Chapter One
Roman baths of Bath
I t wasn’t on my year’s bingo card to contaminate the water of two-thousand-year-old ancient thermae, but life had a way of surprising me every now and again.
“Perhaps now would be a good time to stop flailing about, Mr. Boyle,” I suggested stonily, my voice muffled by the plague doctor mask I was wearing.
Breathing through an upholstered leather beak was decisively inconvenient, but the Roman baths of Bath were littered with security cameras, and while severely allergic to humans, I had a feeling I was even more averse to prison food.
Plus, I had it on good authority that Boyle wasn’t a fan of crows.
I always appreciated a good Hitchcockian touch.
Nothing short of polite, Darrah Boyle stopped thrashing in the shallow water upon my request, but not before hitting his head on the edge of the Roman bath’s stair and splitting his forehead. The sound of bone cracking rang and echoed through the empty arena. My nostrils flared.
I despised clumsiness.
I especially hated mess.
Crimson crawled across the green-hued water, visible even in the pitch black of the night. Clenching my teeth, I tapped on the side of my right leg twice, then six times, then twice again.
I loathed going off script. This was definitely a diversion from my plan. He was not supposed to bleed. I wanted his corpse unsoiled and bruise-free.
It’s not in your plans.
It’s not in your plans.
It’s not in your plans.
“Plans change,” I said loudly, authoritatively, to myself.
Uncurling my fingers from his blood-soaked hair, I pushed up on my heels and watched as his ashen, naked frame drifted along the rectangle body of water, face down. A minute passed, then three. Because he wasn’t Aquaman, he was obviously dead.
I briefly considered leaving him inside the columned bath to be found. It would look like an accident. An inebriated ex-felon who came for a late-night dunk where swimming was prohibited. Knocked his head and drowned.
But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
There were rituals to follow. A ceremony to be made.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
With an exasperated, long-suffering sigh, I strode into the thermae to retrieve my prey. Water enfolded my Tom Ford Chelsea boots, soaking my Brioni pants. The fog of the spring water swallowed his body in thick mist, and I had to fish my phone out of my peacoat and turn on the flashlight.
I checked for messages, but there weren’t any. Not even from my personal assistant, Gia, whom I called a half hour ago about a missing document I needed for work.
I would deal with her later.
The quiet swishing of the water as I treaded through it drowned out my slow and steady heartbeat.
Boyle’s body floated toward a corner of the stairway.
I gripped his hair in my gloved hand, dragging him up to the limestone pavement.
I used the tip of my boot to roll him over so that he faced me. A sloppy, sodden sound rang in my ears.
His blue face was splotchy, his skull distorted and slightly caved in from the injury. His lips were liver-hued.
You couldn’t even have a clean kill , Andrin’s voice mocked in my head. You just had to make a mess of it, didn’t you, Boy?
I shook my head, ridding myself of his voice.
It was my first kill. Practice made perfect, and I had at least two more people to help hone my craft.
See, five years ago, Darrah Boyle, along with two other inmates, murdered my father in prison over a bet. A game of cards. A reckless, meaningless moment.
My father was a powerful man. The type not to land himself in prison for anything short of murder.
As it happened, he did kill someone. Accidentally.
Nothing accidental about what Boyle did to him, though.
Paying with his life was the only logical outcome. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, et cetera.
I had always straddled the murky line between a businessman and a criminal.
Tonight, I stepped over that line.
Hell, I fucking sprinted through it, all the way to another continent.
To track down Boyle and his partners in crime, I had to get in bed with New York’s notorious Camorra organization.
The Ferrante family, who ruled the Italian Mafia in New York, was a lot of things.
None of them outstanding members of society.
“I suppose you could say you popped my cherry.” I reached for the inner pocket of my double-breasted coat, producing a black thorn still attached to the twig. I pressed it to Boyle’s cold, purple mouth. It was an unordinary, telling detail. Black thorn.
Blackthorn .
Like my last name.
I wanted his friends to know I was coming for them.
Wanted them to run, hide, beg, and bargain.
A moving target was always more fun to kill than a sitting duck waiting to be shot.
“It’s been a pleasure. Thank you for participating.” I stood to my full height. A thin trail of blood began leaking out of Boyle’s mouth. His eyes were wide and full of horror.
Soon, this place would be swarming with police, journalists, and curious spectators.
Soon, articles would be written, TV anchors would weep, and national panic would ensue.
