Not merely the glory. —The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen OPENING THE NARROW DOOR to the small hackney that waited for him just down the cobblestone street from Bernadette’s townhome, Matthew angled in. Slamming the door behind himself, he slid toward the inner wall of the carriage on the seat beside Coleman, adjusting his great coat around his frame and the pistols tucked into his leather belt. He, Matthew Joseph Milton, was a prick. A worthless prick. Why? Because he was bringing the incredible, edible Bernadette into his mess of a life without letting her know what the hell she had just gotten herself into. He was damn certain there was a commandment somewhere against this in the bible. Like, “Thou shalt not covet a woman without informing said woman that thou art a gang leader.” “So how much did she end up giving us?” Coleman pressed. Ah. Yes. That. Matthew reached up and casually knocked on the roof of the hackney to signal the driver to leave.
