The Monster: A Mafia Romance (Boston Belles Book 3)

The eleven thousand dollars was waiting on the nightstand in my bedroom the following morning, stacked high and neat, pinned with a golden bullet. There was also one penny right beside them, and a note scribbled messily in bold, long strokes.

Here. Buy yourself something pretty.

It should have terrified me.

The fact that Sam had been in my vicinity—in my room—while I was sound asleep. He could’ve slit my throat if he wanted to. Instead, I felt white-hot thrill washing through my veins as I imagined his imposing, colossal figure casting a shadow over my sleeping body, his hands that could snap my bones like twigs so close to my spine.

He’d been there when I was in my flimsy nightgown, my hair fanned over the white satin pillow, dreaming of his crushing weight above me, making love to me.

I knew he would not send anyone else. No. None of his soldiers would do. He would never allow them to get anywhere near me. He violated my space, yes, but I knew there were limits between us. Unwritten rules that made me feel safe.

I picked up the bullet—cold, metallic, and heavier than I expected—mulling it over as it sat in my hand.

Did he stop and stare? Did he replay the kiss we’d shared at the clinic in his head? We’d almost tore each other’s mouths apart.

I could still feel a faint pulse against my lips.

Sometimes I suspected Sam felt it, too. The wild electricity buzzing between us every time we were in the same room. Whenever he looked at me with those silver moon eyes as they slanted just so, zeroing in on me, watching.

Other times he would be in my vicinity, having a meal with my father or a beer with Devon, Cillian, and Hunter, and ignore my existence so thoroughly, so convincingly, I’d forget I was in the room, too.

He was a mystery, and mysteries were meant to be unearthed, uncovered, and unfolded. I’d finally caught his attention—snatched it against his will—grasping onto it with bloodied fingers, and I had every intention of keeping it.

I was going to fight him tooth and nail, go head-to-head with the underworld’s king just so I could have him. Prove to him that I was worthy of his attention and his love.

So I did the only thing I could do, knowing that I had an entire week to wait until Thanksgiving dinner, when I’d see him again.

It was crazy, and dangerous, not to mention illegal, and yet, so classically Sam I couldn’t resist the temptation. Show him I was Nix through and through. A cunning monster who just happened to look good in a gown.

The night after he put the money on my nightstand, I drove to Badlands, found the back door to the place right behind the building, by an alley and stacked monopoly money—11k of it—and pinned it with the lone penny he’d left for me. Then I drenched it in gasoline and set fire to it.

I knew he would never know the difference. That he would think it was really the money he had given me, but I’d donated that money to my charity of choice. Something Ms. B would have wanted me to do.

I ran back to my car, ducking behind the window as I peeked to see the back door opening as the stench of burned paper seeped through the cracks. Sam appeared, accompanied by Dumb and Dumber. Dumb ran back to the office to bring a fire extinguisher while Dumber desperately tried to defuse the fire by pouring water and handfuls of snow on it, his arm still in a sling.

Sam just stood there and grinned devilishly, watching the money burn.

He didn’t need a written note to read the fuck you in what I did.

He knew.

The Fitzpatrick clan had always been huge on Thanksgiving.

I suspected it was because we had so much to be thankful for.

Not only were we one of the richest families in the country, but we were also blessed with nieces and nephews, all rosy-cheeked, healthy, and barely into their toddlerhood.

The day of Thanksgiving butlers fretted about the long table in our dining room, rearranging maple leaf bowls made out of gold, pumpkins, champagne glasses, and ornaments. The centerpieces were bursting with fall and winter fruit, and everything was laced with gold and silver. Warm and inviting candlelight illuminated the room, and the scent of cinnamon and sugared dough traveled from the kitchen, tickling my nostrils.

Pacing back and forth in my off-the-shoulder orange Givenchy dress—I knew wearing it would please Mother, who had recently been quite the pain to serve and dote on—I stopped by the window, watching my brother Cillian unload his family from his car, an imperial frown on his face.

He opened the door for Persephone—Persy, that was what we called her—scooping little Astor into a BabyBjorn he strapped over his shoulders. My breath caught, and my heart squeezed at the sight of my brother doing something so fatherly, so caring, in such a natural manner despite his usual cold and aloof demeanor.

