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Chapter 7

 

Flirting wasn’t working.

It was a stupid idea. Flirt with all the women but her. Show her I was attracted to them.

Not her.

Never Delilah.

She made my blood fucking boil. Just sitting next to her was a slow torture, but an agony I endured for some unknown reason.

Fuck. I should have told Jack “No.” Been more insistent about it.

I needed a fucking drink. A strong one.

Headlights in my rearview mirror caught my attention. Six miles they’d stayed close, and it could have been a coincidence, but maybe not. Four years of looking over my shoulder had honed my awareness of my surroundings. I’d become a paranoid motherfucker, but with good cause.

Killing Grace and leaving me at death’s door wasn’t enough for Vincent Marconi—it was only the beginning. I was right where he wanted me; locked in a purgatory of my own making.

My wife was dead. My son was dead. I was the living dead.

A few blocks from my building, the car pulled into the right turn lane, and I caught a glimpse of a
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