Prologue
Michael
Since you’re still reading this story, I’ll have to assume that you’re a masochist. That, or a hopeless, starry-eyed reader who keeps a horde of romance novels with alpha male heroes at your fingertips.
I’m willing to bet that you open every book you buy with the same set of expectations and desires—yearning to dive deep into the mind of a ‘bad boy’ hero, waiting patiently for him to rip your heart to bleeding pieces for the sake of angst. All so you can watch him grovel his way back to the heroine, for him to stitch every shred of your feelings back together by the time you reach the last page.
You repeat this obsessive pattern over and over again. No matter the author, no matter the book.
You’ve done it so many times, that you probably have no idea what it’s like when that doesn’t happen, and that’s okay.
I’m more than willing to be your first…
Michael
Before We “Met”
I stare ahead at the passing traffic, not wanting to believe the words that are falling from Trevor’s mouth. There’s no logical reason why a father would ever want to kill his own daughter. And as many times as I rack my brain for a plausible answer, I can’t think of anything that would make a billionaire like Leonardo Thatchwood even think of taking that risk.
He’s the type of man who plays it safe whenever he bets. A man who will walk away from the table with all of his chips in tow, if he even senses that the game won’t end in his favor. From what I’ve witnessed by following him here or there these past several weeks, he’s the very definition of the word ‘cautious.’ He also has far too much to lose, if one blemish ever lands on his carefully curated record.
I could’ve sworn he was attempting to run for public office…
“How sure are you that it’s her father who wants her gone?” I look over at Trevor, still stunned at the news.
He shrugs, puffing another “O” of smoke. “Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure or one-hundred-fucking-percent sure?”
“Both.” He rolls his eyes. “When’s the last time I did something half-assed?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
“I can show you the video, if you’d like,” he says, reaching over and rummaging through the burner phones in his glove compartment. “Is that what you need to see to believe me?”
“No.” I shake my head. He’s made stupid mistakes before, but he’s never been wrong or misfired. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Good.” He sits up and lights a new cigar. “Don’t hurt her too badly when the time comes, okay? I mean, make sure she doesn’t suffer more than necessary. His words, not mine.”
I give him a blank stare.
“Oh, and uh—” He paused. “I know you don’t typically do this, but he wants to make sure that the police don’t find her body for at least five years.”
“I don’t take requests for how the fuck I do my job.”
“Hence the words, I know you don’t do this typically…” he says. “You don’t typically go on five-hour dates with the targets either, so it looks like this is opening an entirely new era for you, isn’t it?”
Fuck off, Trevor.
Him wanting Meredith dead doesn’t add up in the slightest, but I can’t spend too much time questioning it right now. There are far more important things on my mind, and I can get to the bottom of this Thatchwood mess later. Maybe.
Sure, I can’t seem to think about anything except getting another taste of her lips or diving deep into her pussy again, but she doesn’t mean anything to me. She’s just the first memorable woman I’ve ever met, the first person who’s ever intrigued me this much in over a decade.
She’s just a job. Just a job.
“What other business do you need to talk to me about, Trevor?” I ask. “I need to go home and get some sleep.”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence.” He hands me a folder.
I open his folder, and inside are two lists. The first one consists of the businessmen and companies who are late making their deposits into our account—an offense that will prove very costly if they don’t rectify it by the end of the week.
The second list is a personal one, the names we hardly ever say aloud. These are the people who ruined us long ago, the people who’d turned us into the half-hearted monsters we’ve become. The people who still, to this day, steal our sleep by haunting us in our nightmares.
We don’t make any money “handling” them, but I’m willing to fit them into my schedule for free.
The list started with twenty-eight, but now it’s down to ten. A far cry from the zero we’ve been wanting to reach for years.
All or nothing.
I stare at the name Dr. Holden McAllister and feel my blood beginning to boil. “I’ll pay our old therapist a visit in a few months. I need to do some research on his new life.” I glance at the other list and blink a few times to make sure what I’m looking at is real.