The Villain: A Billionaire Romance (Boston Belles Book 2)

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

The F-bomb was a guest of honor in my vocabulary. I rarely used it but felt the urge to spit it out for this special occasion. My body shook so badly I had to grab the door handle to stop myself from collapsing.

My ex-husband stood in front of me, looking appallingly healthy for someone who’d been on the run for the past year. Tan, muscled, and at least as far as I could tell, still in full possession of all his teeth. His blond curls scattered about his head playfully, his soulful eyes blinking back at me.

“Babe.” His lips twisted in a relieved smile, and he let out a sigh. “Fuck, you look just as gorgeous as I remember. Holy shit, Persy. Look at you.”

He gathered my hands in his, bringing them to his mouth, laughing. Tears coated his sparkling eyes. I was too shocked to shove him away.

Paxton was here.

In the flesh.

After hundreds of unanswered phone calls, emails, and sleepless nights.

My head swarmed with questions. Where had he been hiding? When did he come back? How did he find his way into my building? There was a doorman at the entrance.

Mostly, I wanted to know why. Why did he leave me to deal with his mess?

And if I meant so little to him, why come back and stand at my doorway?

My hands were still in his, scorching with his betrayal. I snapped out of my reverie, pushing him away.

“I’ll repeat myself.” I took a step back. “What’re you doing here, Paxton? And how did you know where I live?”

“Dropped by Grandma Greta’s nursing home. Your name and address were listed as an emergency contact.”

“That’s right because you, her only living relative, were MIA.”

“I know.” His voice broke. “I’m here to make amends. Let me? Please?”

He kissed my cheek hastily, worming into my apartment uninvited.

I closed the door, knowing I was going to blow the rooftop with screams in about half a second and not wanting to get evicted or causing Cillian any embarrassing headlines.

“Give me one good reason not to tell Byrne and Kaminski you’re back in town.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

Paxton gave himself a tour around my living room, whistling as he drank in the expensive fixtures, gourmet kitchen, and quartz countertops. His neck craned as he studied the lighting, one hand brushing over a floor-to-ceiling art piece that cost more than the apartment we’d rented together while married.

“Wow. Okay. Nice digs.”

When he saw I was still standing by the door, fully ready to throw him out, he poked his lower lip out.

“C’mon, babe. It’s been a minute. We need to iron things out, but there’s a lot to talk about, don’t you think?”

No, my mind screamed.

Sam had told me I’d dodged a bullet the night of the storm, when I tried to accept Cillian’s proposal and found out he’d already withdrawn it. But the deadly bullet I’d escaped was the day Kill took me as a wife.

He made my problems disappear.

Put me out of harm’s way, no matter the price.

“I’m not buying your charade,” I said pointedly.

“Fine.” His voice dropped to a low growl. “Then let’s get real. I’m glad your bouji ass is living the good life. Got yourself a sugar daddy and found your sass, huh?” Paxton winked, his charming, dimpled smile on full display. He jerked my fridge open, taking out a glass bottle of juice. The kitchen had been stocked thrice a week by Cillian’s people.

The thought of Paxton being here, drinking an organic pressed juice at Kill’s expense made me want to punch him into a wall.

I hadn’t been fair to my husband.

He fulfilled his end of the bargain, providing me with everything he’d promised and more. In return, I pushed him into giving me things he was incapable of providing. Love, sympathy, and tenderness.

Kill deserved to know everything.

About my plan to destroy Arrowsmith.

About Paxton being here.

“The word you are looking for is a husband. My husband does well for himself, yes,” I corrected. “But even more important than his deep pockets, he was kind enough to get me out of the trouble you got me into. Knowing Cillian, he won’t appreciate you being here, so I suggest you get out of here before he does the job Byrne couldn’t finish.”

Paxton snapped his head toward me mid-sip, his eyes bulging.

“Don’t tell me you fell in love with him. That’s such a sap move, Pers. Rich boys don’t have hearts.”

“Neither do poor ones from Southie, apparently.”

He collapsed onto a barstool, groaning as he scrubbed his face.

