It's not even midnight yet and the room reeks of fear and blood. I'm sitting in the corner of a Four Seasons hotel suite, spinning my slimline glock round and round atop of a red mahogany desk with my pointer finger. Watching someone I once respected, with tears streaming down his face, crumble like a house of cards.

Today's disappointment to mankind is the district attorney of Philadelphia, Cliff Newman. Today I've learned that he's just your average politician. A liar. Crooked as a three-dollar bill. Nothing special. A complete greedy fuck up, with a God complex, who regularly cheats on his wife to feed his fragile ego; but this time his dick has gotten him into some serious trouble.

The beaten, bloodied, woman sprawled across the bed next to him is some poor soul who worked in the communications department of his office, and probably thought she was in love with him. Now she's dead and all this guy seems to be able to do is talk about himself.

"My life is ruined. My life is over."

He keeps looping the self-pitying and slurred words over and over in heaving sobs. Holding his head in his hands, feeling sorry for himself, as if someone committed some heinous act against him.

"Selfish bastard," I mutter under my breath.

And even though I'm pissed that this is the third time my brother Camden has conveniently canceled showing up to a job with me, I think I'm starting to understand part of why something keeps coming up for him. Other than Jade that is.

It's probably safe to say that we're both growing tired of helping self-serving assholes like Cliff Newman. They're always wealthy, indulged, narcissists who create problems for themselves again and again, never learning from their mistakes, and then hiring us to make those problems go away for them. Over and over.

The shit is getting old.

At the very least, this waste of human life deserves life in prison for savagely beating this woman to death. Why should I save his ass? Why should he get away with this crime unscathed? Why should this woman's family never know what happened to their daughter, their sister, or their aunt?

Because you're getting paid a lot of money to do it, dummy. Don't get all sanctimonious about it now.

Yes, I've done my share of dirt, but I've never killed a woman. Never had to. In fact, I've never even put my hands on a woman unless it was to make her come for me. So yeah, maybe I can be a little sanctimonious tonight, because this is some fucked-up shit. What if she was one of the women in Newman's family? Brains splattered all over a hotel bedspread.

"Oh, for God's sake, shut up," I bark. Tired of his drug induced whining. "You think your life is ruined? This woman didn't even live to see thirty thanks to you."

District Attorney Clifford Newman. A man I've seen countless times looking and talking tough as nails about crime on the evening news, is now looking up at me like a little boy who wants his mommy to kiss and make it better.

Pitiful face.

Puppy dog eyes.

Pussy.

"Don't you think I know that? You think I meant to do this? It was an accident. I swear! It was a goddamn accident." He starts sobbing again.

"So enlighten me." I continue spinning my gun around with my finger on the desk. A habit of mine that just happens to be a handy intimidation technique. "How do you accidentally beat a one-hundred-twenty-pound woman to death?"

"We argued," he says as if those simple two words should explain it all. "Things got heated."

"She's butt ass naked. Did things get heated after you fucked her, or did you fuck her after things got heated? 'Cause that's just weird, man."

"I didn't realize the money I'm paying you included a police-styled interrogation, and I don't see why the details matter at this point. Just help me fix it!" Newman screeches as spittle flies out of the corner of his mouth.

I immediately stop spinning Benny around.

My right eyelid starts twitching.

The batshit crazy timber of Newman's voice makes my hackles rise, and when my hackles rise, my right eye twitches, and when my eye twitches, I tend to shoot shit.

I prop my right elbow casually up on the desk, with my gun in hand, and aim it directly at the asshole's forehead. Now this I can do. I may not be able to hurt a woman, but I sure as shit can kill a man at point blank range, and go out for a burger and fries ten minutes later like nothing ever happened. I know it's fucked-up, but it's just the way I'm built. Yet no matter how much immediate satisfaction shooting him would give me right now, that's not what I'm supposed to be doing here.

It's my role in the three-man business partnership I'm a part of to smooth things over. Talk people into things they normally wouldn't do. Use my power of persuasion to settle disputes and fix sticky situations. Why? Because I usually have the temperament for it. Unlike Camden and Roman, I'm usually a pretty easy-going guy to deal with, until I'm not, and bitch ass Clifford the DA is definitely pushing all of my "I am not" buttons.

