Too bad the smile was on the face of the wrong man.

Logan Quinn was the kind of guy who could stab me in the eye with a freaking Twizzler.

Hope. An emotion that always kept suckering me in, time after time, despite my supposed retirement from the assassin business. Hope. The one thing that always seemed to get me into more trouble than just killing people for money ever had. Ah, hope. Sometimes, I really hated it.

You bruised my ego, you see, and there’s just not enough money in the world to soothe my ego when it gets bruised

Oh, Finn isn’t an assassin,” I cut in. “He’s much, much worse. He’s a banker.

Her touch was as soft as a snowflake falling onto my skin.

What did you expect? That he'd send you flowers and write you bad poetry? That dead Nemean prowler is pretty much as close to a stuffed animal as you're ever going to get from a Spartan like Logan Quinn.