Page 2

Present Day

Therapists should wear bulletproof vests. Especially the cute ones.

"Good morning, Ferny," I muttered, watching him nuzzle a Boston fern like it was a therapy pet. "Did you miss Daddy?"

I named the gummy worm Ferny before swallowing it whole.

My ass had gone numb from sitting on the floor of this shithole apartment for the past two hours, but the view was worth it.

Vincent went to his orchid next, lips moving in what I knew was a completely different greeting.

Three weeks of surveillance and I'd memorized his entire morning plant-parent routine.

I'd also eaten approximately three hundred pounds of gummy worms and developed a concerning emotional investment in his botanical family drama.

The cactus (Jeremy) was the grumpy one, constantly judging his diva orchid (Daphne), even though he secretly wanted to fuck her.

Too bad. Daddy Spider Plant (Richard) was totally banging Daphne and the snake plant (Vivian), whom he'd had a love child with.

I couldn't wait for the marigold twins to come out of their shared coma to find out about that scandal.

I reached into the bag of gummy worms and pulled out a green one. "Sorry, Vivian. Daddy needs his sugar fix." Down the hatch.

The rental apartment was bare except for my surveillance nest by the window: a pillow on the floor, my rifle case propped in the corner, and enough empty gummy worm packages to shock a dentist. Located in the building across from Vincent's, with only forty yards and a narrow alley between us, my vantage point gave me a perfect view of his entire apartment.

The previous tenant had left behind curtains that smelled like cat piss and broken dreams, which matched the water-stained ceiling and the suspicious brown carpet.

But the window had a direct line of sight into Vincent's apartment, and that's all that mattered.

Vincent started preparing his morning coffee—bulletproof, with grass-fed butter and MCT oil.

Ironic drink choice, considering there was nothing bulletproof about him.

Through the binoculars, I watched him measure each ingredient carefully, the morning light catching the silver threading through his dark hair.

Something about his methodical movements reminded me of Ana.

My twin had been just as precise, even as a child.

The memory hit unexpectedly, like it always did.

All these years and I still looked for her in crowds.

I shook my head, focusing on my target again.

I'd memorized everything about him. Harvard for undergrad, Columbia for his doctorate.

Specialized in trauma and attachment disorders.

Deprogramming work with cult survivors. The kind of therapist who could probably unravel a person's entire psyche in three sessions.

Good thing I was only giving him one.

My phone vibrated against the floor. I ignored it and ate another gummy worm. Orange this time. That one was Beatrice, the dramatic aloe vera plant Vincent kept in his bathroom who was definitely fucking the ficus behind everyone's back.

Three weeks ago, this was supposed to be a three-hour job.

Quick surveillance, clean shot, collect my special penny, move on.

Instead, I'd signed a month-to-month lease, hauled in surveillance equipment, and developed opinions about which gummy worm flavors paired best with different times of day.

Red for morning observations. Green for afternoon.

Blue for those late-night sessions when Vincent couldn't sleep and read vampire erotica on his couch.

Yeah, I knew about the vampire erotica. His curtains weren't as opaque as he thought.

Vincent stretched, his worn Columbia University t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned stomach. I zoomed in with the binoculars. For science. My mouth went dry, and I swallowed hard. Three weeks of watching and that strip of skin still hit me like a shot of whiskey.

"Focus, Luka," I muttered, shoving three gummy worms in my mouth at once. "You're here to kill him, not memorize his happy trail."

But as he bent to water his fern, giving me a prime view of his ass in those criminally tight boxer briefs, I couldn't help wondering if there was time for both. The client hadn't specified a timeline. Just death. Eventually.

My notebook lay open beside me, weeks of observations documented in what Frankie called "serial killer detail.

" Color-coded sticky notes marked different sections: blue for routines, yellow for contacts, pink for the stuff that had absolutely nothing to do with the job, but I wrote down anyway.

Like how he always gave money to the homeless woman outside his building.

Or how he'd spent two hours in the rain last week talking down a suicidal patient over the phone.

Who the fuck does that?

My phone buzzed again. Then again. Then it started ringing.

"Fucking hell." I answered without looking away from Vincent. "What?"

"Three weeks, Luka." Frankie's Philly accent was thicker when he was pissed. "Three fucking weeks for a job that should've taken three hours."

"I'm building a profile." I watched Vincent move to his home gym area. Wednesday meant aerobics day. My favorite. "These things take time."

"Bullshit. You've built a shrine. Mario from tech saw your expense reports. Who the fuck needs forty pounds of gummy worms for surveillance?"

"Forty-five," I corrected, tossing an empty bag toward the growing pile in the corner. "And they're a business expense. Brain food."

Vincent started stripping down to his workout clothes. Tiny shorts. Tank top. Sweet suffering Jesus.

