What isn’t searched for can’t be found. And so I know already, by my own hand, that Emma is mine.
By the time I reach her rooms, on the third floor and overlooking the steel plane of the sea, she’s stirring.
The sight of her makes my breath catch. Long, soft, light brown waves cascading over her shoulders; alabaster skin, thick lashes, a smattering of pale freckles. Her lips are parted, the sheets caught around her bare legs. The sight of them carves a pit of hunger into me, and I grip the doorframe, commanding myself to be composed. Even as her soft brown eyes open—and fill with terror.
“No!” Emma cries. She leaps from the bed, but the chloroform is still in her system. She stumbles chaotically.
I rush toward her, sweeping her up in my arms before she can collapse on the cold flagstones. “Easy,” I say, even as she struggles in my arms. I gently deposit her back on the bed. Her tight red dress has hitched, and my eyes catch on the milky expanse of her bare thigh.
She catches me looking, yanking the duvet up to cover herself. I can’t stand the blank terror in her face. “No. No, this can’t be happening. Where am I? Where is my phone? My purse—”
“Emma,” I say, surprised at the tenderness her name evokes in me. I straighten to my full height, knowing that even though I don’t want to scare her any more than I already have, I need to exert my authority. “You’re safe.”
“Safe!” she cries, and then, finally, she looks at me. Really looks—and sees me. “Malcom.”
My breath hitches when she speaks my name. It’s been so incredibly long, but it takes me back to those days. When she was at university in Glasgow, and I was working. It was pure chance that we met, her a student—me a hardened hitman. She never knew what I really did. I convinced her I was in construction. I knew eventually my work would take me away from her—and it did. We happened hard and fast, and the relationship lasted only about six months. A part of me knew I could have stayed forever. There was something about her that always, from the moment we first locked eyes in a crowded café, felt like home to me. Did I feel like home to her?
Do I now? Can I again?
I left her although I never wanted to. My life and occupation, unbeknownst to Emma, endangered her often. Yes, I would have stayed if I could have. I knew from the beginning, though, that I couldn’t. And so, citing my bad influence over her, and how she deserved better—and she did—I left, and didn’t look back.
But not before we…no. It wasn’t love. It could never be love. A life like mine, as my father knew and taught me, doesn’t allow room for love. Only duty.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” I say, making my tone hard and cool. “There wasn’t time to explain.”
“Explain?” she whispers, her eyes huge with fear. “Explainwhat, Malcom? What am I doing here?”
I hesitate, but there’s no use in stalling. I clasp my hands in front of me and stare coldly out the window. “I lied to you, when we were together all of those years ago. About what I do. What I am.”
“OK…” Her voice trembles. I feel her eyes on me, but I can’t bear to meet them.
“I’m a hitman.”
Her gasp is quiet, shallow, just a sharp intake of breath. When she says nothing, I press on.
“I’m affiliated with the Scottish mafia—but I’ve never been initiated. I prefer to work alone.” I clear my throat. “But my father was extremely close with the current head of the mafia. And…” This part hurts, but I smooth my voice, remove myself from the situation. “He’s dying.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“The head of the Scottish mafia is dying, and he needs to name a successor.” I let my eyes slide to her. Her brow is furrowed, fingertips against her lips. “But he can’t name a successor who doesn’t have an heir.”
Her eyes widen, and meet mine. I clench my jaw. Everything in me wants to step back, to set her free, to end this before it’s begun. But what choice do I have?Duty.
“We were once lovers,” I say, my voice steely and carefully devoid of emotion. “More than lovers. We were allies. Friends. We trusted one another, deeply. And I can’t imagine I alone pictured a future where we remained together.” It pains me to admit this, but I’ll say what I must in the service of warming her to this terrible plot. “And I’ve…”
She searches my face, saying nothing.
“You are the only woman who meets the standards of what a mafia wife must be.” I straighten my spine and stare ahead. “Do you understand, Emma, what I’m saying?”
“You’ve kidnapped me to be your wife and…bear your child?” Her voice trembles. “Malcom. This is insane. Don’t you see this is insane?”
“If I had more time, I would have let this unfold naturally. As it once did. But time is of the essence. Sampson is dying. And if I don’t produce an heir, he can’t in good conscience name me his successor.”
“You’re insane,” she whispers.
It hurts. A small knife between the ribs. But I maintain my composure. I knew to expect this. Emma, soft and warm as she is, has never been immune to speaking her mind. She’s smart, and upright. I’d expect nothing less than this rejection. But it cannot matter. “If I don’t take over,” I tell her, “someone else will. Not justsomeone. But a terrible, dangerous man. I can’t let that happen.”
“You,” Emma says, her voice suddenly cold and sharp, “are the terrible, dangerous man. I won’t agree to this.”