The minute Astor was secured close to his chest, Cillian leaned down and pressed a kiss on his son’s head.

I realized I was jealous. Jealous of my good friend Persy, who deserved this life more than anyone else I knew—and still, I wanted what she had for myself.

Not who she had it with, obviously—I was crazy, but not the shade of crazy who was okay with incest—but I wanted it with someone I couldn’t have. Sam.

Turning away from the window, I pretended to busy myself by rearranging perfectly arranged ornaments at the center of the table.

Sam was going to arrive soon, and I needed to gather every dollop of strength to face him with my head held high and my back straight.

“Ash?” I heard a voice wonder behind me and turned around to find Persy tucking a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear. She was wearing a romantic evening dress with a beautiful floral print, holding a wide-awake baby Astor in her arms. His marble-blue eyes glittered at me with delight, a shock of chocolate hair covering his tender head. He threw his chubby arms in my direction, and I scooped him up with a thrilled squeak, pressing him to my chest and inhaling his intoxicating baby scent.

“Hey, Pers…” I rubbed my cheek against Astor’s silky strands, marveling yet again at how much he looked like his father “…how are you?”

“I’m great. You looked thoughtful through the window. Which was why I bypassed the usual hugs and kisses routine to see how you were doing. Your mother looks … preoccupied.” She took a seat at the table, eyeing me curiously.

Preoccupied was a very nice way of putting it. My mother was working me to the bone these days, asking me to help with her bath, read her books, and drive her around because she didn’t want to converse with her usual driver. But I wasn’t in the mood to talk about that.

“Where’s Cillian?” I walked around the room with Astor, who wanted to reach and touch everything.

“With Gerald in his office. I can’t believe he did that to your mom.” Persy bit the inside of her cheek. She had always been nice and gentle, and I knew she spared me the more blunt words I was bound to hear from Sailor and Belle.

“I can.” I put Astor down on the carpet, allowing him to explore his surroundings.

“Sailor told me Sam asked for your number,” Persephone continued, scanning me with eager eyes, as if looking at me would inspire me to spill more information. Merde. I knew my friends were invested in my quest to make Sam Brennan notice my existence, but at the same time, I hated how they treated me. Like I was a silly, naïve girl incapable of bagging the man of her dreams.

I felt especially pathetic, considering Persephone was happily married to my brother, the catch of the century according to People Magazine, and Sailor was married to my other brother, who treated her like a queen. Emmabelle (who was Persephone’s sister) might not have been married—but it was by choice.

I was the odd one out. The doomed girl mourning her unrequited love.

And I definitely didn’t want them to know about my current relationship with Sam, which put me in a less than a favorable position.

“It was nothing.” I waved a hand around, following Astor to make sure he didn’t bump into anything or decided to stick his fingers in outlets. “He just needed some help. Something work-related.”

“Huh.” Persephone sprawled in her seat, tapping a finger over her chin thoughtfully. “But maybe it’s a start? He never contacted you before, and you’re hardly the only person he could turn to.”

Persephone was such a romantic, anything short of Sam trying to maim me with a machete would register in her mind as a prime example of his undying love for me.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re grasping at straws, Pers.”

“Weirder pairings have happened. Look at your brother and me,” she said eagerly, making her case. “You just need more patience as you pursue him.”

“Cillian always had a boner for you. He just hid it like a thirteen-year-old. Sam is not pursuable,” I concluded, feeling like a phony since I was definitely waist-deep in this cat and mouse game with Sam.

But I didn’t want to jinx things or jump to conclusions. Plus, if nothing came out of it—which was likely; my plan was farfetched—at least I wouldn’t have to deal with more pity from my friends.

“If your brothers are pursuable, so is Sam,” Persy determined, putting her foot down. “You should go for what you want.”

“But what if what I want is everything that’s bad for me?” I turned around, finding her gaze. “What if I’m stupid to want Sam Brennan? He is a gangster. A murderer. An underground boss and my father’s right hand. So many things can go wrong. If they’ll go in any direction at all …”

“You just described love.” Persy grinned. “Love is a risk. It’s a storm that either disrupts your life or clears your path. Sometimes it does both at the same time. Focus on getting the guy. Everything else will fall into place.”

An hour and a half later, the evening was in full swing.

Everyone was at the table, digging into the delicious food Cook had made.

