.”
His frown deepens. “You might not be one of my henchmen no more, but I still give a fuck about you.”
