CHAPTER 1

Would You Pray Before You Twist the Knife?

T he man makes a gargling sound as I stab him in the throat. His eyes are wide in fear, his hands clawing at my arms and shoulder in attempt to get me away from him, but I have him pinned to the wall, and I twist the knife in further.

A radio sits on a table with an unfinished game of chess, and Elvis Presley's "You're the Devil in Disguise" plays loudly through the speaker, so loud I almost missed the sound of footsteps on the stairs. My first victim slides down the wall, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, and I hope the others won't be so messy. Blood is a bitch to get off of the walls.

You look like an angel

Walk like an angel

Talk like an angel

But I got wise

You're the devil in disguise

Oh, yes, you are, devil in disguise

I move over to the space next to the stairs, my knife in one hand and my gun in the other. When the first guy makes it to the bottom step, I shoot him in the side of the head. I hear another man shout, but the noise is quickly cut off when I shoot him in the eye, making him topple down the stairs and land on his friend's body.

I step around them and race up the stairs, keeping my back to the wall as I survey the second floor. I see a guy to my left, and I duck just in time to miss his shot. I shoot him once in the side, then once in the neck, flinging my knife into the chest of the guy sneaking up on me. I say "sneaking" loosely; his shoes were squeaking like rusty hinges.

Mr. Stealthy is still alive, gasping for each breath and desperately trying to take the knife out, but he's too weak. I shoot him between the eyes, making his body go limp against the hardwood, then I yank the knife out. I don't bother cleaning it this time; instead, I throw it at the next man that rounds the corner, but he has enough awareness to duck. Sadly, he isn't quick enough to pull out his gun, and with one shot to the head, he falls down like a rag doll.

You fooled me with your kisses

You cheated and you schemed

Heaven knows how you lied to me

You're not the way you seemed

That was my last bullet, so I place my gun back into the holster under my suit jacket and dislodge my knife out of the wall. I fish my spare gun out of my leg holster, loading in a new mag just in time for another goon to appear.

We underestimated how many people are working for Samuels.

"Please, please don't shoot!" he begs, dropping his gun to the floor with a loud clang. "I swear I'll do—"

His pleas are silenced by a bullet, but not mine. A big, burly man approaches us, disgust written on his face as he peers down at his victim. "Pathetic."

"He was smart enough to know he couldn't win. I would venture to guess your intelligence is lacking," I say calmly.

The burly man growls, rushing at me like a linebacker. He knocks my gun away before I can shoot him, and with his size and the momentum he created, the two of us crash backwards into the kitchen, breaking the door on our way in. Splinters of wood fly around as we tumble to the ground, making us both groan. This guy has to be at least three hundred pounds of pure muscle and he's currently on top of me, which is less than ideal. As I expected from a man with his size and strength, his hands grab on to my throat, squeezing down as hard as he can. I have to fight the urge to thrash, knowing I can't win against him with strength alone.

Thankfully, when he knocked into me, he didn't make me drop my knife. I plunge it into his side, forcing a scream out of him. I then bring my knee up into his stomach and punch him, making him fall to the ground beside me.

I scramble to my feet, finding the brute staring at me with my knife in his hand, his frame heaving sighs like a bull about to attack. I reach behind me and grab on to the first thing I touch—a saucepan—and swing at him like a baseball player. He swerves out of the way, swiping at me with the knife, but I hit the pan against his hand, making him lose his grip on the knife. Without wasting a second, I slap the pan across his face once, twice, then I kick him in the stomach hard. He slips on his own blood, which has been gushing from him since he pulled the knife out, and falls face-first onto the kitchen floor.

I pick up my knife off the floor and plunge it hard into the back of his neck. There are a few gurgles, then the man falls still, his blood slowly spreading along the white tiles.

You look like an angel

Walk like an angel

Talk like an angel

But I got wise

You're the devil in disguise

Oh, yes, you are, devil in disguise

After retrieving my gun from the hallway, I run up to the third floor, knowing exactly who I'll find hiding up there like a coward. There're two bedrooms; one is empty and the other has Ethan Samuels, infamous arms dealer, hiding in the corner with his knees to his chest. Just like a child.

"Whoever hired you, I'll pay you double," Samuels says with a shaking voice.

I stalk towards him, keeping my gun on him the entire journey across the room. "I'm not doing this for the money."

"Money is all anyone does anything for," he argues.