Honey-roasted turkey, buttery mashed potatoes, pumpkin pecan bread pudding, golden baked apples, and savory sausage stuffing.

Candlelight danced around the room, casting playful glows on familiar faces, as chatter rang from all across the table.

Sailor and Persy’s au pairs sat in the far corner of the room with the children—Astor, Xander, and Rooney—gossiping and tending to the babies. Sam sat all the way at the other side of the table from me, and even though I could feel his eyes on me every now and again, assessing, daring, challenging, I made it a point to stick to conversations with my mother, Sailor, Persephone, and Emmabelle.

Normally, I would try to talk to him, ask him questions, form some sort of a connection. Not right now and not today. I was no longer the girl who chased him. Or so I wanted him to think.

“The concept of Thanksgiving is still jarring to me,” Devon complained from the other end of the table, next to Sam, in his imperial, posh English drawl. He cut his turkey into frighteningly even pieces and looked entirely too good for a man who didn’t model for a living. “Who exactly are you lot thanking?”

Devon was what Belle referred to as appallingly gorgeous. All soft blond, sandy curls twisting at the ears and the nape of his neck, piercing blue eyes, and the bone structure of a deity.

“Um, God?” Hunter threw a piece of sweet potato into his mouth, chewing. “You’re just bitter because we have stuff to be thankful for. Big-box stores, the First Amendment, Jewish deli food, and, of course, Scarlett Johansson. What do you have to be thankful for?”

“Footie, brown sauce, and being generally intellectually superior to the Yanks,” Devon deadpanned, regarding all the food at the table like it was suspicious.

“By footie you mean soccer?” My father frowned. He’d been fairly quiet the entire night.

“No, by football I mean football. The one where you kick the ball with your foot…” Devon patted the corners of his mouth unnecessarily with a napkin “…as opposed to holding it in your hand while running, crashing into random people like a barbarian trying to sneak the rival village’s best-looking maiden.”

“Keep trashing football, and the only thing you’ll be thankful for this Thanksgiving is getting out of this meal in one piece.” Troy offered a stony smile, swirling his whiskey in his hand.

“So, Sam, you’re the last single man standing. Up for a quick trip to Sin City to play blackjack at the casino this weekend?” Devon changed the subject.

“You’re still doing that?” Sparrow darted poisonous arrows at her son through her jade-green eyes. “It’s dangerous, not to mention reckless. You’re already blacklisted from three hotels.”

Sam smiled, eating and pretending like the conversation didn’t swirl around him.

“Not surprised.” Hunter chuckled, raising his virgin Bloody Mary to his lips. “Do I want to know what for?”

“Winning too much money.” Devon laughed, pouring himself another drink. “Sam is the best blackjack player I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. A wizard with numbers, really. He makes all the calculations in split seconds.”

I thought back to the finite mathematics homework he’d worked out for me when I was still a teenager. Devon wasn’t exaggerating.

“What a great way to utilize your analytical talent,” Cillian drawled sarcastically.

“Better to waste a talent in the wrong place than not have one in the first place,” Sam pointed out.

“Your main talent is to find your way into rich people’s inner circle,” Cillian countered, his tone easy. “Which you’ve been doing very well since childhood.”

“Anyway, cards at Badland tonight,” Hunter said. “Right after dinner.”

I wanted to hear more about Sam, but my mother was desperate to draw me into the conversation she was having. She did that often. Lured me into small talk to save her from awkward lulls. She said she found socializing tiring, yet she threw events all the time and counted on me to do all the talking and fundraising on her behalf.

“I’m so lucky to have Aisling…” Mother patted her eyes with her napkin, sighing heavily “…I don’t know what I would have done without her. She is my anchor. No wonder she works at bringing life into this planet. She is my perfect angel.”

“She sure is saintly, ma’am.” Emmabelle flicked up a brow in my direction, giving me the stink eye. I knew Belle would love nothing more than if I showed my devilish side a little more often. “Too good to be true. Almost.”

“Right now, she is working day and night to help me with a charity event this month,” my mother started, and I could see the rest of my friends had already trained their face to stoic politeness, knowing she was going to yap about it for hours.

I felt my phone buzzing under the table, in my lap, and looked down. The number flashing across the screen signaled it came from the clinic. Merde.