"The client's getting antsy," Frankie continued. Something odd in his voice now. Nervous? "They're talking about making the contract public."

My hand clenched around the binoculars. "Don't you fucking dare. Vincent is mine."

"Then do your fucking job!" A pause. "Just... be careful with this one, yeah? Something about this contract feels off. The client's been pushing harder than usual. "

Since when did Frankie tell me to be careful? I'd been doing this since I was sixteen. "You going soft on me?"

"Fuck off," Frankie growled, but there was no heat in it. "Just don't want to deal with the paperwork if you get yourself killed. Your therapy appointment is at four. Try not to fall in love with him before you put a bullet in his brain."

"Too late," I muttered, but Frankie had already hung up.

I set down the binoculars and rubbed my eyes.

This was getting pathetic, even for me. I was a professional ferryman with a perfect record.

Thirty-two special pennies earned, thirty-two targets eliminated.

I didn't do feelings. I did efficient death.

I was a weapon, not a person. Weapons didn't ask why. They just pointed and shot.

But Vincent Matthews had crawled under my skin and set up camp. Every morning, I told myself today would be the day. Every morning, I watched him talk to his plants and eat his breakfast and live his stupidly wholesome life, and I couldn't do it.

Something about watching him work made my skin itch.

Last week, I'd seen him on a video call with a client, using that gentle voice of his to unravel someone's trauma.

My finger had twitched toward the trigger then, some instinct screaming danger.

Something about watching someone willingly expose their weaknesses made me uneasy.

What was dangerous about a therapist who named his plants and did charity work?

Nothing. I just didn't understand people who spilled their guts to strangers.

Through the window, Vincent had moved on to jumping jacks.

His whole apartment bounced with each movement.

I shifted uncomfortably, jeans suddenly too tight.

My body reacted to him like a teenager's, embarrassing and inconvenient for a professional assassin.

I wondered who wanted this cinnamon roll of a man dead.

Jealous ex? Vengeful patient? Someone from his cult deprogramming work?

The lack of obvious enemies made him all the more fascinating.

I wondered what he'd look like spread out on those fancy sheets I could see through his bedroom door.

"Get it together," I growled, shoving more gummy worms into my mouth.

The truth was, I had two options. Kill Vincent myself: quick, clean, painless.

Or let the contract go public and watch some other ferryman turn him into a messy headline.

There was no version of this where Vincent Matthews got to keep watering his plants and fixing broken people and doing unfairly sexy aerobics routines.

Unless...

I looked at my rifle case in the corner.

Then at Vincent, now doing some kind of squat-thrust combination that should be illegal in forty-eight states.

Then at the special penny on the windowsill.

Its ferryman symbol absorbed the light just as it had when Prometheus first pressed one into my six-year-old palm.

Each penny opened doors normal money couldn't, and I'd saved up thirty-two of them. That was enough to buy a lot of favors.

What if there was a third option?

I squeezed the penny until the metal bit into my palm.

The ferryman's toll. The price of a soul.

In a few hours, I'd be sitting across from Vincent in his office, pretending to be Julian Keller, insurance investigator with anxiety issues and a fake backstory.

He'd have no idea that I was actually there to end his life.

My love life was shit, but this was a new low even for me.

Vincent finished his workout and headed for the shower. I gave myself exactly sixty seconds to appreciate the view of him stripping down before forcing myself to look away. I had a therapy appointment to prepare for .

I stood, knees creaking from sitting too long, and caught my reflection in the window. Dark hair overdue for a cut, stubble approaching beard territory, ice-blue eyes that Jane always said could freeze hell. I looked exactly like what I was: a predator who hadn't slept in weeks.

It was time to shower, transform myself from Luka the assassin to Julian Keller, the patient, and prepare for my first face-to-face encounter with my target.

I surveyed my den of dysfunction. Empty gummy worm packages covered pretty much every surface.

My notebook looked like something from a stalker's fever dream.

The apartment smelled like sugar, cat pee, and desperation.

"Pull it together, Keller," I said, using the fake name to get into character. "Time to go lie to a therapist about your feelings. How hard could it be? Men like us don't do feelings, anyway."

I laughed, dark and bitter. The real joke was that I wouldn't have to lie much at all. Julian Keller, orphaned young and raised by violence? That was just Luka with better paperwork. The best covers were the ones closest to the truth.

In a few hours, I'd walk into Vincent's office as Julian Keller, a broken man seeking help. What Vincent didn't know was that broken men like me didn't get fixed. We just learned to break things better.

At least this job had come through Frankie. I hadn't had to see Prometheus in months, and I planned to keep it that way. The Pantheon's North American Director could stay in whatever luxury hellhole he was currently occupying, far away from me.