The Wish List (Deal with the Devil)

Prologue

PATRICK

Despite what I’ve told myself these last few months, there’s no such thing as full retirement for men like me.

Even when I take an afternoon for myself—peppermint tea steaming gently in front of me, hands blood-free, a Sig tucked in an ankle holster instead of my preferred Glock sitting familiarly on my hip—I’m still an experienced killer.

And an experienced killer always pays attention.

That’s why I noticed her.

She arrived at the quiet coffeehouse about twenty minutes ago.

I chose this seat on purpose about ten minutes before that.

It has the best sight lines, and I murmured in appreciation when she hurried inside, the wind blowing her cherry-red hair around a face far more innocent than the curvy body that belonged to it.

She had a laptop clutched to her impressive chest, and a panicked look in her deep brown eyes as she hurried toward the counter to order.

Around us, the pretentious coffeehouse I habitually visit because no other Dragonfly does hummed with performance.

A week before Thanksgiving, people were laughing a little too loudly, angling their laptops just right, pretending they were busy instead of all alone.

Everyone here wants something, I believe, and it’s not just the overpriced coffees and teas they serve.

The men and women in their businesswear crave attention.

Validation. Most of all, a reason to be seen.

Not her.

After accepting her drink, she sat down at a corner table across the coffeehouse from me.

Unlike everyone else, I don’t have a laptop to use as a prop.

It’s just me, my tea, and the sense that, suddenly, I’m nowhere near as relaxed as I seem to be as I shift my position, not-so-casually watching her.

She’s hunched over in her seat, that windblown, wild red hair falling into her face as she types. Coffee forgotten, her fingers beat at the keyboard, each press of her finger a stab at one of the keys.

Once or twice, she wipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand, impatient with herself or whatever she’s working on, but she keeps going regardless.

I don’t mean to spy on her so intently, but I can’t seem to stop.

I don’t want to.

Even worse, I know better, but the truth is that I’ve ‘retired’ from being a Dragonfly enforcer for a reason.

I’m closer to forty than thirty-five these days, and I’ve been in the life since organized crime slunk into Springfield back when I was a kid.

I’m done with it for the moment; at least, that’s what I tell myself.

Let other men take the bloody wet work off my hands.

It’s time I let myself breathe. That’s what the boss did, right?

Damien Libellula… he’s married now. He got himself a wife who knows exactly what he is and who chose him as hers anyway.

Hell, Savannah Libellula was the last enforcer I teamed up with before I told the boss I was done.

I’ve gone private, only taking jobs when they interest me. If Damien needs my skills for old times’ sake, he knows my number. Still, since earlier this year, ‘Saint’ Patrick North has gone as straight as a professional murderer can with only a handful of kills since January.

The boss understood. When I pointed out how content… no, how fucking happy he is with his missus, I didn’t have to tell him that there was a sliver of my black heart that wanted that. Enforcers own women, but that was never my style. Fuck ‘em sure, enjoy their company, then move on.

But I’m sort of retired now, and if I want to sip my tea and wonder what has her dashing away angry tears as she takes her frustration out on her computer, I will. And if I fantasize about what those lush lips could do when they’re not pursed in clear distress… hell, I’m only a man.

There’s something about her. She’s beautiful, yes, but not polished in the way that so many Dragonfly women are—both those claimed and those who want to have one of the mafia men for their own.

She’s not fragile, either; with thighs like those, she could crush a man’s skull, and he’d probably thank her for it if he got to bury his face in her pussy first. In fact, the more I look, the more I admit that there isn’t anything soft about the way she holds herself.

Her mouth is set stubbornly, lips pressed together like she’s holding something back.

Her body is solid and unapologetic, taking up as much space as she wants without asking anyone’s permission.

She sniffles once, inhales sharply, and keeps typing.

Good, I think, lips curling around my cup as I take another sip of my rapidly cooling tea. Don’t stop.

Not yet.

My chilled drink gives me an excuse to climb to my feet, moving leisurely toward the counter.

I place a second order, adding a cranberry and orange muffin to give me another reason to linger, then give the girl behind the counter a friendly and disarming smile, so specifically sincere, she’ll never doubt my intentions.

By the time I’m cupping another tea, someone has taken my seat.

I expected that. At this time of day, the coffeehouse is packed, and I grabbed my coat when I got up so that it was free for the next customer.

I did that on purpose. Now, as I turn back toward the tables, I zero in on the empty seat one over from the redhead.

I sidle up to it, easing down onto it as though it was the most convenient one to take.

My coat gets tossed on the empty chair opposite me, and though I don’t have the best eyes on the front door, if I edge a little this way, I can see enough of her screen to notice that she’s tapped out a header, added some kind of picture, then typed about five or six more lines.

The header is in a big, bold font: My Wish List. I can’t read what’s under it—yet—but she definitely has me curious as to what a woman like her would want—and why she looked so pissed as she made her list a month out from the holidays.

She’s stopped typing. Holding her cup between two hands, she brings it to her lips, sipping slowly.

In between tastes, she shudders out a breath, and when she sets the cup down on her tabletop, a small, relieved smile tugs on her lips.

I see all of this out of the corner of my eye, and when she smiles, I feel an answering tug in my gut—and a twitch below my belt.