"Maybe that's true for scum like you, but I do this for the pleasure of eradicating monsters like you that sell automatic weapons to Nazis and predators."

Samuels lets out a laugh he tries to stifle, but he can't seem to help himself. "You just killed an entire house of people and you call me a monster?"

I smile down at him, lifting my arm so my gun is pointing at his forehead. "I never said I wasn't one."

"Please," he begs, tears rolling down his face. "I'll do anything."

"Pray God has mercy on your pathetic soul," I reply.

And then I squeeze the trigger.

Oh, yes, you are, devil in disguise

Oh, yes, you are, devil in disguise

Oh, yes, you are, devil in disguise

"Ricky, I placed an order for three gallons of sodium hydroxide, not three pints! How the fuck are you supposed to get rid of a body with only three pints?" I ask, not attempting to hide my frustration. I'm one second away from stomping my foot like a toddler.

The black market dealer sighs. "I know, but—"

"No buts, Ricky! I don't care if you have another client request a big order, or if you're low on supply, or whatever excuse you want to give me. I want those three gallons delivered to the office by Thursday. Not a day later," I demand.

"You're a pain in my ass," he grumbles, his tone almost threatening. To anyone else, it would be terrifying.

I tilt my head, fluttering my lashes in an innocent and flirtatious way that would look less ridiculous if I were talking to him in person and not on the phone. "Oh, you sure know how to compliment a girl."

I can practically feel the sigh he gives me. "Fine, but I'll charge you extra."

I give a contemplative hum. "I'll give you a hundred extra bucks."

"Two hundred."

"How about instead of extra cash, I get Mr. Cai to take care of someone for you? Then we call it even." No way I'm letting him rip us off for two hundred bucks.

I'm met with silence on the other line, then I hear a very low, "Does he care about who?"

"Not as long as they did something considerably bad. He won't kill your landlady for upping the rent or your girlfriend for cheating. He also won't kill a kid."

"How about a business rival?"

"You send over the details, and we'll take it from there."

His dark chuckle is music to my ears. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Reed."

I press the button on my headset to hang up, silently preening from my success, then I return to my task of filing the information from Henry's latest assignment into the computer. We—and by we I mean I —do a lot of research into Henry's targets to better understand how to take them down, and by the time the guy is dead, there's page after page of documentation that no longer has any use. So, instead of throwing it all away, I file it, knowing we'll probably need to use it later. It's quite boring, but it's only one of my many, many duties I do as his assistant, a job I have happily done for the past three years.

Just as I finish up this task and start reading emails, one of which is Ricky with his rival's info, a familiar ringtone fills my headset. "Secret Agent Man" by Johnny Rivers.

Henry doesn't find it as funny as I do.

I press on the side of my headset again and lean back in my chair. "Did you find Samuels?"

"You were right about the girlfriend. She knew exactly where he was hiding out. I found him and about ten workers in a house downtown where he was hoarding his latest shipment of ammo. And before you ask, yes, I'm alright. Ten is nothing."

Knowing he'd get cranky if I lectured him, I decide to let it go. "Did you call the client yet?"

"I wanted to call you first," he says.

I place a hand on my chest. "Aww did you miss me, H?"

"Fuck off."

I feign annoyance. "How rude. I have half a mind to cancel the private jet I rented for you that I've been assured has whisky in the minibar."

His voice grows deeper as he groans, and I feel my belly tighten at the sound. "You're an angel."

I can't fight my blush. "That's more like it. How much longer will you be?"

"His body is deteriorating as we speak, so I should only be another twenty minutes and then I'll head out. Same airport as usual?" he asks.

"Yep. And before you ask, yes, I took care of the latest acid order. It will be here Thursday, on the condition you take care of one of Ricky's business rivals."

He grunts at that, clearly annoyed. "We shouldn't have to do him a favor when we already paid for those chemicals. It's bullshit."

I twist my palms up, shaking my head. "He's the best out there."

"No, he just has his competition eliminated and we're about to help him do it." He sighs, and I can just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose and furrowing his brows. "Have Ricky send me the asshole's info and I'll have him taken care of in the week."

"Roger that. Go call the client and then get your ass on the plane."

He chuckles, and as always, the sound sets a flutter through my heart. "That headset has made you bossy."

"I've always been bossy, and you know it," I tease.

He grunts in acknowledgment. "We still on for dinner?"

