When she was out of sight, I got my shit together and jogged to a spot behind a square bush. I watched the courtyard at the front of the house intently.

Twenty minutes after he arrived, Troy left the premises.

He had a stack of documents under his armpit and an easy expression. A few seconds later, a thin, frail man appeared beside him in the entry to the courtyard. He looked sick and old, nothing like the Paddy Rowan I knew and remembered, but then I saw his eyes and choked. It was him.

They shook hands and nodded at each other. I couldn’t see Troy’s face, but I heard him laugh before he walked back to his cab. He climbed right into its backseat, leaving Rowan very much alive.

I’d seen all I needed to see, and I wished I could unsee it.

The asshole was here for business. He didn’t give a damn about what this man did to me.

I threw up between the bushes, feeling the bile bubbling in my throat like poison.

I hated them. Hated them both. But I knew one thing for sure. I wasn’t going to give Troy the pleasure of knowing that I knew he was still in business with the man who molested me. Especially not after he disrespected me by having sex with someone else in our bedroom.

There was nothing I could do to get back at him, so I might as well not let him know that I was privy to his atrocious deeds.

No. I would hate my husband quietly, pretend like it never happened—and would never, ever let him touch me or get to me again.

Troy Brennan was dead to me. This time for good.

TROY

AS MY CAB pulled away from Paddy’s house, I let out a groan and eased my head back, rubbing my palms against my eye sockets. It was difficult to come to terms with not being able to kill the person who assaulted Red, and probably other girls, too. I wasn’t a saint, but like all criminals, I, too, had my individual, custom-made moral codes. And those codes were strict about molestation and sexual harassment.

Those people deserved to die.

Fuck, I even felt a little guilty about playing with her like that the night of our wedding. Sure, I knew she wanted it, saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way her body arched into mine, begging, writhing, but she’d been broken before. I didn’t want to break her again.

Well, at least not this part of her soul.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and made me open my eyes. I had an incoming call from George Van Horn.

“Crap,” I muttered as I placed it near my ear. Van Horn was business. A real estate mogul turned politician who really fucking wanted to become mayor, and was about to run over his whole family to get to his goal. His campaign was absurdly aggressive and, since he had more skeletons in his closet than in a fucking graveyard, he’d hired me to keep his name clean.

Shit had to be handled, and I was the one handling it. I waited wordlessly for him to speak first. It was a good habit if you wanted people to cut to the chase.

“Brennan,” he barked, “I need you to take care of a package for me.”

“This’ll have to wait until Friday,” I said calmly. “I’ll be back in Boston then.”

“It can’t wait until Friday.”

“I’m on my honeymoon, George.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “And let me take a wild guess, it’s not exactly a Motel 6 in the middle of fuck-knows-where, and your wife ain’t bargain shopping at T.J. Maxx, right? Yeah. That’s because people like me pay people like you a good buck to work for us. It’s not a nine-to-five job, Brennan. Get your ass back here. Now.”

I answered with silence, knowing it would drive him mad. He should thank me. If I told him what I was really thinking, the words would cut so deep he’d be the first person in the world to be seriously injured by a telephone call.

“Brennan? Brennan! God-fucking-dammit…” He took a deep breath. “Look, okay, I get it. It’s your honeymoon. But it’s also an emergency. My package needs to be delivered somewhere discreet ASAP. I can’t have it sitting around in the house any more. This could sway my voters and stain my image.”

Another beat of silence on my end. If you wanted to win a negotiation, rule number one was to talk less. Show minimal interest. Let the other person sweat it.

I heard Van Horn hit something hard and curse in pain. Yup, definitely sweating it.

“Dammit. How much?”

“Double the amount you’re paying me now.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I were.” I fumbled for a toothpick and stuck one in my mouth. “But I’m afraid I have a terrible sense of humor.”