My cock is as interested in this woman as I am, but it’s those angry tears… I have this sudden desire to find out who made her cry and make them pay for it. True, I can’t see how that has anything to do with an ‘I want’ list, but I get my chance a few moments later without even expecting it.

I’d pulled my phone out of my pocket, scrolling through my messages, fading into the background so that I could observe her without sending her running out the door.

It’s a special skill of mine. Between some faux charm and a classically handsome yet forgettable face, I can fool most of the public into believing that I’m harmless.

My suit means I could be just another businessman hard at work, not a contract killer on a break.

I’m Patrick, not Saint, and when she climbs up from her seat, eyes darting around the coffeehouse as she searches for… ah, yes, the bathroom… it’s Patrick that she smiles nervously at.

“Um. Excuse me. I’m just going to run to the restroom for a second. Would it be alright if you kept an eye on my computer? It’s okay if you don’t want to—”

Oh, sweetheart. I do.

I lower my phone, glancing up at her. Shit. Her pretty brown eyes are a little glossy from the earlier tears, but the way she’s looking at me instead of the laptop screen… fuck. She’s even more gorgeous than I thought.

My cock agrees.

“It’s fine,” I tell her, resisting the urge to drop my hand to my lap and fucking squeeze—or follow her to the restroom, lay my palm on her luscious tit, and squeeze that instead.

She looks so damn soft, but also tentative, and I’m beginning to think that this woman would be so easy to break if she hasn’t been already.

I don’t want to break her. I have this sudden urge to put her in a cage, to keep her, to make her mine just like Damien captured his Savannah.

But I’m a pro. I’m a planner, too, and I haven’t gotten where I am by being reckless and impulsive. I might not even remember her face tomorrow. Odds are I’ll leave the coffeehouse, jerk off if I can’t get my erection to behave, then move on to another conquest.

Or I could give in to my possessive, obsessive instincts for once and do a little research… research that begins with that laptop right there.

I give her a little nod, wordlessly assuring her that I’ve got this.

“Thank you. I’ll be right back,” she mumbles softly before scurrying away.

I allow myself a few seconds to watch the sway of her hips as she crosses the floor. Then, once she’s disappeared down the hall that leads to the public restroom, I stand up, stretch, and drop down in front of her computer.

If anyone in the coffeehouse notices, they mind their own fucking business.

Smart.

I don’t do impulse. Every move I make is measured, considered, and inevitable once decided on… and I’ve decided that I want to learn a little more about this woman, especially when I get a better look at what’s still on the open document she left up on her screen.

Right beneath the header that announces this is her wish list, I can finally tell what the red image I noticed earlier was: a Christmas poinsettia.

Makes sense. This has got to be a Christmas list, and I almost think it charming that she went through the trouble to import some clipart of the traditional holiday flower into her doc.

But then I see the next line and, shit, I can’t deny that there’s more to her tears than I would’ve first thought…

If life were fair, they would get what they deserve. But since life’s never been fair, I can only wish that, this Christmas, they do.

Beneath that, I see five names. All male, with no other notation. Just the five names—and, with a quick snap of my phone, I have a list of my own. The continued hum of the coffeehouse swallows the sound of the click before I place it face down on the tabletop, brain whirring.

My gaze returns to the poinsettia. A festive flower with bright red leaves often mistaken for petals.

Now that I can see that this isn’t a wish list of odds and ends like makeup or bags or clothes, I’m even more intrigued by the symbol.

A plant often associated with celebration as part of a header for a… what? A revenge list?

Possibly.

Probably.

My lips curve.

Then, because I’ve never been the sort of man to waste such a golden opportunity—and because she still hasn’t returned from the bathroom, though she will soon—I close her document long enough to search the computer for its system settings.

Not everyone sets their computers up with their full names, though I’ve run across more than enough of them who do that it’s a good bet to start there if I want to know who she is. And there it is, right under her account name: Noelle Halliday.

I repeat it silently, committing it to memory. Once I have, I close the settings, return the document to the full screen, then move one seat over. I’m just picking up my tea, pointlessly scrolling through my phone again, when she reappears.

I catch the flash of relief in her eyes when she notices that I’m still sitting here, her ‘untouched’ laptop left exactly where it was. She breathes out another thank you as she returns to her seat. I nod, brushing it off, and drink my tea.

At least, that’s what it appears like from the outside.

Inside, I’m already wondering what the hell Charles Dutton, the VP of Marketing for Evergreen & Co.

, could have done to earn a spot on Noelle’s shit list—and how I can make sure that he, along with the other four names I didn’t get the chance to look up yet, get exactly what they deserve.

Because Noelle Halliday didn’t make a wish list.

She issued a request. A plea.

And I’ve never been very good at ignoring those.

I’ve also found it impossible to let things slide over my thirty-eight years.

Fairness might be a concept that few believe in, but ‘Saint’ Patrick North has made a career out of balancing the scales.

For ten years, I did it on my own. For another decade, I killed for the Libellula Family, racking up thirteen leaves on my right bicep—thirteen green leaves to represent thirteen kills that benefitted the Dragonflies—until I quietly retired earlier this year.

I have plenty of green leaves to back up my skills.

Maybe it’s time I trade them for five red ones.