And don’t get me started on falling off the fucking rails and acting like a jealous girlfriend in need of a bloodbath, because I had a long-ass fucking month.

“Get up.” I rolled Becker over with the tip of my loafer, taking a long drag from my cigarette, releasing plumes of smoke through my nostrils like I was a dragon. “I ain’t carrying your ass to the car honeymoon-style. You too, Fucker Junior,” I spat in Angus’ direction.

They limped behind me, leaning against each other for support, and stuffed themselves into the back of the van I’d driven to Brookline. Behind the wheel, I made a call to Dr. Holmberg, the man I’d hired on retainer to tend to my soldiers and myself.

For obvious reasons, walking willy-nilly into the hospital with gunshot wounds wasn’t exactly an option.

Dr. Holmberg picked up on the third ring, the acoustics surrounding his voice implying he was talking from deep inside someone’s asshole.

“’Ello?” He sounded groggy.

“Enjoying an afternoon nap, fucker?” I inquired politely, taking a turn toward the South End, where he was located. “Make yourself a cup of coffee. I have a job for you.”

“Sam?” He sobered up instantly, clearing his throat. “Oh, Sam, I’m sorry. I thought your secretary left you the message. I’m not home. I’m in Greece until next week.”

That explained why he was asleep when I called him. There was a time difference. It also explained why the reception was so bad. The fact his message hadn’t been received did not surprise me. I went through secretaries like I went through one-night stands: fast and leaving a pile of angry, mistreated women in my wake. I was currently in between assistants—and also in between fucks, seeing as having sex with Aisling wasn’t a possibility anymore. My shit with the Fitzpatricks was complicated enough.

“What the fuck makes you think I talk to my assistants regularly?” I lashed out. “Next time, have the stones to tell me directly when you take an unauthorized vacation. Now give me your cousin’s address. I’ve got two injured soldiers I would very much like to keep alive because they owe me three weeks’ pay of work.”

Whenever Dr. Holmberg wasn’t available, he referred me to his cousin, Raul, who was technically a registered nurse but was still discreet and got the job done. At this point, with Becker and Angus’ lackluster performances in the field, they were lucky I didn’t let the local mailman tend to their wounds.

A nurse was more than they deserved.

“Raul’s out of town, Sam. Visiting his son in college,” Dr. Holmberg murmured sheepishly.

“Is anyone in your family familiar with the concept of work?” I muttered.

“Yeah, I know, it’s unfortunate.”

“The state of your face after I’m done with you will be unfortunate,” I deadpanned. “What the hell were you thinking, skipping town without having a medical backup for me?”

“It was poor planning on my behalf. I agree,” he said mildly, doing anything he could to ensure I didn’t actually break his nose upon arrival. “Surely you know someone who works in the medical field who can help you out?” Dr. Holmberg said, knowing damn well ushering the two fuckers in the back of the van to a hospital was out of the question. It was as good as admitting to the crime.

Even though the local DA and police department were in my pocket—I went to the sheriff’s son’s christening and the DA’s father’s funeral, I was on such good terms with them—I wasn’t dumb enough to rub it in their faces and make them ask me hard questions. Even if the DA and the police liked me, there was still the FBI to think about, and they were breathing down my neck recently.

“You’d be surprised, Holmberg, but I don’t know many doctors. Or fucking astronauts, for that matter. My line of work is killing people, not nursing them back to health.”

That wasn’t entirely true, though.

I knew Aisling Fitzpatrick, and she was a doctor.

A good one at that, if I were to believe my sister, Sailor, who wasn’t in the habit of handing out unwarranted compliments.

Nix also knew how to keep secrets. Came with the territory of being a Fitzpatrick and belonging to one of the most notoriously corrupt families in North America.

Perhaps standing her up without an apology then throwing what we shared on Halloween in her face the last time we met, proceeding to take a nice, big dump on her pride and lighting the entire situation on fire wasn’t the best tactic to handling things with her, seeing as I needed her now.

Normally, I was more calculated than to needlessly poke and humiliate people who didn’t deserve it.

Normally, I didn’t handle Aisling Fitzpatrick.

She brought out the worst in me. I was borderline allergic to her. So sweet, so innocent, so accommodating. Still living with her fucking parents.

And really, rejecting her was doing her a favor. I was going to have her father’s head on a platter in about two seconds, when I exposed him for everything he was and squeezed the truth out of him.

See? Even I had my fucking limits.

They were few and far between and faded, but they were, apparently, in existence.

Then there was the oath part. Even though I was a world-class bastard, I wasn’t a dishonorable one. The Fitzpatrick men paid me good money not to touch Aisling, which meant I needed to at least make a half-assed effort to keep my word.

“Perhaps you could—” Dr. Holmberg started, but I’d already hung up the phone and was calling Sailor to ask for Aisling’s number.

My sister and Nix were good friends. The wallflower and the lady.

“Does that mean you are finally going to ask her out?” Sailor asked on the other line. I heard her washing something in the background, probably Xander’s bottles.

I threw a glance to the back of the van, where Becker was bleeding out—possibly parts of his lungs—and Angus looked like his arm had been screwed into the rest of his body by a blind toddler.

“Are you fucking high?” I scowled at the road, talking to my sister. “She’s a child.”

A child I’d done some pretty grown-up shit to.

I didn’t think eight years were a big deal in terms of an age gap. I slept with women who were in their mid-twenties sometimes, although I naturally gravitated toward women my own age. But Aisling wasn’t only eight years my junior. She also had that pure as the driven snow halo of a blue-blooded angel.

A blue-blooded angel who sucked your balls like the future of the country depended on it then proceeded to take it up the ass like a pro.

“High? Oh, I wish. I can’t do shit while breastfeeding. Not even drink a glass of wine.” Sailor sighed wistfully, reminiscing about times when she didn’t have a husband to knock her up as soon as she pushed out a baby.

“If you want sympathy, I suggest you talk to someone with a heart,” I grumbled.

“Oh, really? So what’s the thing beating in your chest?”

“It’s not beating. It’s ticking. Probably a bomb.”

She laughed heartily. “Don’t be too harsh with Ash. You know she is a gentle one. Love you, asshole.”

“Bye, shitface.”

I hung up and called the number Sailor had given me. Aisling answered on the fifth ring, just as I was about to hang up and make a U-turn, delivering two, sweaty, injured beefcakes straight to her manicured front lawn.