Epilogue

Six days later.

I just killed Brian Sloan. He lies sprawled in a pool of blood, holding his still beating heart. Okay, it's not actually still beating, and it came out of a guy we just killed lying a few feet away.

"That camera angle will never work. And you're standing in your own light," Brian says.

He's awfully talkative for a corpse. The authorities condemned Benjamin Barker's Costuming Company after the fire on Christmas Eve. They locked up the building and just left everything there. The firetrucks must have arrived quickly that night because most of the front room had only water damage. So we ransacked it for some stage blood and makeup to make his chest look like a gaping wound.

"They aren't going to believe this," I say, snapping photos even as I complain. I mean it looks good and all—like Hollywood movie level good—we watched several video tutorials. But still.

"Dante is dead. He had an ego the size of a Mack truck, so he surrounded himself with idiots. They'll buy anything. We just need the contract as dead as he is so we can get on with our lives."

I sigh and take a few more photos.

"They're just going to think you faked your own death."

"You overestimate the thinking power of the goons that worked for Dante—even at administrative level jobs like this. Everybody hated Valentino, and I'd bet they just want out of this whole thing. Nobody wants to still be working for this asshole even after he's dead. His entire syndicate has scattered and are busy building their own criminal empires. They're all going to be too busy jockeying for power and who gets to sit on the iron throne to think about me."

It turned out that Dante didn't just hire a team to take Brian out, he hired the whole underworld—the entire network of sundry killers and opportunists. I mean, not like in the whole world, or anything, just "our underworld". This network does extend outside our own city, but it's not as though every contract killer in the world is in the same club and knows all the same people.

But it was an open contract, and with the money in escrow, the only thing that had to happen was the terms had to be fulfilled… by anyone. So we're fulfilling them.

Once Brian approves the photos, I send them over the dark web to whoever was put in charge of handling this whole sordid affair. The reply is surprisingly quick. And just like that, a new ten million dollars is being wired to one of Brian's offshore accounts.

No wonder people were willing to risk it all to come after him. That's the highest contract I've even heard of.

"Well, that was easy," I say, still not trusting it.

We get rid of the body of the poor random thug we used for a heart, and go back to the house. Everyone just stares at Brian's fake gaping chest wound.

Gabe looks the most concerned of anyone at the house, followed by Julie—but she's the sweet type who cares about everything from small puppies to wolverines.

"You okay?" Gabe asks, sounding actually concerned. I told you there was a whole bromance thing going on there.

"It's just makeup," I say to the assembled house residents.

"Well, that's unfortunate," Lindsay says.

"Oh really, Doc? You think you can run this house without me? I'm calling your bluff. Mina and I are going on vacation, effective now. We'll be gone for six months, so if you need me, you can fuck right off and take out your own trash."

Now, I'm gaping at Brian. He doesn't do vacations. I mean, I knew we were going to have to lay low for awhile until word spread through the underworld that the contract was dead but Brian has never taken a vacation in the entire time he's been a partner at this house.

"Y-You can't do that," Lindsay splutters. "You can't be gone that long."

Brian raises a brow. "With all the years I've been here, I've got vacation time built up. Everyone at this house but me has taken a vacation. So good luck to you."

"But, how can we reach you if there's an emergency?"

"Guess you'll have to sit with the reality of my untimely death, Doc. I'm not going to be reachable. So you better hope there isn't an emergency."

We pack our bags and charter a private plane to an undisclosed island where we stay in the best available suite in a five star luxury resort. We drink Mai Tais and lie on the beach and fuck in the ocean and dance under the stars and enjoy the night life for six amazing months.

Like a normal couple.

Okay, maybe normal couples don't get to fuck off to some tropical island luxury vacation for half a year, but my logic is sound.

We're lying on the beach at the end of our trip when I finally ask him the question that's been tumbling around in my brain for weeks now. "So, is Brian Sloan really dead?"

He laughs. "The world wishes."

"Are you going to use a different name at least?"

"Absolutely not. I spent way too much time building the Sloan reputation to throw all that away now."

"But… the contract…" In my mind, if one person put out a huge hit on Brian, anyone could.

He takes a sip of his drink and holds my hand in his. "It was just the money, baby, and the money's gone."

It's not technically gone. We haven't spent all of it on this vacation, but most of it. It has been pretty epic. Thanks, Dante.

"The money's gone, the contract's dead, word has gotten around. I'll put out some feelers when we get back, but we should be good," Brian says.

I wish I were half as confident as he is.

"Hey," he says, a devilish gleam coming to his eyes. "Let's get married."

I laugh. "Sure, Brian. Let's get married."

"I'm serious. It'll be our secret. I want…"

And this is where the words fail him. Because he's Brian, and the emotions and saying the emotions is hard for him. I still can't believe he finally told me he loved me. But I know what he means. He wants the same things I want: to be bound together in every way it's possible to be bound together, to be a team in all the ways that exist, for some legal entity to recognize us as real and forever.

It's not the most romantic of proposals, then again, it is happening at the end of the most incredible island vacation of my life—and let's be real, the only island vacation of my life—at least so far.

"I'll marry you on one condition," I say.

"Name it. I'll bring you the head of anyone you want. The heart, too," he says, winking at me.

But I've got the only heart I need. His.

"My condition," I say, "Is you have to bring me here every year for two weeks for our anniversary."

"Lindsay will hate it," Brian says.

"Fuck him," I say.

"My thoughts exactly. You've got yourself a deal, Killer."

We pack our bags and say goodbye to the resort, then we fly to Paris. It's midnight and we're alone with a priest and one witness in the candlelit Sainte Chapelle when we say our vows in hushed tones that echo throughout the gothic royal cathedral. Brian wears a suit, and I wear a simple white dress. I don't want to even think about how much money it took to swing this. It's not like people can just waltz in and get married here any time they want.

In the first place, the cathedral is located within the medieval Palais de la Cité, an active courthouse, so we had to go through airport-level security—even after hours—just to get in the door. I think Brian has a lot more connections than he lets on.

Sainte Chapellewas built in the year 1248 and boasts 1,113 stained glass windows. Brian really is more romantic than any sociopath has a right to be. The cathedral also has a giant round window called The Rose of the Apocalypse, which let's be honest, is probably the most fitting place for Brian and I to exchange vows—all things considered.

When we sign the marriage certificate, I glance down and learn my husband's real last name for the first time.

"Are you ready for our happily ever after, Mrs. Donovan?"

"I'm just glad we get one." I already know which drawer in the weapons room I'm putting our copy of the marriage certificate when we get home.

He gives me one of those panty-melting kisses—the kind that only exist in movies—and we walk out of the cathedral hand in hand, ready to kick asses and take names, secretly, officially, and legally, a team.

* * *