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“You can't just walk around Boston dripping blood, Torin.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Look. There's a pharmacy right there. Let me go get…”

“No.” I shake my head. “We don't have time. We have to throw them off and get ready for tonight.”

She nods. “Right.”

I nod to the gray jacket. “You recognize him at all?”

She shakes her head, frowning. “Vaguely familiar. Can you take a picture and send it to your family?”

Another clue that she’s actually convinced I’m not the enemy. Another clue that we’re cut from the same cloth.

“Good call. Stay here and cover for me.”

She nods and leans against the building, her back to the alley.

I take a pic of his body, then send it on a secure line with a message to Seamus.

ID him please. Followed us as soon as we put the tracker on.

Then I lift his dead body over my shoulder, walk to the dumpster, and slide him in. Scary how fragile the human body is when all’s said and done.

I walk back to Valentina, pull out my phone again, and tap a contact labeled Disposer.

Body on East Street, gray jacket, silver dumpster. Dispose of it. Do it in twenty minutes and your fee doubles.

Valentina watches over my shoulder. “Well, looks like we finished with dinner and a movie. Dessert time?”

Chapter Fourteen

VALENTINA

I'm lying back in the new bed, staring at the ceiling.

I've got to hand it to him. He has very good taste in hotel rooms.

The bed is a California king, with real linen, not the synthetic kind that pills after two washes. The curtains are blackout, floor-to-ceiling, and whoever hung them did it correctly, because there's no gap at the center where the city could leak through. The minibar is stocked but not ostentatious. One painting hangs on the wall, abstract and expensive. And it's quiet, with solid walls, far away from anyone else.

My foot throbs from the incision. He somehow got a yellow prescription bottle of antibiotics to prevent any other infections.

Torin's been on the phone, still in his rumpled clothes, spotted with blood. He hasn't even taken his suit jacket off yet. We got to this room, a different one that overlooks the Boston waterfront. He handed me a room service menu and told me to order anything I wanted. The pizza and cannoli are long gone, but my stomach's tight.

“This feels like my first field op,” I tell him.

He raises a brow at me. “Does it? Seemed like one this afternoon, after cannoli.” He goes back to studying his phone.

“Well, this time I'll be dressed for it. A wig and everything.”

“Does that excite you?” he asks in a droll voice.

As his eyes meet mine across the room, I lick my lips and swallow. “Maybe a little bit. You?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he jots something down. “Seeing you wearing a red wig? Aye, lass. Very much.”

Now that I'm lying on the bed, I remember what Seamus implied on the phone. I know how you could spend that time.

Who exactly are these men, and what do they do? I’m convinced it wasn’t the McCarthys who took me after all—that much is clear. But I’m still not sure I can trust them.

Torin, maybe.