Page 29 of Taming Seraphine

“Shit.”

“She doesn’t even know about her billionaire father, and I want it to stay that way.”

My pulse quickens. In other words, he wants me to kill Seraphine. If I refuse, he’ll just employ one of the other contract killers in New Alderney. Maybe even the Moirai Group, who always gets their target, regardless of the collateral damage.

“Have you located her?” I ask, my voice even.

“She’s a visual artist, whatever the fuck that means, and living uptown with a bunch of girlfriends.”

“Her name?” I ask, my brows pulling together.

“Emberly Kay.” The phone buzzes. “I just sent you a photo.”

I glance down at the screen into the smiling features of a dark-haired woman who looks nothing like Seraphine but easily resembles the Capello twin I shot in the bathroom. I let out an exhale, my lungs deflating with relief.

“The family resemblance is unmistakable,” I say.

Roman snorts. “You can take care of it, right?”

“No women or children,” I say. “I broke my code to get you off death row, but no more.”

My cousin falls silent for a few heartbeats before saying, “You’re right. Don’t think I won’t forget how you saved my life.”

I’m about to wax lyrical about how he and his family were my rocks after Dad died, but a scream from behind the glass cuts through the tender moment. I barrel through the entrance, push past the receptionist, and barge into Monica’s office.

Seraphine stands with a letter opener dripping with blood with Monica cowering behind her desk, holding a bleeding hand to her chest.

“Call 911,” Monica says to the receptionist at the door.

“No.” I advance toward Seraphine and squeeze the hand holding the letter opener until her fingers straighten and it drops to the floor. “Let me handle this.”

“I’m professionally bound to make sure my client gets the right help,” Monica says, her voice trembling.

My jaw tenses. Once again, I’m doubting my decision about not putting Seraphine out of her misery. She stares up at me with those huge, blue eyes, her bottom lip trembling, looking so vulnerable that the sight of her pulls at my frayed heartstrings.

I pull out my card. “How much can I pay you to make this problem go away?”

Monica’s gaze drops to my hand. She might be a therapist with professional training and degrees, but she’s also a realist.

“F-fifty,” she says.

The corner of my lip lifts into a smile. If my life was a Shakespearian tragedy, my fatal flaw would be overestimating women. “The cost of a contract on a man’s life?”

She flinches. “Twenty-five.”

“Ten.”

Her breath quickens. “F-fifteen.”

“Done.” I draw Seraphine into my side and hand the receptionist my card to process the payment.

Seraphine clings to me as the other woman’s fingers tremble over the credit card machine. I gaze down at her blonde head and sigh. She is going to be a handful.

* * *

Several minutes later, after I’ve ordered her out of Monica’s establishment, she sits in the front seat of the car, breathing hard, her fingers tightening into fists. I give her a few moments to compose herself and explain, but she’s too wrapped up in her own emotions to know where to begin.

“Why did you stab Monica?” I ask.