“Look, I know I haven’t been the man you deserve, babe. But I needed a way out. I knew you were going to get us out of trouble. I couldn’t keep in touch while you were working on getting us out of this, but I stood on the sidelines and watched, ready to pounce if they actually did something to you. I always had your back, Pers. I did this to protect you. Protect us.”

The lie was so half-assed, that I felt hysterical laughter bubbling in my throat. He continued, undeterred.

“Our goodbye was temporary. I always planned to come back. You were smart, resourceful, and responsible. I just needed you to do me this little solid. When I saw the article about your marriage to Cillian Fitzpatrick, I wanted to kiss you. I thought, ‘that’s my girl.’ I was beginning to worry Byrne would follow up on his threat to pimp you out. I was about to step in.”

He put a hand to his chest. He looked like a bad soap opera actor. The type to win a Razzie award every year and be arrogant enough to walk the red carpet to accept it.

My blood buzzed. I was on the brink of smashing his nose in with my fist, and I never hurt so much as a fly.

“You knew they were following me?” I gritted out.

He nodded. “I kept an eye on you the entire time. Made sure you were okay. I was worried sick, Pers.”

“I wasn’t okay.”

“You really need to give yourself more credit, babe. You did great.”

“How did you keep tabs on me?” I demanded.

“Friends.”

“Which friends?”

“C’mon.” He waved his hand around as though I was missing the entire point.

“Where were you, Paxton?” I pressed, taking a step toward him.

No part of me was unsure or ambivalent.

No disappointment.

No sorrow.

No pang of that wild heartbreak that tore at me each time Cillian left my bed at night.

All I felt was disgust.

“Here and there,” Paxton sulked, averting his eyes from me to his shoes.

The idiot thought he could waltz into my life and reclaim me.

He mistook my bleeding heart for a dumb brain.

“You either answer my questions or I’m calling security.” I raised my phone in the air.

He shot me a tired smile.

“How’d you think I ended up here? The security in this place is trash.”

“In that case”—I swiped my finger over my phone’s screen—“I’ll call my husband. Don’t let his rich-boy reputation confuse you. He is very good with his hands, beyond just making me come.”

Paxton’s jaw constricted, his eyes darkening.

“Don’t,” he bit out. “Fine. Whatever, Persy. You wanna play? I’m game. What do you wanna know?”

“Who told you about Byrne and Kaminski following me?”

“Mitch.” Mitch was the guy he was paired with by Byrne for assignments. “He was still hustling for Colin a few months after I bailed. Still shoots the shit with Kaminski every now and again.”

“Where were you all this time?”

“Costa Rica was my first stop. The day word got out that Byrne knew I blew all our savings and couldn’t pay him back, I bought a one-way ticket. I laid low there. Worked in construction. Saved up whatever I could. At first, I’d hoped I could come up with half the money, then pay the rest in Boston. I always wanted it to work between us, Persy. I just knew keeping in touch with you was going to put you in a whole lotta risk. Then the news of you marrying Fitzpatrick broke the fucking internet. There were memes about it, dude. I picked up the phone and called Mitch. Asked if it was true. He told me your husband made sure Kaminski could never take a piss standing up again he trashed him so bad. Byrne wasn’t doing so hot, either. I realized I was probably next on your husband’s shit list. That he was going to unleash Sam Brennan on me. Brennan has eyes and ears everywhere, so I moved up to Mexico. Cancun. Stayed with a friend.”

“A friend?” I asked with a snort. The only piece of information to make my heart stutter was Cillian beating up Kaminski. I had no idea he did that.

“A chick from high school. She’s running a spring break resort there. It was always crowded, lots of people moving in and out. I knew Brennan would have a bitch of a time catching me there. I cleaned her pool.”

“Platonically, I assume.” I rolled my eyes. He was such a cliché.

He laughed humorlessly.

“Please, Pers. Let’s not pretend you haven’t been sucking Fitzpatrick’s cock every night the better half of this year. We both did what we had to do in order to survive.”

“In my case, I enjoyed the task immensely,” I lamented. “You haven’t even picked up the phone to check in on your grandmother.”

I knew because I asked at the nursing home if they’d heard from him each time I visited.

Paxton flopped his cheek over his fist, sighing.