"I already ordered the usual from Angelo's."

"I don't pay you enough."

Ha. He probably pays me way too much. "You can contemplate giving me a raise on the way home. Stay safe, H."

"You too, B."

I started working for the CIA as an analyst when I was twenty-two. It was the same year Henry Cai left the Navy SEALS and started working as a field agent. His methods were often times illegal and or unethical, but he never got in trouble for it because everyone knew he was the best. His skills, intelligence, and determination were unmatched by any other agent, so he could take whatever liberties he wanted.

We had interacted in passing a few times, but a year into my job, he approached me about the crime families in Italy, knowing I had been collecting data on the various weapon and human trafficking syndicates they ran. I was a little apprehensive about working with him, but after only a few days, I could read him like a book. On the surface, he's this heartless monster with no morals, but I have always been able to see the vulnerability in his gaze that's lost to everyone else. I could see how much his duties weighed on him, how lonely he was, and most of all, how deeply he felt his emotions. Henry doesn't do or feel by halves; everything he does is with his whole soul.

This ability to read him made our working relationship as easy as breathing.

Unfortunately, Henry was forcefully retired after he used my data to go rogue, and since I helped him, I was let go too. Whether from guilt or knowledge of our impeccable working relationship, Henry asked if I would come be his assistant. He said he was "going into business for himself," which means "I'm going to kill people for a living" in our line of work. I agreed on the condition he would provide health insurance.

That was the first time I ever saw him smile. The dimples appeared when I accepted his offer, and I've been in love with him ever since. It was as simple as that.

We have an office inside a corporate complex in northern Virginia, in a city called Fairfax. On our door, there's a sign claiming we're a tree trimming company, but it's all a front. We never advertise our business, but on the occasion someone calls, I inform them we're booked for the foreseeable future. This part of Virginia is basically all forest, so the idea of a tree trimming business being all booked up isn't all that farfetched. Inside our office is only my desk, our computer system, a fridge, and a room dedicated to storing Henry's "tools." Any item we get from our dealers is marked as a hardware item meant for trees, like axes and chainsaws. When Ricky finally gives us our order of acid, it will arrive in a box for metal polish.

Hopefully the secretary from the dentist's office upstairs doesn't snoop in our mail again. Last time it took hours to convince her that our order of mercury was for the wooden thermometers Henry was trying to make out of spare wood. I had to make her nephew one in order to keep up the fa?ade. I had to fucking whittle .

Three years into the job, I don't have a single regret about leaving the CIA. This job pays better and has better insurance—which is important for a type one diabetic. I also get to be in charge of a lot more, which I love. I'm the one working behind the scenes, making all that Henry does possible. He couldn't do his job without me, nor could I without him. He may be my boss, technically, but he's always acknowledged me as his equal. His partner.

His friend.

"No one makes pasta like Angelo's." Henry groans, taking his first bite of lasagna. His eyes practically roll up into his head, and he licks his lips to gather every atom of the food.

I try not to stare too hard at that swiping tongue, but I'm only human. It's impossible to not ogle at someone who looks like Henry. His mother was Chinese, and his father was Italian, and from what I've seen from the single photo Henry owns, he is a spitting image of his mom. The only difference is their eyes. Henry's are a mahogany brown like his dad's. Other than that, Henry has the same oval face, square jaw, tan skin, small eyes, plump nose, and full lips of his mom. The picture of his parents—it's of them on their wedding day—sits in a frame above Henry's living room TV. It's the only decoration in his entire apartment. His mom must be one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, and his dad wasn't too bad on the eyes either.

It's no wonder they made Henry, who missed out on being Hollywood's next heartthrob, which only makes my unrequited love for him all the more torturous.

I tear my attention from Henry's mouth and refocus on my insulin pump, which I have in hand so I can calculate how much insulin I need for my chicken parmesan. It's about forty carbs, but since pasta is starchy, I direct my pump to give me twenty units. I'm supposed to have a carb ratio I use to calculate how much insulin I use, but after being a diabetic for well over a decade, I just go by instinct, much to the chagrin of my doctor. But fuck him. He doesn't understand that my body couldn't give a shit about a math equation.

With that taken care of, I dive right in with a hungry growl. Angelo's food is godlike in quality and has become a staple of the friendship I have with Henry. Getting the man to open up is like trying to pry open a metal safe with a toothpick, but in three years I was able to wear him down with Italian food and Netflix, of all things. I had told him a while back he needed to find a hobby to rewind after work, and this led to us binge watching shows together.

