My point was, Persephone was too messy, too complicated, and too much a temptation for me to yield to. Minka was the right choice. My mind would never drift to Minka unprompted.

“You proposed to someone else,” she echoed, stumbling backward.

“Minka Gomes.” Sam stuck his seventh cigarette that hour to the corner of his lips, fully committed to get lung cancer before the night was over. He lit it up, puffing away. “We’re trying to figure out where he found the poor thing. Ring a bell?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said quietly.

“Dodged a bullet. Kill’s too cold, too old, and too set in his ways for a nice girl like you. Not to mention, I have my suspicions about his preferences in the sack. Light a candle for Miss Gomes next time you go to church and thank your lucky stars. They definitely aligned tonight.” Sam puffed a ribbon of smoke directly in her direction, making her cough.

I wanted to kill him.

“Persy.” Hunter stood. “Wait.”

She shook her head, mustering a dignified smile.

“I’m okay, Hunt. Totally fine. Please, get back to your game. Thank you for your time. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”

She turned around, her steps brisk and even. Petar shot me a disgusted look, then turned around and chased her.

Hunter was about to run after both of them, but I grabbed the collar of his shirt and nailed him back to his seat again.

“Finish the game first.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” my brother roared. His Guinness tipped over. The black stout hissed as it spread across my Persian carpet. “You went around Boston proposing to women—one of them my wife’s best friend—and you want me to finish the fucking game? Fine. Here. Whatever Kill wants, Kill gets.” He slammed his cards over the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go fix this shit.” He pointed at the door. “The last thing my pregnant missus needs is a pissed-off friend. Swear to God, Kill, if you pulled something on this girl…if you somehow got her pregnant to make sure you have an heir…”

I flipped his discarded cards over, ignoring his hysterics.

He had a full house.

Hunter was wrong. I didn’t always get what I wanted.

He was marrying someone else.

I was a few hours late, showing up at almost midnight, looking and feeling like a rag doll that had been left in the mud for the past century, and he didn’t even give me a second glance.

What did I expect?

You expected him to treat you as more than just a womb for hire.

But that was my first and hopefully last mistake regarding Cillian Fitzpatrick.

I made my way from my bike to my apartment building, stomping on puddles deliberately. It was the middle of the night, raining hard, and my windbreaker was torn from the ride to and from Back Bay. My toes and fingers were numb. Maybe they fell off on the way, and I hadn’t even noticed. The rest of my body wasn’t going to miss them when Byrne and Kaminski finally dismembered me and fed me to the crows.

Wherever you are, Pax, I hope you suffer twice as much as I do.

I opened the front door to my building—Belle’s building. I had no home, I reminded myself. It was dark, damp, and moldy. I took the first step toward the stairway when my head flew sideways. My cheek burned so bad my eyes stung with tears.

A whip-like thwack! pierced the air a second later. Before I knew what was happening, I was on my knees, facedown. The sound of gurgling reverberated in the empty hallway. It took me a moment to realize I was its source.

A sharp kick to my stomach followed, coming from the blanket of darkness. I collapsed on my stomach, gagging. Craning my neck to look at my assaulter, I shot my arm forward, patting the floor to find my bag in the dark and reach for the pepper spray in it.

A heavy boot flattened over my fingers. A cracking sound filled the air as my attacker put his full weight on my hand.

“Think again, bitch.”

For the first time in my life, fear had a shape and a taste. My attacker kicked my bag away, sending it spinning across the floor until it hit the wall. I took the opportunity to claw my nails onto his ankle. I felt my nails bending backward as I desperately tried to hurt him. I used his leg for leverage, pulled myself up, and sank my teeth into his shin, clamping on it viciously until I felt my gums bleeding.

“Fuck! You whore!”

A dirty green army boot kicked me off. I only knew one man who wore this type of footwear.

Kaminski.

“Tom,” I croaked, using his first name as if it would help. Warm, metallic blood filled my mouth. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and every cell in my body prickled with panic. “Please, Tom. Get off me. I can’t breathe.”

Another kick found me. This time, he hit my jaw. My face throbbed, and I bit my tongue in the process. More blood filled my mouth.

Kaminski could end me right here, right now, and no one would ever know. The only person who knew about the mobsters after me was Cillian, and between almost letting me poison myself and refusing to help me, it was safe to say bringing me justice wasn’t high on his to-do list.

I started crawling up the stairs, frantically trying to get away, but Kaminski grabbed my foot, pulling me down the three stairs I managed to take. He spun me around, unzipping himself.

“Why don’t we see what you’re worth, huh?” His menacing laughter rattled the air. “Seein’ as you’ll be sucking a lot of cock in a few days to pay back Pax’s debt.”

Rearing my body back, I sent a kick to Tom’s groin, smacking my sneakers against his heavy erection. He tripped backward, screaming in pain as he cupped his groin. I turned around and climbed up the stairs on my hands and knees, like an animal, guttural screams leaving my lungs. I knew Belle wasn’t home, but we had four other neighbors in the building.

A hand wrapped around my hair, pulling my head up with a violent yank. Kaminski’s rancid breath skated over my cheek, the scent of cigarettes and plaque hitting my nostrils.

“Saved by the bell. You killed my hard-on, but that just means I’ll take you up the ass next time. You’ve got a week, Mrs. V. One week before I turn all your nightmares into reality. You better believe it.”

He let go of my hair. My face hit the floor with a thud. The entrance door slammed behind me.

I lay there, allowing myself a rare moment to break. For the first time since Paxton had left, I cried, pressing my swollen, hot, and bruised face to the floor.

Curling into a ball, I bawled like a baby, the agony rocking me back and forth.

I cried for making all the wrong choices in life.

For being deserted by my husband.

For paying for his sins.

For cycling in the storm, wet and cold and desperate, and for being so freaking, unbelievably, pathetically stupid.

For wasting Auntie Tilda’s precious Cloud Wish on Cillian Fitzpatrick, who turned out to be the villain in my story.

For believing her stupid miracles in the first place.

Minutes, or maybe hours had passed before I peeled myself from the floor, slapping the dirt and blood from my scraped knees. I dumped my bag into the trash can outside the building, shoving my wallet into my panties to hide it, then went upstairs to Belle’s apartment.

My sister had to believe I had been violently mugged.

I couldn’t drag her into this mess.