Guests trickled in and out, drinking champagne and laughing loudly as they looked for their designated tables. Businesspeople mingled with each other, the men in tuxedoes, the women in elaborate ball gowns. Jane Fitzpatrick had an impeccable track record of throwing lavish parties, from debutante balls to charity events, and this one was no different, even if she knew her peers never quite recovered from the last headline her husband was responsible for.

My mother was the director of The Bipolar Aid Alliance, a nonprofit charity group, for which she threw events often. She wore a dignified gray dress, her hair pinned up in a bun. We had never spoken about the fact she had chosen this particular charity, above all others, to give all her attention and resources to, but I knew it was telling.

I’d come to learn nothing about my mother’s behavior was accidental. She was a calculated woman, and Cillian and I inherited that trait from her.

“I will, but for the record you’ll have to talk to them at some point,” I chided her, toying with my velvet gloves.

She stuck her nose in the air, examining her manicured fingernails.

“Have to? I doubt it. I have to speak to my banker at some point to settle everything ahead of the divorce. And my landscaper—the rosebushes need a proper trim. Oh, and certainly my hairstylist. But my sons? There is nothing I need from them. If I want to see my grandchildren, I can talk directly to their wives. I would actually prefer that as Sailor and Persephone at least treat me like their equal and don’t believe I poisoned my own husband.”

“Speaking of your husband, what about him?” I inquired, smoothing a hand over my cap-sleeved, dark blue gown. “Will you be talking to him anytime in the next century, or are you going to spend the rest of your life dodging him?”

“Your father and I seem to have reached a boiling point after simmering over the edge of disaster for decades. He’s become paranoid and wrongfully mistrusting. Quite vulgar, seeing as I’m not the one who pops into the headlines every few months with a new affair. I hate to say this, Aisling my dear, but we might have reached the end of the road. I don’t see us coming back from this particular crisis.”

“Well, then I suggest you speak to him before you hand him divorce papers.” I gritted my teeth.

“He won’t believe me.”

“Try him.”

“Just tell your brothers to do as I say,” Mother huffed, like I was a teenager rather than a grown woman, waving me off.

I wasn’t an idiot. I knew people treated me like I was younger than my years because I let them. Because I was nice and timid and agreeable.

I shook my head, stomping over to Cillian and Hunter, who stood in a cluster with other men, smoking cigars and tutting loudly about the new tax plan.

You could tell they didn’t want to be here. Normally, they took their wives anywhere worth going. If they left Sailor and Persephone at home, it meant they planned an early exit and spared their wives of boredom.

They still, however, showed up to support my mother. I wished she could see this. How we all did what we could to support her, even if she behaved like a child.

I stopped by Hunter and Cillian.

“May I borrow you two for a moment?” I smiled politely.

“May? I’d pay you good money to get me out of here. Extra if you agree to put a bullet in my head,” Hunter whispered, taking a step away from the circle jerk he was engulfed in. Cillian, who had more finesse than that, threw an impatient smirk my way, but stayed put, a bevy of men swarming around him.

“What’s going on?” Hunter asked, sipping bottled water. He barely drank alcohol, and when he did, he limited himself to one drink. “The party’s in full swing and the donation box is jam-packed. Don’t tell me the old bat found a reason to be unhappy again. Let me guess, the flowers are not fresh enough or someone failed to compliment her on her dress—which, by the way, makes her look like drywall.”

I stomped on his foot, making him wince and clutch his toes.

“She asked if you two could introduce yourselves to Mr. Arlington, right over there.” Discreetly, I gestured to a plump, older man sitting at a table across the room, enjoying the shrimp cocktail much more than anyone should enjoy a shrimp cocktail, considering its foul taste. “He made a sizable donation and would like to ask you a few questions. Offshore business-related, I believe.”

“Since when did I sign up for Mother pimping me like I was a low-grade call girl in need of petty cash?” Cillian drawled in his usual, monotone voice, sidestepping away from the crowd surrounding him.

I turned to look at him, scowling. “You need to take some of the workload off of me. I’m the one she manages twenty-four-seven.”

“Your choice,” Cillian pointed out dryly.

“Speaking of fat checks…” a slow grin spread over Hunter’s chiseled face “…the Devil himself just entered the ballroom, and he brought an expensive-looking date.”

All heads snapped to the entrance, mine included, just in time to see Samuel Brennan waltzing in through the double doors with a tall, leggy brunette. The two doormen bowed to them. Sam wore an impeccably tailored tux, and the woman had a deep green, low-cut satin gown that made her eyes pop from across the room.

She was obviously a model.

And I was obviously—desperately jealous.

“And he brought a replica of our sister, no less,” Hunter muttered, squeezing his water bottle until it sloshed over his hands comically, spilling all over his shoes. Cillian remained silent, his eyes narrowing on Sam.

A man I didn’t know stepped in between us, gesturing to Sam with his champagne flute.

“They say he killed his first victim at thirteen. Under the guidance of his adoptive father, Troy Brennan. I worked at the DA’s office at the time. Read the postmortem report. The damage he inflicted was frightening. You know, we never found the bullet he used.”

That was because Sam kept all of them.

“He is my brother-in-law,” Hunter said through gritted teeth. “So unless you wish to share a fate with that poor corpse, I suggest you take a hike.”

“Oh …” The man visibly recoiled, wincing. “I had no idea. My apologies.”

My eyes didn’t waver from Sam and his date, not even for a second. I clutched my drink to my chest, watching them move together, arms linked, her hand placed on his forearm. As if sensing my gaze, Sam spun and turned in our direction sharply, heading toward us. My heart was in my throat, and something hot stirred inside my stomach.

In all the times he taunted and provoked me over the years, and especially the last weeks, he’d never thrown other women in my face before.

This was an escalation. A new step in our screwed-up game.

He knew I’d be here.

Knew I’d helped Mother organize this charity event.

This was a blunt incitement.

Designed to get a rise out of me.

To show me how much he didn’t care.

Sam and the woman stopped in front of us.

“Saw Congressman Weismann heading out just now…” Sam jerked a thumb behind his shoulder, speaking to my brothers and them alone “…your mother must’ve pulled some strings to get him to show his face here after the undocumented housekeeper scandal.”

“I understand that you have the manners of a soiled diaper, but in cultured society, it is expected to introduce your date to your friends, which is what you will do now,” Cillian bit out icily, his eyes gliding from Sam to his date. There was no approval in them. My brother only had eyes for his wife, no matter how many beautiful women had thrown themselves at his feet. But I could tell he was unnerved by how alike me and the woman in front of us were.