“I knew you would take care of her. I’d trust you with my own life. You always do the right thing. Listen, we’re out of the woods now. Mitch told me the debt has been paid. Byrne’s out of the picture. We can be together, Persy. Start over fresh. Pick up where we left off. He didn’t make you sign a prenup, right?”

My ex-husband wasn’t only insane, he was also as dumb as a shoestring. I tried to remember what I saw in him in the first place, beyond his Instagram model looks. The answer was clear as it was embarrassing—he was the designated rebound. The antidote to Cillian’s refusal. The untried vaccine that ended up nearly killing me.

“We’re happily divorced. I married someone else.” I erected my wedding finger, an engagement ring with a diamond the size of his face sparkling back at him.

I never took it off. Even when I knew I should.

Paxton jumped up to his feet, hurrying over to me. Maybe it was because he wasn’t built like Cillian—not quite as tall, as broad, as commanding—or maybe it was because he simply wasn’t Cillian, but his very presence annoyed me.

“I get it, babe. You’re angry. You’re hurt. You have every right to be. But you’re not fooling anyone. Your marriage isn’t real.” He stood before me now, grabbing my arms, itching to shake me.

“Ours wasn’t, either. In the spirit of being candid, I, too, have a confession to make.” I broke out of his grip, taking a step forward, my breath fanning his face. “You were always nothing more than a distraction. It was always Kill. You were on borrowed time. But Cillian? Cillian is my forever.”

The words settled between us, an invisible barbed-wire barrier.

By the way Paxton stared at me, I knew he wanted to rip it apart.

The hunger in his eyes alarmed me, even if I knew it wasn’t for me, but for all the things I represented now: wealth, power, and connections.

“All right,” he rustled. “You win. I’ll be the side piece. But it’s gonna cost ya.”

“I don’t want a side piece. Even if I did, you would be the last person on the planet I’d consider. You are mean and selfish, Paxton. Get out of my apartment before I speed-dial Sam Brennan and throw you out myself.”

“Babe,” he groaned, seizing me by the jaw, walking me backward until my back hit the door. “I know you’re pissed, but we were good together.”

His lips spoke over mine. He was kissing me. Half-kissing me, anyway. His breath and heat and body pressed against mine. His tongue rolled over my lower lip.

“I don’t want good,” I spat into his mouth. He tripped backward, his eyes wide.

A slow, vicious smile spread on my face. I didn’t recognize myself in my behavior, and for the first time, I was fine with it. “I want divine, and I found it. Get the hell out, Veitch.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you go.”

It was promise, a warning, and a declaration. He stepped away, giving me a once-over, assessing me before he made his next move. “I’ll change your mind. I won you once, and I can do it again. Whether it’s the easy way or the hard way, you’ll be writhing beneath me in no time, and when you are, I promise you, Persephone, I will make sure your husband knows it.”

“Out!”

He shouldered past me with his tail tucked between his legs.

I closed the door, locked, and bolted it, then pressed my back against it, letting out a ragged breath, feeling rather than thinking a word that’d been pulsating against my skin from the moment I said “I do” to my new husband.

Saved.

Cillian

“You dumb piece of cock-sucking shit.” I raised a fist to Sam Brennan’s face the minute he walked through my door, slamming it against his thrice-broken nose.

I’d texted Brennan at five in the morning to let him know if he didn’t show up at my doorstep in fifteen minutes, I was going to buy every building in Southie—federal and private—and bulldoze through each childhood memory in his neighborhood just to shit all over his day.

He made it to my house in nine minutes and didn’t even look ruffled.

I, on the other hand, moved from no profanity to nothing but profanity.

“Good morning to you, too,” he said calmly, readjusting his nose back to its place without as much as a wince as blood spurted out of his nostrils. The crack the bone made alone would make anyone but the two of us gag. “To what do I owe this greeting?”

“To being a bullshit private investigator and a terrible fucking friend. You slacked off. Guess how my wife spent her night yesterday?” I plastered him against my front door, swinging my fist again.

I jabbed his ribs, feeling and hearing at least two of them crack.

“With your dick in her ass?” he asked flatly, tapping the pocket of his leather jacket, taking out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one up. He really was immune to pain. “I suggest you try other holes if you’re interested in knocking her up.”