I ducked my head down, swiped the bar to the green circle, and answered. “Yes?”

It was the call I dreaded. The one I didn’t want to receive.

A patient who had been struggling pretty badly.

“Yes. Of course. No, it is not a bad time at all. I’m on my way. Thank you.”

I hung up the phone, smiling brightly to everyone at the table, realizing for the first time the phone call drew everyone’s attention. Sam’s eyes rested on me lazily, swirling the whiskey in his tumbler as he watched me with a mildly entertained look I wanted to wipe off of his face.

The whole night he’d been looking at me like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted another round in the sack with me or wanted to kill me. I wished he’d just make up his mind and put me out of my misery.

“My apologies, but I have to run. Something important at work.” I stood up abruptly, patting my mother’s shoulder. Everyone’s attention made my ears hot and my fingers tremble. “Compliments to our chef. I will send her flowers tomorrow morning for her troubles. Thank you, everyone. Have a good evening.”

With that, I dashed out, running straight to my Prius, not even bothering to grab a coat on my way. I made a beeline to the address I punched into my phone.

It took me an hour to get to the residential building in Westford. A newly built apartment complex with a tennis court, a pool, and an indoor gym. There wasn’t security or anyone manning the reception, though, something I’d asked about in advance, just to be on the safe side.

I went to my patient’s house, did what I had to do, and got out of there three hours later. All thoughts about the Thanksgiving dinner I’d left behind were now demolished and gone. All I thought about was my work, my patients, and her.

Oui, mon cheri. It’s not easy doing what you do.

My knees were wobbly and my breath erratic as I made my way to a gas station across the road, trudging over the half-melted, dirty snow. I pushed the door to the small mini mart open. I bought a Coke for myself and a cake and drink for the old man manning the register, which he thanked me for. I poured myself out into the bone-cold November winter in Massachusetts, pressing the back of my head against the wall and taking a gulp of Coke.

Sometimes I hated what I did.

Most times, really.

But then I remembered Ms. B and how I failed her and convinced myself that I deserved it. My occupation. My choices.

Staring down at the Coke in my hand, listening to the faint hiss of fizz coming from the liquid, I suddenly burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably as I dragged myself down the length of the wall, crouching to my feet and burying my face in my satin Givenchy dress.

“It’s not fair.” I shook my head, seeing the black splotches my mascara left on my gown through blurred tears. “Nothing about this is fair.”

“Tell me about it,” an edgy tone that could cut glass made me snap my head up.

Sam.

Sam wore a pea coat, looking like a dashing eighteenth century earl, and leaning on the wall opposite to the one I was sitting against, an unlit cigarette stuck between his gorgeous lips. Thank the lord he didn’t pull a Zoolander and light it up next to a gas station.

“Fair is where you get cotton candy. It has nothing to do with real life. Now, tell me how you found yourself in Westford as opposed to Brigham Hospital, where your ass should have been tonight.”

He’d been following me here.

But how?

And more importantly … why?

Because you got his attention, and now he is waiting to see what you’ll do with it. You burned his cash in front of his establishment, had anal sex with him in a wig and a hooker costume, and operated on his soldiers in an underground clinic. He just discovered you are a monster, too, and now wants to know how deep your darkness runs.

I quickly wiped the tears off my face, straightening my spine, and stood up.

“Shouldn’t you be playing cards with my brothers at Badlands right about now? Or are you missing Cook’s famous apple pie to be here?”

“Shouldn’t you be answering my fucking question?” he retorted.

“The answer is none of your business,” I bit out harshly.

“This old tune again.” He chuckled, looking sideways as he shook his head. “You are my business. My boss’ daughter. I should have kept tabs on you and tailed your ass earlier, but I didn’t. So here we are. Now let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? I checked everywhere worth checking and cross-examined my sources. You are not a resident at Brigham and Women’s Hospital.”

Merde, merde, merde.

Triple merde with a cherry on top.

He was on to me.

