“Nope.” I smirked smugly at Cillian, trying to save whatever was left of my pride. I was slowly coming to terms with the fact that my father was going to ruin the next six months for me, and I just had to see this shit through. “All clear. As far as people are concerned, I’m as golden as you are, old sport.”

It sucked that I couldn’t even remember the stupid orgy that got me into trouble. I’d love to hold on to those precious memories whenever I had to deal with Da or Kill.

“Stop saying old sport. You’re not The Great Gatsby,” my father said.

“Kill thinks everything is a pissing contest,” I growled.

“Everything is a pissing contest. Those who lose are the ones who whine about it.”

“Bet, yo.” I popped my cinnamon gum, nodding.

“Bet? Yo?” Kill looked at me like I was a horrific car accident. “Who talks like that? What do you have against the English language? You seem to butcher it whenever the opportunity presents itself. Did English hurt you when you were young? Show me where on the doll.”

“Here.” I pointed my index to my temple, my hand gun-shaped, and puffed my cheeks, pretending to shoot myself in the head.

My brother shook his head and left me with my father. It was odd to share the same space with Da without someone buffering us, a very rare occasion indeed.

Da had always seemed to have a soft spot for innocent Aisling, and he was enamored with devilishly smart and self-possessed Cillian. I was the savage creature who lacked that Fitzpatrick shine, and we both knew why, but neither of us had the balls to say it out loud.

My father removed his glasses and discarded them atop his desk, leaning back in his seat.

“Remember the document I showed you? The one in which I removed you from our will?” he asked.

“Not a sight I’ll soon forget.” I spat my gum into the trash can across the office, slam-dunking it seamlessly from my mouth. I wasn’t embarrassed to admit I wanted my family fortune, bad. My inheritance was my only chance at survival. I wasn’t good at anything, other than fucking and throwing parties. The only thing those traits qualified me to become was a Vegas showgirl. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the rack for that.

“I sent it to my attorney, signed by both your mother and me.” He tapped his chin, as if mulling his words over.

I felt the inside of my veins scorching, my hands curling into fists beside my body. “Why would you do that when I’ve agreed to your terms?” I asked, more calmly than I gave myself credit for. Hysteria didn’t get you far in the Fitzpatrick household. The more emotional you were, the better chance you had at getting your heart crushed by Da and Kill.

“Told them to hold on to it until you finish your six-month stint, just to make sure you knew how seriously your mother and I are taking this matter.”

I said nothing. I was at his mercy, and it made me furious. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to go to college and find something to fall back on. I looked out the window at the looming skyscrapers of Boston. My fingers wrapped around the wooden horse on my neck.

“Stop clutching your pearls, and don’t mess it up with the Brennan girl,” Da growled.

Dropping my hand from the Dala horse, I bit the inside of my cheek until I felt the warm saltiness of blood rolling in my mouth.

“Now get the hell out of my office and make your workspace your new home.”

“Yes, sir.”

At one point, I thought the day couldn’t get any shittier, but I shouldn’t have underestimated it. I spent the next few hours reading all the available material about Royal Pipelines and familiarizing myself with the company’s policy, history, and origins.

There was a shit-ton of stuff I didn’t know about it.

Like the fact that in 2015, GreenWorld activists had shut down sixty-eight of our stations in the US to protest our drilling in the Arctic.

Or that we were one of the first companies in the US to employ special needs persons, or that there were several schools in East Asia and Africa named after my family, because we’d funded them.

Royal Pipelines seemed to be a double-edged sword: good for some communities, disastrous for others. I wondered if Da and Kill even gave a flying fuck about shitting all over the environment. My guess was they didn’t.

After a day from hell, my demeaning, piece-of-shit brother tested me on my knowledge about the company and sent me back to my desk with six more thick-ass books to read. That’s how I found myself wobbling out of the office at seven o’clock, starving, missing my first evening class at college, and with a headache that felt like someone threw a rave in my skull, and every bitch in attendance wore high heels.