“You’re a sick human.”

“Thank you.” He dropped his Zippo into his front pocket.

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“To me, it was. Most people don’t consider me human at all. So what was your wife up to yesterday?”

I stepped back from him, realizing his lack of fear and pain made it pointless to beat him up. I walked over to the bar cart. It was five o’clock. Sure, it was in the morning, but I never let semantics get in my way.

“Paxton Veitch paid her a visit.” I poured a finger of cognac into a goblet, training my eyes on the golden liquid.

Sam limped in my direction, his expression unfathomable. “He’s in town?”

“You should’ve known that.”

“You told me not to check on him. You were fucking specific about it, too.” He leaned against the wall, watching me.

He had a point. I’d rejected the idea Paxton Veitch posed a threat to my marriage for so long, being proved differently wasn’t on my radar.

“You need to tail him,” I instructed. “Find out why he’s here. What he wants.”

“I can tell you right now why he’s here—he’s here because his ex-wife just married into one of the wealthiest families in the country, and because he is a money-grabbing scumbag. Do you need me to deal-deal with him?” He raised his eyebrows.

My instincts told me to say yes.

Have Sam off him, chop him up, and throw him into the ocean.

Not necessarily the Atlantic. That was too close. The Indian Ocean sounded good.

I’d never made such a request before, but in Veitch’s case, I was ready to make an exception. I’d refused to give my wife the only thing she’d ever asked from me—love—and sent her right into the arms of her ex-husband, who was probably waxing poetic at her all night.

I pretty much wrapped her up in a bow and handed her over to him.

Yet I couldn’t, for the life of me, do this to her.

Have her idiotic ex-husband killed.

No matter how much I wanted him out of the picture.

I shook my head, clutching the goblet so hard, it dented out of shape, the liquid raining down to the floor. Sam’s face remained unmoved, as if I hadn’t just bent a gold chalice with my own fist. I dumped it to the floor, turning to the bar and plucking a napkin. I patted my palm clean of alcohol and blood.

“Don’t touch him. Just find out as much as you can. Where he lives, what he’s doing, what’s his angle. I’ll deal with him myself.”

Sam nodded.

“Do it now. Drop everything else.”

Another nod. “Anything else you want to know?”

Yes, I wanted to know if I was truly losing Persephone, but that was beyond Sam’s scope.

“Just do your fucking job.” I turned around, ascending the stairway back to my office.

I cursed again.

But this time, no one was surprised.

I was beginning to unfurl, break, crack, and shatter.

I was changing.

Feeling.

And I hated it.

I spent the rest of the day pretending.

Pretending to be present, pretending to work, pretending not to give a damn.

I attended meetings, scolded employees, went through our quarterly reports, and grabbed lunch with Devon, in which we strategized our defense in court against Green Living.

“I should not have eaten the sashimi. It upset my stomach,” I complained when we parted ways at the entrance of the restaurant.

Devon barked out a laugh. “The sashimi was fine. The queasy feeling in your gut is longing. Is Persy still living in her Commonwealth flat?”

I didn’t even grace that with an answer. Longing was something teenage girls did with Armie Hammer. The only long thing about me was between my thighs.

At six o’clock, I called it a day. I drove back home, parked, then spotted Persephone’s Tesla at the front gate.

Killing the engine, I got out of the car, something weird and warm rattling in my stomach.

Food poisoning. Fucking raw fish. I saw a documentary about it. I probably had maggots the size of shits inside my intestines.

Taking measured steps to the front door, I glanced through the window. I spotted my wife standing by the stairway, her delicate hand perched on the bannister.

She wore a white dress, her blond hair tumbling down her shoulders all the way to the small of her back. A dirty angel with a golden crown for a halo.

Imaginary ants traveled up my toes, all the way to my skull.

I rounded the front entrance, trying to get a better angle of her. I saw her talking to Petar, her back to me. Petar was standing directly in front of the window I was standing behind. He spotted me. His face went from distressed to surprised in seconds. I wasn’t known for hiding behind bushes and watching people. Especially people who were inside my goddamn house.

His mouth opened, probably to tell her I was there. I shook my head. He clamped it shut.

Why was she here?

Take a wild guess, asshole.

