“Leon is always worried about you, as am I.”
I direct my car up the long drive, climbing corners and hills until the first peak of my house emerges through the trees.
“Well, I am fine. And therapy is going… fine, I guess.”
A microwave slams closed in the background. “You guess?”
My mouth waters, almost transporting myself back to her kitchen. “What are you baking?”
“Ne changez pas de sujet,” Nonna scolds, and I park my car out the front of the steps.
I tap the engine off, realizing I can’t escape her questions.
“Therapy is good. I’m beginning to feel … back to my old self.”
“Ah, so you admit you have been a demon this past year?”
Laughter bubbles up from my belly as I grab my bag and keys and step out into the cold. Daniel waits at the doorway, and I hand him the keys in passing so he can park it underground.
“I guess I have been a little bit.”
She’s silent for a moment. I lower to the bench right at the door to untie my trainers.
“You are allowed to lose yourself every now and then, Ivanya, especially in the name of love.”
I’m about to give the same answer I always do whenever someone brings up that I loved Asher, but words fail to leave me.
She continues. “I’m glad you are back.”
I sit up straight.
“Because there’s something waiting for you on your computer. Don’t fight it, don’t speak or say anything out loud. Just accept. Do you understand these words?”
I already know I’ll take on whatever I’m given, because despite the fact that Parker was supposed to be the end of my Widow life, I’m bored. The kill is boring without theatrics.
As soon as I’ve hung up and am in the house, I fire up my computer, tapping in my password. I never spend a lot of time up here like I used to, mainly because I’ve been on operation Parker, but if this past year has taught me anything, it’s to appreciate silence. Calmness. Pain.
The sound of my laptop being logged in pings, and after refilling my glass of juice, I make my way back, tapping on the keys. I half expect coordinates, as always, since that’s howEmeric serves our jobs, but a document opens on the screen, revealing David Jefferson, thirty-five years old, divorced twice, and a real estate mogul.
Why the hell would I want David? He seems… boringly basic. Nonna is tripping.
I tap accept and close my laptop. Anything is better than nothing, and if Nonna put him on my radar, it's for a reason.
My body drags itself upstairs. I need to sleep for a week.
Or a lifetime. Whichever comes first.
Chapter 27
Ivy
The Mediterranean sun bites into my shoulders as I step onto the weathered planks of the jetty, each footfall echoing across turquoise water. White fabric pools around my ankles.
My fingers tighten around the bouquet of peonies, their stems digging into my palm.
David stands at the end of the jetty, silhouetted against the fucking postcard-perfect horizon. Saint-Tropez sprawls behind him, all terracotta roofs and yacht money, the kind of placewhere people come to pretend they're living instead of just spending.
His tuxedo is tailored to perfect.