“Been checking on me, Brennan?” I plastered what I hoped was a teasing smile on my face. “I’m flattered, but not surprised. Still, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure it does. For starters, it means you are a fucking liar. My least favorite trait in people. But then I thought to myself, maybe the lie isn’t so big. Maybe it’s about prestige. Little, perfect Aisling didn’t want her parents to know she didn’t get accepted to one of the most respected hospitals in the country…” he took another step toward me, his nostrils flaring, his jaw hardening so sharply it looked like it was carved in marble “…so I went and checked with all of the hospitals in Boston, every single fucking one. Guess what?”

I didn’t have to guess. I knew.

“You’re not registered anywhere as a doctor. You turned all of them down. Every single fucking offer. At this point, I got suspicious. Did you even finish med school at all?” he asked theatrically, taking yet another step, getting closer to me, crowding me, pinning me against the wall. “So I sniffed around that angle, too. You did, in fact, graduate from Harvard Medical School. So it’s not that you aren’t a doctor.” He took the final step toward me, and now we were so close his scent and air and menace seeped into my body, hitting roots, conquering me. “Whatever you do, you’re doing it under the radar. What the fuck are you playing at, Nix?”

His body was flush against mine, big and strong and threatening. My thighs clenched together, the space between them empty and needy. I drew a deep breath, trying to steady my pulse. I had to find my voice.

“You really want to know?”

He stared at me expressionlessly. Of course he did. Sam Brennan knew everything worth knowing about everyone, and I piqued his interest.

I curled my index finger, signaling him to lean down so I could whisper in his ear. He complied, his scowl deepening with annoyance. I pressed my lips against his ear, feeling his cock, hard and thick, pressing against my stomach.

“None. Of. Your. Business,” I breathed.

He jerked back, his thunderstorm eyes dark and depraved, and suddenly, I had a feeling I did a very, very foolish thing taunting this man, and I was going to pay for it dearly.

“Don’t play games with me, Aisling. I will win. Easily. And I’m a bad sport and notoriously unfair, just like your miserable life.”

I stared at him defiantly, keeping my mouth shut. My teeth chattered. My whole body hummed with energy, but I didn’t back down.

“Do you want to be humiliated?” He grinned, starting to enjoy this game.

“No. I want you to make up your mind about what you want to do with me,” I said quietly.

“You’ve been running after me with your skirt up, begging to be fucked since before you got your period.”

He chuckled, producing a Swiss knife from his pocket, running it up my dress and slashing a deep, long slit through its middle, right between my thighs. The dress ripped noisily. He tucked his knife back into his pocket, dipping his hand in and brushing his finger along my slit through my underwear.

“You … you … you …” I panted, a mixture of rage and desire swirling in my stomach. I knew none of this was healthy or normal, and yet I craved it so much it hurt to breathe.

“Tore your pretty designer dress? Don’t worry. Daddy’ll buy you a hundred more. The pathetic part is you’re not going to deny me because you and I both know I can fuck you whenever I want, however I want, however many times I want. Bend you over—the jewel of the Fitzpatrick crown, Princess Aisling of Avebury Court Manor—and ram my cock so deep inside your ass you’ll see stars.”

I turned my face away from him, squeezing my eyes shut. I hated him in that moment. Hated him beyond belief. But he was right. That didn’t stop me from letting him slip his hand into my underwear, right there, in the middle of the street, behind a slimy gas station. He dipped two fingers inside of me to find me soaked and ready for him. His lips were close to mine when he spoke, but I knew he wasn’t going to kiss me.

This wasn’t foreplay. It was punishment.

“What do you do for a living, Nix?”

“Fuck y-you,” I stuttered, feeling my hips bucking, searching for more of his touch.

“I wouldn’t call that a full-time job. I usually grow bored of my fucks after a few hookups.” He shoved his fingers in and out, thrusting deep, filling me while his thumb rubbed my clit in circles. My skin felt warm and tingly. My knees turned to jelly. I was suspended over the brink of disaster, about to jump headfirst into the flames he lit just to destroy me.

Keep your cards close to your chest, mon cheri. You heard his maman yourself. He is a good blackjack player.

“Illegal, experimental drugs?” he prodded, swirling his thumb faster against my clit.

I shook my head desperately, refusing to cooperate. He used his free hand to grab my butt, curling a finger into my ass through my dress.

A moan ripped from my mouth at the unexpected intrusion, and I felt so full I knew a violent orgasm was coming my way.

