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“He was busy.” I grip my purse and then check my watch.

By day, I’m a queen, seen all over Manhattan in my nice clothes, hair styled, and lots of makeup. I lunch with my cousins, my aunt, and others who want my husbands’ and my brothers’ favor.

I hate it.

It’s not who I am. I thought Griffin knew I hated it, too.

But three nights a week, I come alive teaching self-defense to domestic abuse survivors in Isabella O’Rourke’s center for women. Tonight is one of those nights.

It’s early, but I need to work out and get loose, shake off what I heard Griffin say about me. And that Rand Miller might be alive after all and spied on me.

“I’d like to go to the O’Rourke Women’s Center now instead of later,” I tell Bourne.

“Yes, Mrs. Quinlan.” He steers me out of the lobby and into the Lexus where Ace is watching the double-parked SUV.

He smiles at me and opens the passenger door.

Once I get to the women’s center, I change into workout clothes I keep in a locker. I run on the treadmill, Griffin’s words ringing in my ears.

Get rid of her.

Her family will need a funeral home.

What in the actual fuck?

Before I know it, I’ve run about twelve miles, and I’m covered in sweat. Then Jenna walks into the center, and I forget my troubles. Although, I identify with her and the others a little more now. Looks like my husband also wants me gone and will use violence to get rid of me.

Jenna’s story broke my heart, and I was ready to tell my husband to kill the man who hurt her. But men like Jenna’s husband are cockroaches. Squash one and flush it down the toilet, but a few thousand are lurking behind the wall ready to strike when it gets dark.

I doubt I’ll say much to Griffin anymore. Move into one of the guest bedrooms. Something happened, something...

Did... Did I misunderstand what I heard?

“You okay?” Isabella startles me, and I nearly trip on the treadmill’s fast-moving belt.

“Yeah, sure. Just... You know. Stuff.” I shrug.

“Griffin?”

I close my eyes. She’s married to a mafia king like me. But I don’t want to pry into her relationship. Marriages are snowflakes, no two are alike. I recall her telling me she and her husband had a rocky start.

I doubt he threatened to kill her!

“He’s been...”An asshole.“Busy.”

“It comes with the territory.” She absentmindedly holds her stomach.

Christ, she’s expecting again. I can’t bother her, or make her think I too will have a stalker husband. She’ll ban me.

“It’s fine.”

“Your group is here.” Isabella points to the women filing into the workout room I use for the self-defense classes.

I hop off the treadmill and grab a towel to rid my body of sweat. In the locker room, I change into fresh workout gear and then strut to the class, my head held high.

Even though I feel miserable.

In the small group of women I coach, Jenna is the quietest, the most unsure. But she’s come a long way. I was told by her on-site therapist that the idea of any violence triggers her. Her eyes always cast downward. The weight of everything she’s been through is clear in the slope of her shoulders.