He spreads his joke, his lips curving, but there's no humor in his eyes.
“Everything's already been straightened out,” Mark interjects smoothly. “I returned the money.”
“Right,” the bald man replies. “You did, you did. But you see, Dilano, one trust gets broken...”
He doesn't finish, and he doesn't need to. The slow movement of his hand toward the gun at his hip says it all.
My heart vaults into my throat.
I never imagined I’d die like this. Not knowing what's happening, in this house, with some dangerous stranger toying with me like a marionette. Especially not by Mark's hand. Of all people, I never thoughthewould bring this kind of misfortune down on me, on us.
I've always seen him as a good, reliable man. Cold, yes, but reliable. Loving, in his own warped manner.
But whatever this is, it’s anything but that.
“You need me,” Mark says suddenly. And I wish I could say he’s finally showing something other than control. That, right now, with me shaking beside him and tears welling up in my eyes, I can see desperation in him.
Anything that would show me we're in this together. But no. My husband, Mark Dilano, shows only one thing, just as he did throughout the entirety of our relationship. Calculation.
“You need me,” he repeats, firmer this time. “If you didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The bald man exhales through his nose, clearly entertained. He tilts his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile again.
“Perhaps,” he muses. “But do I needher?”
“Ineed her. So if you need me, she stays.Alive.”
The bald man hums, his fingers drumming against the grip of his gun. His eyes flick between the two of us.
I do not breathe. I do not move.
For a moment, all I hear is the old clock ticking in the background, like it's counting down to my death.
His gaze crawls over my face, my throat, my hands—as if he's trying to figure out just how much of a problem I really am.
Then he sighs, tapping two fingers against his temple.
“See, that's what makes you an interesting little fucker, Dilano. You know what you're worth.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “You know what this is worth to you.”
His fingers stop tapping. His expression darkens.
“And because of that, I'm willing to make you a deal.”
A… deal?
Mark stays quiet. His hand flexes against his thigh, and I notice how his breath slows a little.
“What do you propose?” he asks, his eyes sharpening.
I recognize that look. My husband has transitioned from a taut businessman in a negotiation to a tactician orchestrating his next move. He always looks like this when he's cogitating, debating what to do.
And the bald man smiles. I think he might know this look, too.
“Simple,” he says, his arms draping over the back of the couch. “You do what you do best. Make money appear and disappear, make it vanish without a trace. But this time, you do itfor us.”
His eyes flick to me, and his fingers swirl lazily against his thigh. It makes me sick to my stomach.
“And you,” he tells me. “You’re going to make sure whatever your husband does, it doesn’t lead back to me or my boss. It’s your life on the line here, sweetheart.”