We've already burned through all of Game of Thrones, Outlander, and Bridgerton. Lately we've been watching Downton Abbey, which I think is my favorite so far. We're currently on season five, and we've just gotten to the part of the season where Lady Edith has run off with her secret daughter, Marigold. Edith is Henry's favorite character, so he's watching the screen with apt attention.

"I still can't believe Michael Gregson died," H grumbles around another bite. "Edith can't catch a fucking break."

"I'm sure it will work out for her."

Henry scoffs. "Yeah, you said that about Mary and Matthew and look where that ended up."

Fair point. "Okay how the fuck could I have seen that coming?"

"You're the one that claims to be clairvoyant, so you tell me." His eyes glimmer with humor, his tone teasing.

I elbow him gently in the side. "Fuck off."

We stay silent for the rest of the episode, eating our delicious food while we watch the Crawley family deal with the bullshit of high society. They're a bunch of pompous assholes, but they're entertaining as hell to watch. When we're done eating, we do the dishes side by side and then settle back down on the couch to watch another episode. Around this time, I usually get sleepy and spread out on the cushions, resting my feet on his lap, and as usual, Henry reclines as well, slumping against the elbow rest with one arm propping up his head while the other rests on my ankle. Even this small bit of contact has my pulse fluttering.

It's pretty stupid to have feelings for Henry, for multiple reasons. First of all, he's, my boss. An assistant trying to get into her boss's pants is a recipe for disaster. Second, he's my friend, and trying to get into your friend's pants is an even greater recipe for disaster. Then there's the tiny fact that he clearly only views me as a friend and coworker. Nothing more.

Him being an assassin isn't included in my list of why loving him is stupid, and that probably makes me as deranged as he is. The people he's sent after are the worst of the worst. They're human traffickers, rapists, mobsters, weapons dealers, and corrupt politicians. These people are better off dead. And what the fuck does it say about me that his dangerous and violent life makes me want to jump his bones and cuddle him even more?

"What's on the agenda for tomorrow?" he asks me, his chest slowly rising and falling under his T-shirt.

"You aren't leaving for your next assignment for a few days, so you get to help me by making sure the nosy dentist receptionist stays distracted while I take care of our new shipment of ammunition."

He grumbles, and I know without looking at him that he's scowling. "Why do I get to be the butt monkey?"

"Because that receptionist has the biggest crush on you, and she won't ask questions if you start flirting with her," I reply.

He grunts, and I know he's starting to cave to me when he goes all Neanderthal. "Fine."

I silently preen, but I try to be humble in my victory. "Thank you."

I can practically feel his scowl. "Mhm."

He's going full Neanderthal now. I sit up a little and give him an innocent smile. "You're the best."

He still scowls.

I mimic his expression and poke him in the ribs with my toe. "Don't be such a butthead."

He scoffs, batting my foot away. "I'm not being a butthead."

I poke him again. "Come on."

He rolls his eyes and forces a smile. "Better?"

"Much."

"I live to please you." Sarcasm drips with each word, but my mind conjures up a mental scenario where he's saying that to me in that deep rumbling voice of his, with his lips on my skin and his hands caressing my body.

Focus, Beth.

"I should get going," I announce, sitting myself up. Henry fantasies are usually welcome but only when I'm alone with a vibrator in hand, not when I'm in the same room with him. "You know I hate driving at night, and it's nearly dark."

"I can always drive you," he offers, running a hand through his shaggy black hair.

I wave off the offer, knowing my imagination will only run wilder in a confined space with him. "I'll be totally fine."

I search around for my purse, but it's dangling in Henry's hand, as is my coat. He passes me the bag while holding up the jacket for me to slip my arms into, and my heart does a little jump.

Ever the gentlemen.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I say with a smile, completely unprepared for the grin he gives me in return. It knocks the air from my lungs, even after all these years.

"Bright and early."

Without thinking, I get onto the tips of my toes and kiss his cheek. It's a quick peck, but it's enough to make my face burn like molten lava, and I practically run to the door to ensure Henry doesn't see it. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him touching his cheek where I just kissed him, and I can't bring myself to regret it, at least as of now.

I'm sure I'll kick my own ass tomorrow.