She tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. “I’ll consider letting you go.”
He let out a short, sharp laugh, though there was no humor in it. “And what would you tell my father when he turns up here later for proof of my death? Or what happens when you grow bored ten minutes after we leave and decide to follow?”
Her smile widened, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not your problem.”
I glanced at Gio, noting the way his jaw tightened, his fists curling against his thighs as he leaned forward slightly, ready to argue.
But she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her attention shifted to me, her gaze locking onto mine like a predator sizing up its prey.
“What about you?” she asked, her voice soft but dangerous. “Do you agree?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Her grin widened just slightly, and she leaned back again, letting the silence stretch until it felt like it would snap.
“Good,” she paused, letting the tension stretch unbearably, like she was savoring the moment until she looked at me and asked her question. “Here’s your final question. And you better answer it honestly.” She pulled the switch out of her leather jacket. “Why did you fake your death? I know the official story. I know all the other evidence I found.” Her jaw ticked. “I know it had something to do with Silver. But I want the whole story. From you.”
There was no hesitation inside of me as I took in a deep breath, remembering the night in perfect detail as I recounted the story to her as bluntly as I could…
The docks stretched into the quiet night like the edge of a forgotten world. The air was heavy with the scent of salt, oil, and rotting wood, the faint sound of water lapping at the boats breaking through the silence. A yacht loomed ahead, its pristine white decks gleaming faintly under the moonlight, an absurd monument to wealth in a place that stank of rust and grime.
Rich people pissed me off.
Sure, it was fine to have a few million. Enough to live comfortably for the rest of their lives, and leave a legacy behind for any children or people they cared about. But this? This was just hoarding. And money hoarders were a hideous thing.
None of us spoke as we made our way toward it, sticking to the shadows, our boots silent against the creaking planks of the dock. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of the mission pressing down on my chest like an anchor. It wasn’t the first time we’d been sent to kill someone—hell; it wasn’t even the first time I’d been sent to kill a kid.
But something about tonight felt different. Wrong.
We’d been told the target was the son of Viktor Mancini, head of the New York mob. His child, no older than ten, who sleeping peacefully in his overpriced cabin while his family slept in theirs down the hall. Easy enough to reach. Easy enough to kill.
And yet, as I followed Silver and Declan onto the yacht, something about it twisted in my gut. Silver had been quiet the whole way here, quieter than usual. Even Declan, who usually made some kind of comment to fill the silence, had kept his mouth shut, his focus on the job.
The minute we were on the yacht, Honey and Kenji hung back to watch the halls, leaving Silver and Declan to handle theroom. Sharpe was in the getaway car, far away from all the mess. I stayed close to Silver, keeping my distance, but ready to step in if needed. That was the plan. The one we could execute flawlessly.
But as Silver and Declan slipped into the cabin, something shifted. The silence stretched too long, unnatural and suffocating, like the air itself was holding its breath far more than any victim ever did.
I moved closer to the door, every nerve in my body on edge. “Silver?” I whispered, but there was no response.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Something was wrong. I could feel it. Taste it. Choke on it.
Without hesitation, I stepped inside, keeping my movements quiet in case they were fine and didn’t need me.
The cabin was small, filled with the kinds of things rich kids took for granted—a plush bed that looked like a spaceship, shelves lined with books and expensive toys, a globe that lit up faintly in the dark. The air smelled faintly of fresh linens and something sweeter, like candy.
But my eyes didn’t go to the bed.
They went to Silver.
She was standing in the middle of the room, her hood pushed back, her dark curls catching the moonlight that spilled through the window. Her knife was in her hand, dripping with blood, her fingers trembling as she stared at Declan’s body slumped on the floor.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Silver?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
She turned to look at me, her eyes wide and glassy with tears. Her tawny face was pale, her jaw tight like she was trying to hold herself together.
“I’m not doing this,” she said, her voice cracking.