All I wanted was to get a cab, go back home, and shove my face into whatever dish the cook had made that day. I ordered an Uber and stood on the curb of the downtown street, watching the velvet blue night descending over the yellow-lit street. A brand new Maserati pulled up in front of me. The passenger door flew open.

“Get in,” a strong Southie accent ordered from inside.

I arched an eyebrow and cocked my head sideways. “Lovely proposition, and I’m very tempted, but I think I’ll pass.”

It was good to know I still held on to my good looks, even in full employment. Didn’t matter that he was obviously a dude, a compliment was a compliment, a vital sign. One hundred and eighty-one days of celibacy to go.

“Get in right now, or I’ll pay you a visit in your fancy new apartment. Fair warning: you do not want a female audience for the conversation we’re about to have.”

Troy Brennan.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

He and Da had gone over the fine print of my arrangement with Sailor, but I’d never met him. No doubt that was Da’s decision. He probably wanted to protect me from certain death because I’d have said something extra inappropriate or offensive. Or maybe it was the fact that he took more pride in his shits than he took in me and my dirty deeds.

Either way, Brennan was here now, ready to talk. So not talking wasn’t an option. I got into his car, which smelled of polished leather and the kind of wealth that was almost tangible. I could taste it on my tongue. I inhaled deeply. Nine hours in the office had made me feel like I’d worked in a mine for an entire decade.

I pressed my head against the cool, buttery leather, closing my eyes, knowing he was watching me. My Adam’s apple bobbed and I wet my lips, ignoring his blade-sharp gaze.

Troy started driving. I didn’t ask where. I doubted he’d tell me, and even if he had, it wasn’t like I had shit to say about it. Silver lining: if I died, at least I wouldn’t have to show up to work tomorrow.

“I trust we don’t need a formal introduction.” He took a turn onto a side street, cutting Haymarket and Bowdoin.

“Straight up,” I replied groggily. I was about to fall asleep in his car. He could cut me up right now and all I’d think about was how nice and warm the body bag was going to feel. I didn’t even care that my Uber rating was going to drop for going MIA on the driver’s ass.

“Then I also trust you know why you’re here.” Troy’s voice was villainous as hell. He sounded like Shredder from the Ninja Turtles movies.

Dude was quite the trusting motherfucker for someone who supposedly had enough skeletons in his closet to open a graveyard. I forced my eyelids apart, stifling a yawn. I tried to focus my gaze on his darkened profile.

“I’m guessing it’s along the lines of: don’t touch my daughter, don’t break her heart—or hymen—don’t give her any long-term ideas, blah blah…” I trailed off, wondering what the cook had made for dinner. I didn’t even know if said cook was a chick or a dude, old or young. Probably never would, with my current schedule.

Troy stopped the car, breaking from mid-speed, leaving skid marks on the street by the sound of it. Cars honked behind him. I heard a screech, followed by a fender bender. But all Troy did was stare at me like I was the craziest asshole he’d ever laid eyes on.

“No, you clown. I don’t think you stand a chance with my daughter. She’s not cut from the same dime a dozen hussy cloth you’re used to. Why would I assume she needs protection from you any more than you need protection from her?”

“Yeah. Why?” another voice inquired from behind me.

I jumped so high in my seat, my head hit the roof of the car. Christ on a scooter. I spun my head sharply, scowling. A shadowed man sat in the back seat. He looked tall, chiseled, Caucasian, and not unlike a mobster—a little older than me and calloused AF.

“And you are?” My brows arched.

“Sam Brennan. Troy’s adoptive son.”

“Just son,” Troy corrected unemotionally.

Aww. Even this serial-killer-ninja-asshole loved his kid more than Da loved me.

I’d heard about Sam. Rumor had it he’d been orphaned at a young age. Troy’s best friend and his former mistress were the parents. Troy and his wife, Sparrow, had legally adopted him around the time Sailor was born.

“Which makes me Sailor’s slightly unhinged, overprotective brother with a chip on my shoulder. Which makes you the perfect candidate for my fist.”

What a fucking family, man. No wonder Sailor was tough as nails. The testosterone in the Brennan household was probably enough for all the frat houses on the East Coast.