Page 112 of The Mafia Assassin's Redemption-

But then she lays off the impressive sucking and starts to lap me. It’s gentle, soothing, and if I weren’t me, I’d think she actually wanted this. I try to stop her but she goes heavy until finally she’s done.

This time, I tuck my deflating cock away.

“Anything else, Master?”

I laugh even though I’m still furious. “Christ, Harry, anyone would think you’re trying to make me fall in love with you.”

“No one can do the impossible.”

For a moment, I stare at her. “Are you talking about me or you? If you’re talking about me falling in love, you’re right, I’m probably not capable. If you’re talking about others falling in love with you, just know you’re the kind of lass who could make Satan turn into a melty-eyed puppy.”

I turn away to tidy up, clearing the trimmings of the flowers, picking up the debris on the floor. I find a mug, sniff it, and down the remaining drops of whiskey before putting it into the sink.

When I raced into the church, I caught a whiff of that flowery shit Shiv used to wear. And for once, it didn’t bother me, because Harry’s nestled too deep under my skin.

Fuck.

This fucking woman.

Harry.

Melty-puppy eyes?

Christ.

I don’t even know how I said any of that.

It’s not… me.

Harry helps me clean, and she refills the mug for me, then gets another from the counter. I glance at mine. “That woman I made the backfiring joke about used this one, didn’t she?”

“Don’t worry, her cooties are sophisticated. English, Russian, and Italian.”

I laugh. And I get it. Harry’s smart. Dumb as fuck when someone puts a gun to her head, but otherwise smart.

Fury starts to bubble and prick at my skin and I take a bigger swallow of the whiskey. I force my brain away from the men who tried to shoot my wife to how good the whiskey would be if this were an Irish Catholic church.

There’s a subtle difference, all to do with the quality of the booze behind the scenes.

But honestly? It’s hard to stop the cascading thoughts of murder from consuming me.

“Jesus, Harry,” I say. “You almost got killed.”

“Near the door.”

“What kind of semantics are those?” I demand, fingers tightening on the mug.

Harry meets my gaze, slightly helpless. “You know I can’t stop anyone from coming in to talk.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to like it if you’re in danger.” I know, I know, I could fucking make her a prisoner at home. Maybe buy her a gilded cage and lock her up. But she loves it here, just like she loves these flowers, just like I wish?—

I stifle the thought. “I really hate you being in danger for reasons I don’t understand.”

“Well, sometimes I don’t understand you.” She stands in the middle of the kitchen and I’m overcome by an urge to kiss her.

But I don’t. I put the mug down and continue to clean. I’m missing an important piece of this puzzle, the thing that’ll make it all make sense. It’s not here in the rectory kitchen, though.

I empty my whiskey in her cup. “Finish up what you need to, and I’ll drive us home.”