“Hey yourself, cutie pie.” Duke Fontaine didn’t bother running. Apparently, the sight of Cillian and me racing across the street to confront him wasn’t cause for quaking in his military boots. When we were all on the same side of the street it became obvious why our two bodies didn’t equal his one. At more than six feet tall, Cillian was dwarfed by the six feet and seven inches of pure muscle (and tacky camouflage pants) that made up Duke Fontaine. His right thigh was bigger than my torso, for crying out loud. He had mercenary – or prison barber – written all over him. For all I knew, the Chinese symbols tattooed onto his bald scalp signified just that. I didn’t let his stature deter me. I planted my hands on my hips and a stern expression (the one that had my brothers screaming PMS and hiding under their beds when we were teenagers) on my face. “That is my soul.” Fontaine shook his head from side to side.