“The no insurance, doctors-without-borders bullshit where you treat the poor ain’t flying, sweetheart.” He raised an eyebrow, slanting his gaze to the apartment complex behind me, fucking me harder with his fingers, slipping a third finger in and nearly throwing me off the edge. “Whoever lives in that building doesn’t get monthly food stamps. Take it from someone who looked poverty in the eye. I’d hate to blow your cover and kick in every door at the complex to find the asshole you visited and milk your secret out of them. But I’ll do it if I have to. So for the last time, Aisling, tell me what the fuck it is that you do.”

I shook my head, stitching my lips closed and squeezing my eyes shut, the climax washing over me, making every fine hair on my body stand on end. When Sam realized I wasn’t going to answer, he let me go. Moved away from me unexpectedly.

I was so weak with desire and pleasure, I nearly fell flat on my ass, bracing myself on the wall as I struggled to gain my footing.

Sam’s eyes were still on me, narrowed and full of fury. He sucked his index finger, releasing it with a pop, absorbing all the juices that coated it from when he fingered me.

“I was close,” I protested.

“Tough fucking luck. For more information, go to www.lifeain’tfairandwe’vebeenthroughthis.com.”

“What the hell!” I flung my arms in the air.

“The hell is you are a fucking headache and need to be taught a lesson. I am going to get the truth out of you, Aisling, one way or the other, but until I do, you lose all cumming privileges. Not by my hands, anyway, and let’s admit it—your sole purpose in life is getting fucked by me.”

His knowledge of just how much I wanted him destroyed me. I was too transparent, too naïve, too willing to show him how much he meant to me over the years. Now he was using it against me, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Nothing but try to show him I was my own person. That there was more to me than loving him.

“Why do you even care what I do?” I rearranged my torn dress around my legs the best I could to protect myself from the harsh weather. “You made it perfectly clear you don’t give a damn about me. You spent a whole decade dodging my advances.”

Not that there were many. But whenever I did muster the courage to reach out, he always shut me down in a spectacular fashion. The truth was, I was too scared to upset my parents to go after a man they didn’t want for me, and Sam was too career-focused to let someone like me become a problem for his business.

He took his car keys out of his coat’s pocket.

“Circumstances change,” he clipped.

“Yes, they do,” I agreed. “Which is why I suggest you stop assuming I am always going to be at your disposal. I’m not the same girl you met at the carnival, Sam. I’m all grown up, and I won’t be treated like I’m a toy.”

He leaned toward me, smirking teasingly. “Wanna bet?”

“How are we going to settle the bet? In your card room at Badlands?” I arched an eyebrow, a childish part of me desperate to let him know I was privy to the way he ran his business.

“No. You’re not allowed in Badlands,” he reminded me in a withering tone.

“But Sailor and Persy are.” I laughed bitterly.

“Sailor and Persy are not running around looking for trouble. They stay at home with their babies. I suggest you do the same.”

“I don’t have babies,” I pointed out the obvious. “Oh, and it’s not the nineteenth century.”

“You might be annoying, but I’m sure you’ll find a schmuck willing to knock you up.”

“What about Belle? How come she’s allowed in Badlands? She looks for trouble all the time. Much more than me.”

“Belle is damaged goods and also none of my fucking business. If you end up catching the clap in Badlands’ restroom, your family will come crying to me.”

“You’re a sexist pig.”

“And you are still interested. What does it say about you, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Jr.?”

I was going to say something snarky, but apparently, Sam was through with the exchange. In a swift fashion, he turned around and sauntered over to his car, which was parked right behind me.

“Hold onto those little secrets of yours, Nix. Because I’m going to have one hell of a good time unraveling them.”

He slid into his car and sped off.

Leaving me with a throbbing center, wet cheeks, and a jumbled head.

I knew something was wrong as soon as I parked the car by the fountain at my front door. Avebury Court Manor was like a body. It had bones, a heart, and a soul. I could recognize its pulse from miles away, and something felt different. Erratic.

All the lights in the house were turned on, the staff, which should be long gone, running back and forth by the window like shadow puppets. There was a commotion. My brothers’ cars were also still parked by the entrance. They should be home by now.

Something happened.

Hurrying out of the car, I clutched my keys in a death grip.

Please be okay, Mother.