Soon, but not yet.
The night was an old friend, always ready to conceal me as I tended to my nefarious business.
I slipped out of the baths and into the winter night, sliding into an untraceable Alfa Romeo I’d paid cash for.
Checked my pocket watch, a family heirloom dating back three hundred years.
Twenty minutes ahead of the timeline I set for myself.
I smirked. Punctuality soothed my soul.
I drove back to London, whistling a cheerful tune.
Once at King’s Cross Station, I tossed the Alfa Romeo’s keys into a trash bin midstride and sauntered into a waiting vehicle, reuniting with my London-based driver, Thierry.
“Where is Miss Bennett?” I settled in the back seat of the Range Rover SV Carmel, plucking my leather gloves off, one finger at a time.
I’d discarded the mask earlier in an open wheat field.
Thierry frowned at his watch, his eyes swinging to the rearview mirror, where our gazes clashed.
“It’s one in the morning, sir,” he pointed out in a French accent.
“Did I ask for the time?” My brow quirked in mocking amusement.
“No.” He cleared his throat, shrinking into his leather seat. “Miss Bennett, I believe, is in Chelsea. It’s her birthday today.”
Was it now?
“The first night she’s had off since the Taylor Swift concert in September,” he rambled on, his voice drenched in pleading.
Ah yes. My assistant was mentally fourteen and consequently a “Swiftie.”
This in itself was a good enough reason for me to fire her.
“Where in Chelsea?”
“The Swan and the Wine.”
“Off we go then.”
Thierry pressed his lips together, the word no threatening to tear from between them.
I eyeballed him through the mirror, challenging him to defy me.
Some people avoided confrontation. I actively sought it.
“I think,” he began, his soft tenor ridiculous for a sixty-year-old, six-foot-three man in a tailored suit. “You should allow her the night off, if I may suggest so, sir.”
“You may not,” I informed him flatly. “Now floor it.”
Thirty minutes later, Thierry parked outside the Swan and the Wine, killing the engine. He drew in a breath, burying his face in his hands.
He was fond of Miss Bennett. Most people were, for an unfathomable reason.
My gaze dragged to the back window, settling on the trendy pub.
The Georgian building was painted burgundy, the pub’s name in bold, golden lettering over a black background. Pots overflowing with colorful flowers adorned the windowsills and arches of the wooden doors.
Through the wide, wood-paned window, I found the subject of my irritation, occupying a table in the corner of the tavern, wearing a pink Birthday Girl sash over her sensible, pale blue tweed dress.
By her side was a man I presumed was her boyfriend, Ashley, along with football sensation Kieran Carmichael, one of my business partners, Row Casablancas, and his hot-mess wife, Cal. Emphasis on the mess.
There was no amount of wipes in the world to clean her verbal diarrhea.
I knew Cal and Gia were close. Kieran was friends with Row, so he was likely invited by proxy.
Theoretically, I should have been offended for not being invited. After all, Gia had met Cal, Row, and Kieran through me.
However, I couldn’t muster anything other than mild relief. I’d take drowning Irish mobsters in historical pools any day of the week over pretending my assistant’s birthday was something worth celebrating.
Alongside them sat three women I presumed were Gia’s London friends.
I stared at my English PA as she tipped her head back and laughed at something her boyfriend said heartily. Asshole did not look that fucking funny. Clearly, her standards were low.
She shook her head, giving his chest a playful shove, then scooped her silly neon cocktail, taking a demure sip.
I pulled out my phone—my sleeves and ankles still damp—and texted her.
Tate: Miss Bennett, I asked you a question. Answer me.
Her phone lit up on the table, illuminating her face. She scowled at it, rolling her eyes and flipping it, screen down.
She was ignoring me.
An official invitation to ruin her evening.
Thank you, Gia. I RSVPed.
Her boyfriend shot to his feet and offered her his hand, which she took. They slipped into their coats and emerged out of the arched double doors, carrying their drinks. Outside, they leaned against a beer garden bench. Ashley lit them both cigarettes, passing one to her.
I didn’t know she smoked.
The revelation unsettled me.
Not because I cared. If she wanted to expedite her demise, I was happy to fund her four packs a day habit. The world was grossly overpopulated as it was.
I did not, however, like surprises.
And this was outside the confines of her personality.
My assistant was prim and proper. A smart-mouthed ice queen who was bossily kind. Not easily defined and yet entirely predictable.