She left, just like he knew she would. And although he knew leaving was the smartest thing for her to do, the less intelligent side of him (meaning almost all of him) wished she wouldn't. For some reason, Ilsa Pucci got under his skin in ways that no other woman ever had. The logical side of his brain told him that she was dangerous—that he should avoid her at all costs—and that part of his brain was getting louder the further away she got. But he still didn't want to. He wanted her to be back with him.

When she disappeared into the elevator, he sank back against the couch and took another shot. It didn't help him erase the memory of that kiss, but it did help him regain his perspective. What the hell could ever come of going after her? He had less than nothing to offer her—she deserved everything that he wasn't.

But that kiss…no!

What had he been thinking? That was the problem, he supposed. He hadn't been thinking. Damn it, when she'd leaned toward him, all he could think about was kissing her.

Damn her, damn her kisses, damn the scotch that clouded her brain, he thought. And mine, for that matter.

It didn't help matters that he knew it would never happen again. He knew she wouldn't bring it up—he would do the same, and they would never get to discuss what had happened. She would tell herself that her mind had been clouded by the alcohol's influence—so would he.

But he would think about it. And he would want to talk about it. He knew that his mind was clear, and the memory of her kiss would be burned into his mind forever.

To keep his mind off the memory of her kiss, he began to make a list of all the reasons he wasn't good enough for her. He took another shot of scotch, and he was just drunk enough to think writing them all down was a good idea.

On a the paper, he wrote,

Reasons why I am not good enough for Ilsa Pucci:

I have enemies who will get to me at any cost. Therefore…

Anyone close to me is at risk.

I have killed 1,389 people.

I put my life at risk on a daily basis.

I don't have a name.

I am unredeemable.

I have nightmares.

I still wake up and grab the gun and try to shoot someone.

I have nothing to offer her. (Obviously)

No matter how hard I try to be, I am not a good man.

Looking down at the paper in his hands, he felt two things: 1) mostly he hated himself, the choices he'd made, and the person he'd become, and how they all made it impossible for him to be with her. And 2) he felt a little relieved, because he had the evidence on the paper, right in front of his face, and he could now protect her from himself—no matter the personal cost. He couldn't live in a fantasy world—a world where he wasn't himself and he could be enough for her—anymore. He would protect her from himself. And starting right now, he would begin to protect himself—from her. Because it just wouldn't do to fall in love with a woman he could never have.

Sighing, he went upstairs alone and wondered what he was going to do about tomorrow. He tossed and turned over it all night, and he still didn't have an answer. That was what led him to the bar the next morning. And that was what led him to dive back into the mess that was Maria. Because he knew she expected him to act as if the kiss hadn't happened. And he knew that he had to do it—for her. But damn it if he couldn't help but grin every time he was with her. Even if she was so mad that she was threatening their partnership. If never seeing her again was what it took to protect her, then he would learn to do it.