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PROLOGUE
The Scientist by Coldplay
Jay
“And you’re sure he’s dead?”
The man sitting across from my desk looks at me blankly for a beat, as if bored with the conversation. “He’s not in charge of the Mob anymore. It’s been handled.”
“And the debt is paid?” I ask again.
He flicks his wrist, checking the time on his watch. “So long as you keep your end of the deal, the debt is paid.”
I smile genuinely for the first time in over a decade.
Men like Evan McCabe understand two things: money and power. I have both. Now he does too. I hold out my hand across my desk. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
He shakes my hand and stands. Before he leaves, he spins back to me. “There’s only one thing I haven’t figured out.”
I cock a brow. “What’s that?”
“Out of all the things you could have asked for with this deal, why a women’s magazine?”
I laugh at the question. For thirteen years, I’ve kept the truth about why I paid someone else’s debt from those who sought to collect it, and there’s not a chance that I’ll ever let anyone have that kind of power over me again.
I shrug. “I love women.”
He laughs as if it’s a joke. And to an extent, it is. I may be known as the playboy of Boston, but I’ve only ever loved one woman. And I still do.
Once he’s gone, I settle back into my office chair and open up the account I’ve logged into over and over for the last thirteen years and pick a song.
It’s time to take back what’s mine. It’s been thirteen long and lonely fucking years, but it’s time to go back to the start.
I click on the link and upload the song. “The Scientist” by Coldplay.
1
YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN, KID BY TAYLOR SWIFT
Cat
“You’ve done all your homework?” I ask as I tap my nails against my desk and absently watch the people congregating on the sand outside my office window. It’s only May, and yet Bostonians are already flocking to the beach in their shorts and sunglasses, sporting smiles while they toss frisbees and scan the shoreline for treasures.
Chloe sighs on the other end of the phone. “Yes, and I did extra math.”
I laugh. I hate math. “And your mother said it’s okay?”
“Cynthia is fine with it. Come on, please,” she whines, for once sounding like the eleven-year-old she is. It’s surprisingly heartening. Usually, she acts like she’s my mother.
“It’s weird that you call her that.”
“You call her that,” she volleys back.
“She’s not my mother,” I say, focusing on my screensaver. Cynthia, Chloe, and me in front of the Eiffel Tower for her eleventh birthday. My heart aches for them both.
“She’s not my mother either.” It’s not said in a bratty way. Rather, it’s a statement of fact.
With a sigh, I ignore the comment. “I’ll be there tomorrow. And yes, if your mother says it’s fine, I’ll take you to the fashion show.”
