Page 4 of Ruthless

I shook my head, focusing on my target again. I'd memorized everything about him. Harvard for undergrad, Columbia forhis doctorate. Specialized in trauma and attachment disorders. Deprogramming work with cult survivors. The kind of therapist who could probably unravel a person's entire psyche in three sessions.

Good thing I was only giving him one.

My phone vibrated against the floor. I ignored it and ate another gummy worm. Orange this time. That one was Beatrice, the dramatic aloe vera plant Vincent kept in his bathroom who was definitely fucking the ficus behind everyone's back.

Three weeks ago, this was supposed to be a three-hour job. Quick surveillance, clean shot, collect my special penny, move on. Instead, I'd signed a month-to-month lease, hauled in surveillance equipment, and developed opinions about which gummy worm flavors paired best with different times of day. Red for morning observations. Green for afternoon. Blue for those late-night sessions when Vincent couldn't sleep and read vampire erotica on his couch.

Yeah, I knew about the vampire erotica. His curtains weren't as opaque as he thought.

Vincent stretched, his worn Columbia University t-shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned stomach. I zoomed in with the binoculars. For science. My mouth went dry, and I swallowed hard. Three weeks of watching and that strip of skin still hit me like a shot of whiskey.

"Focus, Luka," I muttered, shoving three gummy worms in my mouth at once. "You're here to kill him, not memorize his happy trail."

But as he bent to water his fern, giving me a prime view of his ass in those criminally tight boxer briefs, I couldn't help wondering if there was time for both. The client hadn't specified a timeline. Just death. Eventually.

My notebook lay open beside me, weeks of observations documented in what Frankie called "serial killer detail." Color-coded sticky notes marked different sections: blue for routines, yellow forcontacts, pink for the stuff that had absolutely nothing to do with the job, but I wrote down anyway. Like how he always gave money to the homeless woman outside his building. Or how he'd spent two hours in the rain last week talking down a suicidal patient over the phone.

Who the fuck does that?

My phone buzzed again. Then again. Then it started ringing.

"Fucking hell." I answered without looking away from Vincent. "What?"

"Three weeks, Luka." Frankie's Philly accent was thicker when he was pissed. "Three fucking weeks for a job that should've taken three hours."

"I'm building a profile." I watched Vincent move to his home gym area. Wednesday meant aerobics day. My favorite. "These things take time."

"Bullshit. You've built a shrine. Mario from tech saw your expense reports. Who the fuck needs forty pounds of gummy worms for surveillance?"

"Forty-five," I corrected, tossing an empty bag toward the growing pile in the corner. "And they're a business expense. Brain food."

Vincent started stripping down to his workout clothes. Tiny shorts. Tank top. Sweet suffering Jesus.

"The client's getting antsy," Frankie continued. Something odd in his voice now. Nervous? "They're talking about making the contract public."

My hand clenched around the binoculars. "Don't you fucking dare. Vincent is mine."

"Then do your fucking job!" A pause. "Just... be careful with this one, yeah? Something about this contract feels off. The client's been pushing harder than usual."

Since when did Frankie tell me to be careful? I'd been doing this since I was sixteen. "You going soft on me?"

"Fuck off," Frankie growled, but there was no heat in it. "Just don't want to deal with the paperwork if you get yourself killed. Your therapy appointment is at four. Try not to fall in love with him before you put a bullet in his brain."

"Too late," I muttered, but Frankie had already hung up.

I set down the binoculars and rubbed my eyes. This was getting pathetic, even for me. I was a professional ferryman with a perfect record. Thirty-two special pennies earned, thirty-two targets eliminated. I didn't do feelings. I did efficient death. I was a weapon, not a person. Weapons didn't ask why. They just pointed and shot.

But Vincent Matthews had crawled under my skin and set up camp. Every morning, I told myself today would be the day. Every morning, I watched him talk to his plants and eat his breakfast and live his stupidly wholesome life, and I couldn't do it.

Something about watching him work made my skin itch. Last week, I'd seen him on a video call with a client, using that gentle voice of his to unravel someone's trauma. My finger had twitched toward the trigger then, some instinct screaming danger. Something about watching someone willingly expose their weaknesses made me uneasy. What was dangerous about a therapist who named his plants and did charity work? Nothing. I just didn't understand people who spilled their guts to strangers.

Through the window, Vincent had moved on to jumping jacks. His whole apartment bounced with each movement. I shifted uncomfortably, jeans suddenly too tight. My body reacted to him like a teenager's, embarrassing and inconvenient for a professional assassin. I wondered who wanted this cinnamon roll of a man dead. Jealous ex? Vengeful patient? Someone from his cult deprogramming work?The lack of obvious enemies made him all the more fascinating. I wondered what he'd look like spread out on those fancy sheets I could see through his bedroom door.

"Get it together," I growled, shoving more gummy worms into my mouth.

The truth was, I had two options. Kill Vincent myself: quick, clean, painless. Or let the contract go public and watch some other ferryman turn him into a messy headline. There was no version of this where Vincent Matthews got to keep watering his plants and fixing broken people and doing unfairly sexy aerobics routines.

Unless...

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