She was here to thank me for the money, divorce, and enthusiastic dick, pack the remainder of her possessions and ride off with Paxton into the horizon in the Tesla I was dumb enough to purchase for her.

Unfortunately for Flower Girl, playing into her hands wasn’t in my plans. Not anymore. If she wanted to destroy this marriage, she was going to have to do it the long, slow, excruciating way. I wasn’t giving her the chance at a clean kill.

The memory of my visit to Colin Byrne stirred something violent in me.

“Veitch wanted to whore out his wife all by himself before he fucked off. He wanted to kidnap her and give her to me.”

I remembered his words, verbatim.

I’d never wanted to kill a person more than I had wanted to put a bullet in Paxton Veitch’s skull.

All I needed to do was walk inside the house and tell her.

It was that simple.

But I knew it’d hurt her.

Break her spirit.

Show her that the man she chose to spend the rest of her life with wanted to sell her.

It was a terrible time to grow a conscience.

I turned around, walked back to my car, and called Sam.

“Give me Paxton’s address.”

I wasn’t going to break Persephone.

But I sure as hell wasn’t going to let the real villain get the girl.

Paxton Veitch’s temporary residence was nothing more than a shack in the back room of an illegal poker joint in Southie. Judging by the exterior of the decaying two-story building, he was probably sleeping in a cot made solely of garbage, pubic hair, and STDs.

Rather than announce my arrival with a knock, I kicked the flimsy screen door down, barging in.

Three round tables full of men with oil and dirt stains on their faces looked up at me, their eyes snapping off their cards.

“Paxton Veitch,” I grumbled. No other words were necessary.

Silence rang in the room.

I knew dangling my sharp suit and expensive haircut in front of them was inviting trouble, but I welcomed it. Sighing, I took out my wallet and raised a hundred-dollar bill between my index and middle fingers, waving it around.

“I’ll ask again, where’s Paxton Veitch?”

This time, the men shifted in their seats, glancing at each other.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, we don’t even know him, why are we protecting him? He’s in the back room!” one of them piped up, banging his cards over the table. “Take the stairs up. His is the second door on the left.”

I dropped the bill to the floor, proceeding as a few men rushed to the floor, fighting for the money.

When I got to the door I was looking for, I took a few breaths to calm myself down. I’d imagined going head-to-head with the bastard longer than I’d like to admit. Before Persephone and I were on speaking terms.

The memory of her kissing him at Hunter and Sailor’s wedding still made my blood boil.

I’d walked along the hedge garden, inwardly convincing myself I wasn’t a complete moron for rejecting the Penrose girl I wanted so much. The topiary assaulted my eyesight. A tacky mixture of angels, animals, and heart shapes. The sound of panting made me slow next to a cloud-shaped shrub.

“Oh, Paxton,” a throaty, sweet voice had moaned.

My blood ran cold.

I took a step aside, pretending to read a sign explaining the design of the garden. From my position, I could see strands of white-blond hair woven in the shrubs, a delicate, snowy neck extended, and a male mouth peppering kisses all over it.

“God, you’re so fucking sweet. What’s your name again?”

“Persephone.”

“Persy-phone-ay.” His hands were everywhere as he mispronounced her name. “What does it mean?”

I’d strained my neck, developing perverse satisfaction in making myself watch her in another man’s arms after snubbing her. His head trailed down her breasts, disappearing from my line of vision. She was panting hard and fast.

Take a good look at what you did. She is in someone else’s arms now.

Someone normal.

Who deserves her.

Now, Paxton’s door taunted me.

I pushed it open, unbothered about stomping into his territory unannounced. He did that twice to me. It was time he got a taste of his own medicine.

He was in the room, having an intense phone conversation, standing in front of a small, dirty window with his back to me.

“You think I’m not trying? It’s not as easy as I thought. She’s changed, man. Probably all that dough and gold-plated cock.” He snickered, snorting. “I’m not gonna hurt her. I still love Persy, you know. She’s always been my girl. I just want in with her ass, so I can get my way, too. There’s too much money in that pot for me not to get my share.”

At least now I knew she hadn’t fucked him yesterday.

Silver linings and all that jazz.

