I lower my voice to counter my useless fury with Wagner. “You need the security testing. And I’m good enough to fend off any jackass from the internet.”
Prince shakes his head. His mind is made up. “Lone Wolf is too hot right now. I’ll have a ten percent kill fee deposited to your account by midnight.”
I don’t want a fucking kill fee. I want to prove I’m the best at what I do.
But I won’t prove anything by arguing with a client—correction,formerclient—in the middle of a wedding reception. I start to shake Prince’s hand, to prove I’m a team player and remind him he’s making a mistake. But then I remember Prince avoids physical contact whenever possible.
I settle for eyeing him levelly. “No hard feelings,” I say, even though my feelings about Wagner are as hard as fucking granite. “Call me when you realize no one else can do the job.”
My rate will be double by then. That’s the way the game is played.
“No hard feelings.” Prince echoes my words.
I’m halfway across the room before I find a waiter to take the champagne-soaked napkin I used to dry my face. Fiona has disappeared, along with her groom, so I don’t need to make any excuses to them. Instead, I make my way past the guards at thefront door and head down the sidewalk toward my rented BMW.
A crescent moon hangs over the townhouses across the street. It’s quiet out here. My ears feel like they’re plugged with cotton wool after the volume of the party. It’s cool, too, the late March breeze biting through my tuxedo jacket.
I pass an open gate, set back a few feet from the sidewalk. It’s the entrance to a side yard filled with three catering vans. I’m almost past the shadowed fence when I hear the unmistakable yelp of a woman in distress.
“Shut yer feckin’ mouth, ya stupid slag!” The threat is half-shouted, half-hissed in the darkness, deeper than the cry that stopped me.
“You’re hurting me!” It’s only three words, but I recognize the voice. It’s the woman who threw champagne in my face. Her tone is pleading now, far more desperate.
I push past the gate and into the side yard.
She’s there—Lynch’s daughter. That’s the same milky face, the same angry makeup, but now streaks of black line her cheeks. Her lips twist in a snarl as she tries to break free from an older woman whose hands are tangled in her wildfire of curly hair.
“Youneedtothinkaboutconsequences!” Every other word of the whisper-shout is accompanied by a sharp tug.
“Please, Mam. Iwasthinking about Da. About the money he needs. About the money I?—”
“Shut yer feckin’ mouth!” The older woman shifts her grip, closing wiry fingers around the front of her daughter’s throat, digging into the voice box like she’s attempting surgery.
“Mam,” the girl chokes out. “I can’t?—”
“If anyone inside thatdúnhears a word about you giving money to your da?—”
“They won’t,” the girl gasps, sinking to her knees. “Not from me. I promise.”
That vicious grip tightens. “Just, for once, think of your poorsister!”
The girl’s choking is real. She’s scratching at her mother’s wrist. “Mam,” she croaks. “Please?—”
“No man in the world willeverthink about marrying Breagha.” A furious shake, like a dog with a bone. “Not withyouin the family.”
“M—” The word dies in a strangled cough as those claws dig deeper.
I don’t shout. I don’t need to. I simply speak from the shadows before I close my fingers around the older woman’s wrist. “Enough.”
4
KATE
Cole Fucking Wolf.
A pathetic little laugh bubbles up in my chest. This miserable day began with Wolf destroying a campaign that was six months in the making. Of course it has to end with the arsehole watching my own mother torment me.
I expect Mam to put on her usual act. She’ll flirt with Wolf. Run a finger up his sleeve. Lower her chin and blink like she’s some sort of spell-bound virgin. Then she’ll explain how miserable I’ve made her, how I’ve managed to ruin her life. She might even say I’m responsible for that scar above her lip, which is a lie, but it’s won her sympathy before.