As soon as I flung the door open, Cillian and Hunter poured out of it, each of them holding Da from each side. My father, green and dripping with sweat, was slouched unresponsive between them, his head dangling from his neck like a pendulum.

“Where are you taking him?” I shrieked.

Cillian shouldered past me, toward his car. I followed them, my legs still shaky from my crazy night.

“Disney World,” my older brother drawled, sullen. “Where do you think? The hospital.”

“The hospital!” I echoed, my mouth turning dry. “Why? What happened? Where’s Mother?”

“Mother is hiding in her room crying about how Da stole the show, being a real fucking adult about it per usual,” Hunter filled me in, his voice playful as always, even when his words were hot and angry.

“As for Athair, he’s been vomiting nonstop since you left, has diarrhea, a dry mouth, a rash, trouble breathing, and he fainted twice since dessert.”

Cillian buckled my dad inside his Aston Martin. “How would you diagnose that, Doc?”

“Well, I need to run more tests, of course, but at first glance I would say he was poisoned.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” Hunter congratulated me. “When Da finished his cup of coffee, he proceeded to collapse on top of the table like a stack of cards.”

All the air left my lungs at once.

“I’m coming with you.”

“You just got back from the hospital,” Hunter pointed out.

My face filled with heat and shame, and I curled my long coat around myself to prevent my brothers from seeing the giant rip in my dress. They thought I was at Brigham, too. Because I lied to them. To all of them. Every single member of my family and the small circle of my friends.

“It’s no trouble.”

“Your funeral,” Cillian clipped. “Hunter, let her take the passenger seat. C’mon, Ash. We’re taking the car. We don’t want the headlines an ambulance would create.”

“Forever the Fitzpatricks.” Hunter touched his forehead with mock salute, tucking himself next to Da.

I stuffed myself into the seat next to Cillian.

“Sure you’re okay leaving your baby behind?” Hunt asked from the backseat, jerking his chin toward the manor. He meant our mother.

“Don’t start.”

“No shade.” Hunter raised his palms in the air defensively. “All I’m saying is she is probably writing all of us out of her will because we are driving Da to the hospital instead of telling her how pretty she is—after she poisoned him.”

Hunter only knew the half of it. Jane Fitzpatrick’s problems were much worse than being self-centered and prone to drastic mood swings.

Athair was unresponsive the whole way to the ER. As soon as we walked in, I found out who was the doctor assigned to deal with Da, took him aside, and explained I was a fellow doctor, relaying the evening to give him the full picture, omitting the poisoning part to prevent it from leaking to the media.

The three of us siblings spent the night sleeping by Da’s bedside, huddled together like when we were kids. The blood and urine test results came back the following morning.

It looked like my father had taken an enormous amount of warfarin, a blood thinner and also an active ingredient in many rat poisons. A drug that can easily cause death if taken in a certain quantity.

My father had been poisoned by a pro who knew what they were doing.

Not enough to kill, but definitely enough to deliver a message.

The weird thing was no one at the table had any motive to kill Da.

No one other than Mother.

“It’s not Mother.” I shook my head, standing in Cillian’s home office later that day, looking out the window as more snow fell and covered the rose garden and trimmed bushes, painting everything white. “It’s not.”

“Oh, come on, Ash. At the very least, it’s an option worth considering. They’ve been at each other’s throats for as long as I can remember.” Hunter massaged my shoulders from behind, still in his suit from the previous night.

We’d come here straight from the hospital, as soon as my father’s secretary took over and arrived there.

I whipped around, slapping his hand away. “No, Hunt. She is incapable of hurting a fly.”

That was not completely true. The only person Mother was capable of hurting was herself, and she did it often, but I didn’t want Hunter and Cillian to know about that side of her. They had enough on their plate, running Royal Pipelines and taking care of their families. Their wives were my best friends, and I didn’t want to hog my brothers’ attention by dragging them into the issues we were having at Avebury Court Manor.

“She is also the only person at the table with a hard-on to see Gerald return his equipment to the Almighty,” Cillian pointed out, taking a seat in his plush leather chair and lighting up a cigar, his legs propped up on his desk with his ankles crossed.

Something about my older brother rejected vulnerability, so I learned how to become robotically efficient in front of him from a young age. I didn’t allow myself to show too much emotion. Not for the first time, I found myself envying Persy and Astor. The way he looked at them so adoringly, like he was still hungry for something he already had.