I grabbed the phone from behind him and killed the call, tossing the device onto his bed. He whipped his head around, his mouth hanging open.

“Shi—”

I shoved him toward a wooden desk pushed against the wall, shutting him up.

He sagged onto it, plopping down.

“Time for a little talk, Veitch.”

“You’re the Fitzpatrick guy.” His brows furrowed. “The dude she married.”

“And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”

We examined each other. He was a good-looking kid. Light hair, soft features. Clad in a broken-in leather jacket and saggy jeans that made it look like he needed his diaper changed.

Paxton folded his arms over his chest.

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble.”

“If you didn’t want trouble, you wouldn’t chase it across the planet. Do you really think I’d let you touch what’s mine?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. All I know is that Persy and I had a good thing going. I fucked up, but she’s a good girl. She could still forgive me.”

That meant she hadn’t yet. My heart slowed for the first time since I saw him enter her apartment. I tugged at the leather gloves in my back pocket, slapping them over my thigh and putting them on. His throat bobbed with a swallow. Good. He needed to know I wasn’t above getting down and dirty to get my point across.

“Don’t mistake Persephone’s goodness with naiveté,” I warned. “She is past forgiving you.”

“You don’t know her like I do.” He shook his head.

“What I do know is that you tried to pay Byrne with her as currency, which is why I’m here. Now, you’re going to listen carefully and follow my every instruction, and I will spare your miserable, pointless life. Veer off the lane I put you on, and I’ll make sure you slam into a ten-ton semi-trailer and feed whatever’s left of you to the hyenas. Are you following me so far?”

He clutched the edges of the table behind him. I reached over, grabbing the gun I noticed was tucked in the back of his jeans, cocked it, and pushed the barrel against his forehead.

“You’re going to write a ten-page letter to Persephone, in which you apologize profusely for being the shittiest husband in the history of civilization. In this letter, you will take the entire blame for the fallout of your marriage and excuse her from any wrongdoings. I will read and approve the letter before you send it. After you send it, you will pack a bag, drive to the airport, and buy a one-way ticket to Australia. Once there, you will drive to Perth, where you will settle down. Perth, in case you’re wondering, is the farthest point geographically from the US of A, and therefore exactly where I want you to be, at least until Virgin Galactic offers flights to Mars, to which I would be happy to relocate you. You will not, under any circumstances, contact my wife. You will not, under any circumstances, write, call, or meet her again. If I hear you as much as breathed in her direction, I will unleash my three-headed hounds on you—a Hades reference, in case it escaped your bird-sized brain—no matter where you are. I will make sure you experience the most painful death known to man. Tell me you understand.”

I pressed the barrel harder to his forehead. Paxton groaned, closing his eyes, dripping sweat.

“I understand.”

“I will provide your flight ticket, accommodations, and a work permit. The rest is for you to deal with.”

“I don’t…”

“This is not a conversation.” I held up my free hand. “This is me feeling uncharacteristically charitable and not blowing your brains out, mainly because blood makes my wife feel queasy.”

He nodded again, gulping.

“Forget she’s ever been a part of your life.”

Another nod.

“Oh, and Paxton?”

I slid the gun down the bridge of his nose, tucking it into his mouth. His eyes widened, a drop of sweat trailing down the same path the barrel had made, exploding on his neck.

“How’d you end up here? We both know you don’t have a penny to your name.”

“Arruw Arrameeth,” he said around the barrel.

“Andrew Arrowsmith?” I pulled the weapon from his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“He found me in Mexico. Paid for my flight back here. Got me this apartment and told me to get my girl. Said she was in trouble. That you were hurting her. Good guy. Nothing like you.”

Andrew knew Persephone and I had been estranged and tried to take advantage of it.

I wiped away a stray tear that slipped from his eye using the gun. “That, I agree with. Do as I say, and nobody will get hurt. Other than Arrowsmith, but I suppose that’s not your problem, is it?”

He shook his head.

I emptied the gun of bullets, put them into my pocket, then threw the weapon onto the cot he’d used as a bed, next to his phone, walking away.

“Have a nice life, Veitch.” I saluted with my back to him.

He didn’t answer.

He knew there wasn’t a chance of that ever happening.