The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

My ruthlessness, rough edges, and appetite for blood came from him.

I surpassed him in all of the above.

Troy was an honorable mafia boss in his own backward way. He was well-versed in destruction but only inflicted it on those who had crossed him.

Me, I was corrupt to the bone. Nothing was beneath me. Well, other than rape, pedophilia, beating women and children … you know, the usual subhuman crap.

Any adult man was fair game, and if they wronged me they were done.

It gave me a certain advantage.

“You good?” He stopped by the door, frowning at me.

I lit a cigarette. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”

“Cat—”

“Was, like her namesake, just another pussy. I don’t consider her death an event worth mentioning. The awful apple pie I had to endure from her nagging neighbor next door caused me more discomfort than knowing she had been left to rot in her apartment for a week before people found out.”

“Arright …” His eyes flicked to mine, still searching for a flash of emotion. “Don’t get too wild with your revenge plot against Gerald, ah? Remember, the matter is still under investigation.”

No point in mentioning I’d already dug a grave with his name on it in the forest where Troy killed Brock.

I could’ve had a brother.

I could’ve had an unconditional someone.

“Sure.” I smiled.

Sure.

Flipping through a medical chart, I smiled tightly as my phone danced inside the front pocket of my scrubs. I ignored the vibration against my thigh.

“The tests came back, Mrs. Martinez, and I thought we could go through them together and talk about what they mean for you and what I recommend you do next.” I regarded the woman sitting in front of me in my office.

She blinked steadily, back straight, fingers laced together on my desk, bracing herself for more. Outside, snow came down in sideways sheets. You could barely make it out through the narrow, thick-glassed windows lining the walls.

I fell to the seat in front of her. My phone buzzed again.

“Well. Okay. Let’s see, shall we?” I started flipping through her charts, my eyes burning with emotion as I took in her blood tests. “What do we have here? It says here that … oh, excuse me. Just one moment.” I lifted my forefinger, plucking my phone out of my scrubs’ pocket, internally groaning. Someone better had died. My family knew not to interrupt me while I was at work.

I had three missed calls from Hunter.

One from Mother.

Worst of all, a text message from Hunter.

Years ago, when we were all still youngsters, thrown into different academic establishments and internships around the world, my two siblings and I made a pact. Since we had been raised to believe our phones might be tracked because of who we were, we couldn’t simply write something as straightforward as “Quick, there was an explosion in one of our refineries, Da’s fault.” So we decided that if something was truly urgent, we’d text each other a secret code: Clover.

An ironic take on the Irish belief that a four-leaf clover brought good luck. Hunter’s text was in all capitals.

Hunter: CLOVERCLOVERMOTHERFUCKINGCLOVERRRRRR.

“I have to take this. I’m sorry.” I shot up from my seat, hurrying out of the office, hustling onto the main clinic’s floor, my phone glued to my ear. Hunter answered before the dial tone started.

“Ash. You have to come home. It’s Da.”

“Is he okay? Is he hurt?” I sucked in a breath, realizing I was already clutching the key to my sensible Prius in my hand, leaving Mrs. Martinez and my responsibilities behind as I darted out the door.

“Physically? He is fine. For now, anyway. There’s no way of knowing what Mom is gonna do to his ass in the next few hours. Listen, Ash, there’s a scandal. Someone leaked some photos and text messages of Da with … uh …” He stopped, and I could tell he was trying to find the right words that would inflict as little pain on me as possible.

That was Hunter. Brutally beautiful and heart-shatteringly soft.

“Just spit it out, Hunt. I know Mom and Dad aren’t giving Romeo and Juliet a run for their money. I’ve lived under their roof my whole life, for goodness’ sake.” I slipped into my car, flooring it on my way to Avebury Court Manor. “What’d he do?”

“It’s a sex scandal,” he blurted out. “Not shocking, I know, but this time there are some pretty graphic pictures on the internet. Da called me as soon as they surfaced. Devon is working to take them down as we speak.”

Devon Whitehall was the family lawyer and one of my father’s closest allies. A British aristocrat with a mysterious past. Hunter, the natural-born charmer among us three, was in charge of everything PR and media related at Royal Pipelines, my family’s oil company. It made sense he was the first phone call Da made.