I wondered if I would ever experience what my friends had. The kind of love that changes people from within.

“Let’s make a list!” I proposed, snapping my fingers, remembering how Sam planned to tackle my father’s sex scandal. “Of who was there. Then we can go through it and dig deeper.”

“All right, Sherlock.” Hunter lounged on the settee by the window overlooking Cillian’s garden. “Let’s see, there was Xander, Rooney, and Astor, all of them under three years old …”

“Astor’s been teething. He can be a mean little thing when he is teething,” Cillian pointed out sarcastically, causing Hunter to laugh and me to roll my eyes.

“Rooney has a mean streak, too. But she usually pees on the carpet when she seeks her revenge upon us. Then there was Sailor and me,” Hunter said. “Neither of us have beef with Da. And you, Ash, don’t have a motive either.”

“Persephone and I are out of the question. My wife couldn’t hurt a fly if she tried, and I already have everything I ever needed from Gerald,” Cillian continued. “And then there’s Emmabelle. A distasteful excuse for a human being, sure, but I wouldn’t go as far as calling her a murderer.”

“Whoever did this didn’t try to kill him. They tried to spook him,” I pointed out. “But I agree, Emmabelle has no connection to Da whatsoever. What about Troy? Sparrow?”

“As far as I’m aware, Troy and Sparrow have no business with Athair. No reason to want to threaten him.” Hunter shook his head.

“Devon?” I wondered aloud.

Cillian somehow managed to look down at me, even from his position sitting. “No motive.”

“True, but he is not family.”

“Neither is Sam.” Cillian puffed on his cigar.

“I think we should keep an eye on him, too,” I said honestly, something clawing at my stomach when I thought about getting him in trouble.

Hunter jumped upright. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, keep an eye how …? We were joking, but … he’s my brother-in-law.”

“He is also the most corrupt man to walk this earth.” Cillian blew rings of smoke in the air. “I’ll deal with him. Sniff around. See what he is up to.”

“No…” I turned to face both my brothers “…I’ll do it. He won’t suspect me.”

“I suspect you.” Hunter’s eyes flared in alarm. “No offense, sis, but even Rooney knows Auntie Ash is in lurveeee with Uncle Sam. And I don’t mean you being patriotic toward the US of A.”

“But see, that’s what makes it so perfect,” I said desperately. “He will never see me as a threat or think I could harm him.”

“I don’t want him anywhere near you,” Cillian hissed.

“Well, tough luck, big bro. I’m twenty-seven. You can’t shelter me forever.”

“Wanna bet?” Hunter grinned. I shot him a look. Cillian sighed. We all wanted to wrap this up and go about our days.

“Fine. Ash, you can sniff around Sam. Just remember it is frowned upon to have sex with your target,” Cillian clipped. “I’ll check the Devon angle.”

“And I’ll pray for both your souls.” Hunter did the sign of the cross, rolling his eyes. “Because both of y’all are dumbasses who watch too much CSI. It’s Jane. She wanted to get back at Da for sticking his dick in the wrong hole and things got a little bit out of hand. Not the first time she did something drastic and threw a fit. Remember when he gifted her the butterfly garden after she found out he’d been screwing her own sister? Not that I ever liked this particular auntie, but she threw his Rolex collection into the food processor and set it to high.”

We had a butterfly garden at our house, built by my father to show Jane Fitzpatrick his undying love for her. A love that came with the price of $670,000 worth of luxury vintage watches he parted ways with.

“Thanks for the little trip down memory lane to remind me I am the spawn of two of the most disgusting people to ever grace the planet. Now, if that is all, I’d like to go back to running my company.” Cillian put out his cigar, standing up and walking briskly toward the window where I stood. “May the best man win, Aisling. You think it’s Sam, Hunter thinks it’s Mother, and I think Gerald has been spending too much time at the medicine cabinet and had an oopsie.”

But it wasn’t accidental. I knew.

Because Athair would never make such a mistake. He loved himself too much to overdose. As someone living under the same roof as him, I knew he was careful with his prescription drugs.

This was intentional.

All men at the table were cunning, smart, and capable, but only one of them had murdered someone before, to the extent of my knowledge, and would go to such extreme lengths with such ease.

Sam.