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Freddie is an idiot on his best days. He doesn’t look over his shoulder or take it easy, walking the streets of Little Italy. He may be New York’s capo’s heir, but this is Boston. No one knows who he is, and his grumbling the whole time will not keep him safe.

Be a shame if he was… hurt.

We’re a block away from the club when he darts down a side alley. That’s my chance.

Ignoring the gun at my back, I slip the knife from my back pocket. I cut the other way, heading off his path. He stops, stumbles back, and grips the wall with tense fingers. Swallowing thickly, he eyes the entrance behind me.

“Whoa there, buddy,” he pants. “Didn’t see you there.”

“That was the point.”

Stepping closer, I shove him back. The knife is heavy in my hand, but it’s familiar—comforting.

Long ago, Maeve taught me how to wield a knife. I didn’t realize why at the time—she never taught our sisters how to fight—but I was different.

He could use his daughters—in marriages, deals, or transactions. They were commodities, and that afforded them a type of protection against death. It protected his power.

Me, though? I was a competitor to his throne. And he never wanted me to have it.

Maeve knew that one day, he might try to kill me to keep his crown. I had to be ready.

The blade glints under the crescent moon as I pin him to the wall with my shoulder. Holding him tight, I wedge the knife against his skin. A drop of blood drips from the nick.

“Wait,” he pleads, trying to knock me away. It doesn’t work. I press firmly, my lean statue deceiving.

“Shh,” I hush. Sawing against his first two fingers, I watch as the blood wells up. “I’m feeling generous. I should take all the fingers, but I’ll only take the first two. As a warning.”

The edge slices through his flesh easily enough. I have to apply some pressure to the bone. They snap as if I’m breaking delicate twigs in the forest. It’s almost adorable.

He screams loudly when I finish, and the fingers flop to the ground. Using my elbow, I knock him out cold, and he slumps into a puddle of his own blood.

Carefully, I gather the two discarded digits and place them in my pocket.

As I walk away, the ball of anger soothes with the weight of his fingers in my sweatshirt. I want to be the only one who ruins Valentina for this world—no one else should know how soft her skin is, how delectable she tastes, or how her scent can calm the rage in a man’s gut. Only I should know those things, and this douche, with his gelled hair and manicured fingers, will not take that from me.

As I turn down the road, I locate my car and click the keys. The car's headlights flash, and the air shifts against the nape of my neck. My feet stop, blood pounding between my ears. I learned a long time ago not to dismiss those moments.

The air shifts and I duck to the left; a knife sails past my head. It spears the tire of my parked car.

“Mother fuck,” I curse, crouched on the dirty cement. It smells like exhaust and cat urine, and I glare back at the smiling bastard behind me.

I recognize him. He’s tried this before in Seattle, before I had to cut ties and scram.

“Briar O’Brien,” Quinn tsks. “You’re a hard man to find.”

“Apparently not hard enough,” I mumble, standing. I take Quinn in, from his creepy, clown-like smile, to his skinny body, down to his shiny boots.

He looks ready to join the circus rather than kill me, but I know better. Quinn is deadly with his throwing knives. He’s on the FBI most wanted list, and if not for Killian, he’d probably be higher up.

Quinn holds a knife to his throat, finger pointed at me. The gun at my side burns me, but I refuse to touch it.

“Boston? Seems silly to come back to the scene of the crime, no?”

I raise a brow, standing. “There was no crime.”

“Then, why the hit?” He whistles. “A few million to kill you? Highest payout I’ve had in a while.”

“My dad and I had a disagreement,” I drawl.