"I don't fucking work for you," I say with a bite to my voice that lets him know I'm at the end of my patience.

"Wait, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

I'll admit that I'm uncharacteristically pissed about this fix. I've seen people do some terrible things in this world. You can't be in this business and not have the stomach for violence, but something about this one is different. Maybe it's because my brother bailed on me again and I'm angry. Maybe it's because I'd rather be drinking at the club or lying in between a pair of a woman's legs instead of doing this tonight. Or maybe it's because the overall nature of our job is changing. Each fix we take on seems to be more violent than the last. Increasingly pointless. Less satisfying.

"Listen, Clifford, I know you're upset, but raising your voice at your only ticket out of a life in maximum security isn't a good idea. You're the district attorney. You know better than anyone that those boys upstate are going to fuck your asshole ten ways from Sunday if you get sent there for murdering a defenseless woman. Do you like wearing eye shadow and lipstick? Because I bet you'll be somebody's bitch in less than twenty-four hours when you get there. So, I highly suggest that you lower your voice and change your tone if you want my help. If not then I've got a drink and a pair of nice tits waiting for me across town."

Funny how all I can see inside of my head are flashes of Sloan's rack in fucking technicolor the moment I say the word tits out loud. Yeah, I'm definitely losing it.

"You're right, you're right. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm in way over my head. Tell me what to do," Newman pleads. "I'll do whatever you tell me to do."

Still holding the gun, I decide to finally stop letting my growing disgust for this man get in the way of business. The DA is a douche and a dummy, but I've never let those characteristics get in the way of business before, so I decide to get to work. Time is ticking and every minute counts. The first order of business is to take a long look around the room to assess the damage and more importantly the cleanup. Especially because there's only me here to do it.

The trouble with five-star hotels is not getting in and out of the rooms, but the fact that cameras are everywhere. My job is to make it look like nothing ever happened in this room, and like they were never here, when there is probably footage of this dickhead and the girl from the minute they hit the front lobby of the hotel. The trick will be finding the right person to pay off to get rid of all of that footage and getting this room clean. But first things first . . .

"I want to be paid double for this clusterfuck."

"Double?"

"Yes, double."

As if he has any choice.

"I didn't pay that much last time."

"You didn't kill anybody last time either."

"Kill accidentally," he corrects me.

"Tomato, tomahto."

"I don't have that much money liquid to pay you."

"So get it."

"I'm just a civil servant. I don't make a huge salary, plus I'm totally mortgaged to the hilt. I don't think I can get that type of money."

"Then I guess we don't have anything else to discuss." I start getting up to leave. "Your best bet is to call the police and plead to second degree. I'm sure in your line of work you know a good lawyer."

Cliff runs over toward me in a panic. His hands up in a pleading formation.

"Wait–I have something else you might want as payment," he says while gripping the front of my shirt in his fists. Funny how the mention of a plea sobers him right up.

"Goddamn it, Clifford, you're getting that girl's blood all over me."

I try quickly wiping off the blood, but actually only end up smearing it farther into the fibers of my shirt.

"I'm sorry." He backs up. Wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand. "But I swear I have something you may want that's worth more than money."

"What could you possibly have that would interest me other than money?" I ask while continuing to inspect the smeared fingerprints on my sweater. I really should keep some spare all-black sweats in my trunk like Roman does. It hides blood stains much better.

"Information. I ran a background check on all three of you when I first hired you guys."

My ears pop up at the mention of a background check. My brother has been very thorough in cleaning up our digital footprint. If there's something we don't want people to find, Camden has and still can make it go away with a few clicks of a mouse. So while I'm not exactly worried, I don't like that the district fucking attorney has been snooping into our business.

"And?"

"And there's someone in your file you may find interesting."

"You're trying my patience, Clifford. Someone like who?"

"Another family member."

"Be more specific." I place my hand behind my back on Benny's handle again. "Quickly."