His voice trails off, ‘cause he’s not getting enough air. I have to relax my grip again so he can speak.

“What?” I say. “What about the Griffins?”

“They’re fuckin’ . . . mafia,” he says hoarsely. “I was pissed. But I’m not suicidal.”

I let go of Barker. He rubs his throat dramatically, coughing and wheezing. I can see the imprints of my fingers on his neck. I don’t feel bad about it. I’d like to do a whole lot worse to him.

Dante looks at Barker, gasping dramatically on the floor. The guy looks pathetic as hell. It’s pretty clear that he can’t even clear out his pizza boxes, let alone plot revenge against Riona.

“Let’s go,” Dante says to me.

“Yeah, get the fuck out,” Barker says petulantly. “You fuckin’ psychopaths. Drinking my beer then trying to kill me.”

I turn around, ready to leave Barker’s musty house.

As I take three steps away from him, I hear Barker mutter, “I hope somebody does off that uppity bitch.”

I turn around and clock him—a right cross straight to the jaw. It slams him into the fridge, and he slumps down on the tiles, knocked out cold.

When I face Dante again, he’s watching me, eyebrows raised.

“You okay?” he says.

“Of course.” I shake out my right hand. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t think he had anything to do with hiring the Djinn.”

“Neither do I. But he’s still an asshole.”

The Yorkie is running around our feet again, barking, but not at us—just yapping in general. It doesn’t seem too concerned about its owner slumped down on the floor over by the fridge. In fact, it runs into the living room and pees against the leg of the coffee table, without a care in the world.

Once we’re outside in the chilly air again, Dante takes a deep breath. “That’s better.”

“He’s a mess,” I grunt. “I doubt a shit-stain like Barker has the gumption to hire the Djinn. Or the money to pay him, if what he said about his wife cleaning out the bank accounts was true. If it wasn’t Barker, and it wasn’t the Russians, that only leaves the Hartford family.”

“Yeah.” Dante nods slowly. “Only problem is, I don’t exactly want to threaten them. They’ve been through enough already.”

“We don’t have to go in guns blazing,” I say.

“Yeah?” Dante cocks an eyebrow at me. “You gonna be chill this time?”

“Of course,” I say, shrugging off his look. “I’m fine.”

I’m not fine, though. I don’t know what the fuck that was in there—I completely lost my temper. That’s twice in two days.

Maybe I’m not cut out for this bodyguard life. I’m getting overly invested. All wrapped up in this thing with a level of emotion that isn’t usual for me.

As we get back into the car, my phone buzzes with a text from my brother:

You missed mom’s birthday. And the anniversary.

He means the anniversary of our dad’s death. It happened only two days apart from Mom’s birthday, so it’s always a hard time of year for her.

I text him back:

I called her.

A pause, then he replies:

Calling isn’t the same as visiting.

I haven’t been home in a while. Almost three years. But who’s counting.

I can picture the ranch as clear as the busy Chicago streets right in front of me. I can see the stands of birch trees, and almost smell the scent of clean hay and warm horseflesh.

I feel a pull to be in a warmer, greener place than here.

But I also feel a deep sorrow and shame at the thought of visiting home.

So I text back:

I’m on a job right now.

Grady fires back:

You’re always on a job.

There’s a pause where he waits for me to respond. When I don’t, he texts again:

Mom hurt her foot. She’s getting too old to do this full time. We need to talk about what we’re gonna do with the ranch . . .

I turn my phone off and stuff it in my pocket, annoyed.

“Problem?” Dante says.

“No.” I shake my head. “No problem at all.”

11

Riona

While I’m working, Nero is fucking around with his switchblade.

I used to think that he played with it to try to look tough, but watching him now, I realize it’s almost like meditation for him. The blade moves through his fingers with incredible speed and fluidity. He zones out, his eyes becoming calm and focused, and his breathing slows down until his chest is barely rising and falling.

It’s funny to think that he and Dante are brothers, when Dante is so rough and brutal-looking, and Nero is, for lack of a better word, simply beautiful. In temperament they’re opposites, too—Dante deliberate and disciplined, and Nero impulsive and ferocious.

Or at least, that’s how he used to be. Today he seems more relaxed, and in a better mood than I’ve seen before.

Dante told me that Nero’s head over heels for a girl he knew in high school—Camille. I thought Nero would be the last person in the world to ever fall in love, but I guess that’s me instead.

Seeing Nero transformed into an almost reasonable human makes me believe that miracles can happen after all.

Maybe that’s what it takes: an unexpected pairing. Cal fell in love with the daughter of our worst enemy. Nessa is married to her own goddamned kidnapper. Nero got his heart stolen by a girl he barely noticed in high school. And Dante is back together with the woman who ripped out his heart.

In that case, maybe Dean and I are doomed. He’s exactly my usual type. Exactly what I always pick for myself.

And we’re barely getting along at all now.

We had one rather awkward coffee date earlier in the week. This time Raylan kept a respectful distance at a different table—pretending he had some emails to answer, but I suspect just trying to give Dean and me some space for ourselves.

It didn’t really help. Dean was sulky. He kept asking me how long this whole ridiculous bodyguard thing was going to go on.

“I don’t know,” I said testily. “If we can’t find the person who tried to murder me, I guess the alternative is that he succeeds in offing me. Either way, you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“Oh, come on Riona,” Dean said, rolling his eyes at my melodrama. “You know I don’t want you to get hurt.” He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “I just miss you. And I’m tired of these Victorian-era chaperoned dates.”

I pulled my hand back. “I know,” I said. “But there’s not a whole lot else I can do about it.”

The truth is, I could tell Raylan to drive me over to Dean’s house for a proper date. Raylan could monitor the house while Dean and I ate dinner on our own, then went upstairs for a little private time. That’s how you’d treat a normal security guard.

But Raylan isn’t a normal security guard. And not just because he’s friends with Dante.

There’s something about Raylan that doesn’t let you keep him at arm’s length. He’s too perceptive and too goddamned personal. Too honest and too . . . himself. There’s no layer of professional distance between him and me. There never has been.