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feeling when one of those scratch-the-itch flings had to end. Too fucking depressing.
    The morning passed, in grim, sweaty, wordless silence. Two trips, back and forth to Latham, loading and unloading. It was late afternoon by the time they were through, and when they got back to his place, they were exhausted and ravenous, having skipped lunch.
    He put on a kettle to make a pot of tea for himself and Eoin, who boarded in his basement. Eoin got busy cooking some hamburgers, or so it seemed. Charred as they were, it was hard to tell, but the sliced tomatoes, ketchup, cheese, and bread on the table were all clues. Liam lunged for the gas and turned it off. “Making lunch?”
    “I made one for you, too, if you fancy it,” Eoin said timidly.
    “Keep the flame a bit lower,” Liam advised.
    Eoin’s freckled face flushed. “Sorry.”
    “Speaking of stoves, I found you a secondhand electric range. After we eat, maybe you can help me haul it down into the basement.”
    “Great,” Eoin said. “Now I can make myself a cup of tea without bothering you.”
    Liam grunted. “It was never any bother.”
    “Thanks anyway,” Eoin said earnestly. “For the place, the work, the stove.” He laid the shriveled burgers on the table. “Are you going to the seisìun at Malloy’s on Saturday night?”
    “I might. You keen to go?”
    “God, yes,” Eoin said. “I’ve been working on that new tune of yours all week. I want to try it out with the lads.”
    “Fine, then. Malloy’s on Saturday,” Liam promised.
    Malloy’s was a good seisìun, from ten until two Saturday night in an Irish pub in Queens. A motley but talented group of regulars got together every week to mainline Irish tunes. Liam almost always went with his fiddle and flutes, unless he was too worn out from work, but young Eoin was religious in his zeal. And he was damn good on his Uilleann pipes. Liam had never heard anyone better. The kid should go pro.
    But people had to work, so the tunes and the Guinness had to wait. Which reminded him that Saturday followed Friday, the day he was starting work on the D’Onofrio house. He would see her tomorrow.
    Maybe he would go early and help her. He could lift boxes for her. Wrap dishes in newspapers. Eoin could come later. Excitement swelled at the idea of being alone with her.
    “Are you okay? You look a bit off,” Eoin said.
    Liam swallowed with difficulty. “Nah, just remembering something that I have to do. Ready to haul that stove down?”
    “Sure thing,” Eoin agreed.
    Liam kept himself busy, hooking up the stove in Eoin’s lair, washing up the kitchen, sweeping debris out of the bed of the truck. Cleaning rain gutters. Soaping the squeaky bottoms of his underwear drawer.
    That was what clued him into the stark truth. He sat there on his bed, the drawer on his lap, his underwear scattered around himself, and contemplated it.
    He was so fucked.
     
    Beep. Beep. Beep . John Esposito rolled over on the couch and punched the button to silence the alarm. Yes, fuck you very much, it was five to midnight, and the big guy was about to check in. He’d set the alarm to be sure he was alert. He had to be razor sharp to deal with Haupt.
    Truth was, he almost never slept when he was on the job. He didn’t miss it, either. Stalkings, interrogations, punishments, executions, they stoked him like petroleum fuel. He loved his work. When the gig was over and the fee was safely tucked into his offshore account, he slept two weeks straight.
    He peered out the window, across the street. A glance at the monitors of the vidcams he’d installed the other day while the Countess was gasping her last on her living room floor confirmed that nothing was happening in the empty house. Eight vidcams. Living room, kitchen, bathrooms, basement, and three upstairs bedrooms.
    He stood up, stretched out his shoulders. Any second, Haupt would call. John knew very little about the man. Only that he paid well, and that job failure would be very