“Not even a little. Go away.”

She licked her lips. “I need to vent. It’s about my parents. Everyone else has a horse in this race. My brothers, Mother, and Da … even my best friends are married to my siblings, so they can’t be clearheaded about it,” she explained.

She had a point.

Furthermore, if she had important information about Gerald, she could help me bring him to his knees and get a confession. So while it was true that I never, under any circumstances, brought a woman over to my apartment, it was time to make an exception. For her.

For the first time since I moved in by myself at eighteen, I opened the door and let another person who wasn’t Sparrow or Troy into my domain. Even my cleaning lady only had the vaguest idea where I’d lived. She was driven back and forth from my place in tinted-windowed cars.

“Fine. But I’m not gonna fuck you again,” I warned.

I could always count on my pride to win over, and Aisling was a constant reminder of the fact the Fitzpatricks saw fit to do business with me but not allow me to date their daughter.

“Well, that’s a relief.” She smiled politely, her chin barely quivering as she tried to contain her emotions. “And I promise not to try to seduce you again. Now, shall we?”

Aisling took a seat on the plush black leather couch, spine erect, her hands demurely resting in her lap.

“May I have some coffee?” she asked shakily.

“Would you like a fucking full English breakfast along with it?” I cocked an eyebrow, still standing up. “No, you can’t have coffee.”

“I think we both need a few moments to gather ourselves before this conversation.”

“The only part of me in need of gathering is getting my cock into someone’s mouth, and since I don’t want you anywhere near it, I suggest you cut to the chase.”

We held each other’s eyes for a few seconds. She didn’t waver.

“You’re not going to talk until I get you a coffee, are you?” I suppressed a groan.

She shook her head. “’Fraid not.”

Reluctantly, I went into the kitchen to make it. It occurred to me midway the journey to the counter that:

One, I didn’t know how to operate the coffee machine; I always grabbed Starbucks on my way out in the morning then spent the rest of the day loathing myself for consuming burnt coffee that tasted like an overflowing sewer water, and—

Two, my house, my rules, my drink of choice.

I grabbed a Macallan 18, poured two fingers into two tumblers, and made my way back to the living room.

My apartment was neatly and minimally designed. Bare concrete walls, black leather everything, high barstools, and chrome appliances. Notably missing from my apartment were any paintings or pieces of unneeded furniture.

Also currently missing from my apartment right now was Nix.

I frowned at the coffee table, confused.

I looked at the massive glass jar in the center of it.

One of the bullets I kept inside was rolling on the floor. It bumped into one of the table’s legs.

Shit.

I dropped the whiskey, bolting out the door, catching Aisling punching the elevator’s button hysterically, her eyes wildly scanning her surroundings. Her cheeks were wet, and she was shaking all over. I grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her toward me.

What the fuck happened? Why was she so scared?

“Let me go!” she yelled, trying to shake me off. “Coming here was a huge mistake.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more. Yet you’re here, so you’re sure as hell going to see this through. I know the Fitzpatrick clan is used to other people finishing shit for them, but this time you’ll have to pull through.” I hoisted her over my shoulder, stomping back into my apartment, my fingers digging into the back of her thighs with possessiveness that surprised and disgusted me.

She is not yours to keep.

She is the enemy’s spawn.

She is the woman you are paid to never touch.

And she is not worth the fucking headache.

“Let me guess, there is a perfectly good explanation for the bullets, right?” She chuckled bitterly, and I was glad she at least didn’t do the whole let-me-down routine women were so fond of.

“There is,” I clipped, “but you are not going to like it.”

“I’m all ears,” she said.

I slammed the door shut with my foot behind us, planting her back on the couch and squatting between her legs, snatching her gaze and hands.

“You calm?”

“Don’t treat me like a baby,” she snapped.

“Don’t act like one,” I deadpanned.

“Why do you have bullets in a jar? Dozens of them, no less.”

“Why do you think I don’t want people to get into my apartment?” I answered her with a question, my newfound technique courtesy of Deidra or whoever the fuck I almost had sex with at Badlands tonight.

“Evidence.” Her teeth chattered, and she hugged herself.

“I take the bullets out of the people I kill and keep them.”

Sam, you fucking idiot. An admission to the woman whose father you are about to slaughter like a sacrificial lamb.

She stared at me in terror mixed with … fascination? Of course. I kept forgetting that she, too, was a monster. I picked up the bullet she dropped on the floor, ignoring the scent of the whiskey as it soaked its way through the carpet.

I flipped the bullet, tapping it with my finger.

“See this? M.V.? Mervin Vitelli. I engrave their initials, so I don’t forget.”

“Why don’t you want to forget?” She frowned.

Because if I start forgetting all the people I kill, nothing will separate me from an animal, and I will become a real monster.

Soon enough there would be a bullet with G.F. engraved on it, a fact that reminded me I should put some distance between Aisling and me. I stood up and walked back to the kitchen, returning with the Macallan bottle—sans tumblers this time. I took a swig straight from the bottle, passing it to Aisling. I lowered myself into a recliner opposite her, the coffee table serving as a barrier between us.

She took a small sip and winced, handing it back to me.

“I knew you killed people, but it’s very different to actually see proof of how many lives you’ve taken.”

“The first one is the most meaningful one. After that, taking lives feels the same. Like a second or third bite of an ice cream cone. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to know the people I kill are pieces of shit,” I replied.

“I’m not so sure,” she said, and by the way her forehead creased, I could swear she was talking from experience.

“You came here to talk. Talk,” I ordered, knocking the side of her sensible boot with my loafer.

She blinked as she took in the apartment, its bare walls and cold nothingness I surrounded myself with. I liked it that way. The less I had, the less I became attached to things. It was an expensive brownstone, at three million dollars, but different from Avebury Court Manor, which was laden with paintings, statues, and other luxurious symbols of wealth.

There was nowhere to hide here. It was just us and the walls and the unspoken truth sitting between us like a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.

“My mother wants to file for divorce.” Her voice cracked. She looked downward, her neck like a broken flower stem.