“So fake with their kindness,” I continue, “you can feel it splitting at the seams. Every time I had a problem, they smiled, told me to be a better person. To fight hate with compassion. But when everyone’s grinding you down with their boots, when the whole world is against you—how the fuck can you stay blind and composed?”
The smile vanishes from her face, fading as if it had never existed. Her features soften just enough for me to strike. I lean into the script I’ve rehearsed countless times, repeating every word and gesture etched into me.
“Ididlove them,” I admit, my voice low, raw. “In my own way. The kind of love that didn’t fit their pristine, nauseating vision of goodness. So they tried to change me. Reprogram me. Force me into a performance for the world, so I could hide the darkness that burned inside.”
I make a small pause. “So I killed them and ran off. Stole some cash. Made it thanks to my tech skills. Without those, I’d have been dead years ago.”
She studies me intently, eyes scanning every detail. After a long moment, she finally speaks, her voice quiet, her expression carefully unreadable. “Interesting,” she says.
I can’t tell whether she believes me or sees straight through the façade. Probably the latter. But that’s fine. The more I spin this story, the more it solidifies, hardening into something tangible. The mask I wear will only grow heavier, sharper, and all the more real.
She tilts her head ever so slightly, and I feel the spark of curiosity in her eyes. I don’t fit the usual pattern, and it shows—her gaze lingers, drawn to the unfamiliar, the unexpected, as if anything new and sharp could captivate her attention. “How many people have you killed since then?”
I’ve lost count. Over the years, I’ve taken out more people than I can remember—mostly assassins like Estella, but others, too. Innocents—people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All of that to end up here.
“Um…” I stall, letting my gaze wander around the dining area. The place is worn-down—warm tones smudged across the floors and ceilings, furniture that’s scratched and half-torn. Still, the food’s unbelievably good. “Not many,” I say eventually. “That’s where I was hoping you’d come in.”
She laughs, a dry, raspy sound cutting through the mostly empty restaurant. The only waiter shoots another concernedglance our way, and I understand why. Her face is a mosaic of bruises and swelling, her ribs probably cracked, and I’m the man sitting across from her. He likely thinks I did it.
“You want me to do what?” she asks, tone steeped in sarcasm. “Teach you how to kill? Or maybe train you up so you won’t end up with another scar like the one on your chest?”
Caught off guard, I blink, my breath hitching in jagged bursts—not just that she saw it, but that I let my guard drop enough for her to notice. For a fleeting, absurd second, a part of me feels…flattered.
Because she saw it? Ridiculous.
The scar is massive, thick, impossible to miss, and visible even through decent fabric. But it isn’t just a scar—it’s a warning carved into my skin, a constant reminder of what’s at stake and how little time I have to finish what I started.
I push myself upright, forcing my shoulders back and my spine straight. Then, I shake off the flicker of surprise that still lingers on my face, masking it with a controlled calm. “No,” I say firmly. “I’m hoping you’ll help me learn to control my emotions. Sharpen the rough edges so I can operate in this world better.”
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice. “I’m not your enemy, Estella. I’m here to learn.”
Estella doesn’t strike me as someone who enjoys company on a job. Everything about her screams control, independence, and fierce competition. She doesn’t care about the bodies left behind. For her, it’s not personal—it’s a game. One she plays to win.
“Cane said you’re a good tech,” she says, almost offhandedly.
I nod. “That I am.”
She mirrors the gesture, but there’s a mocking tilt to it. “Perfect. While you were outside playing chimney, Cane dropped a new assignment in my lap.” Her tone sharpens with purpose. “One week from now. A criminal lawyer in Seattle. You’ll be sitting in a van outside his house. That’s your test.Get into every camera—inside, outside, doesn’t matter. Show me you’re worth something.”
A spike of frustration rises in my chest, but I clamp down on it hard. Years of leading others, being the one in charge—and now I’m expected to sit quietly and follow? The shift grates at me. “I thought I was supposed to?—”
“You’ll do what I tell you,” she snaps, cutting me off without missing a beat. “Exactly what I say. When I say. No excuses, no complaints. This is serious, and I’m not about to let you fuck it up. You’ll watch me, learn how I operate. If you don’t get in my way, maybe you’ll live long enough to earn your own kill.”
I exhale slowly, biting down the sting of my pride. “Fine. But I don’t have a van. Where am I supposed to find one?”
Estella scoffs, already pushing her chair back. I follow her movement, confused, my eyes locked on her as she stands. She still doesn’t look at me—not even when she snatches up the last of the fries from the plate and tosses them into her mouth.
“You need to start figuring shit out, Dante,” she says flatly, then turns and walks off as if she hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at my feet.
Her silhouette moves toward the door, hand on the handle, and I follow with my eyes. She steps into the sunlight, steadfast and unhesitant, and without a backward glance, melts into the bright street, rounding the corner, leaving me erased from her world.
I cast my gaze back to the table. Empty plates stare up at me, greasy napkins crumpled and abandoned, half-drunk glasses catching the fading burn of the evening light. Her absence presses into the space, and the silence that follows lands heavily in my chest, almost suffocating.
She’s right. I have to start figuring shit out, and fast. First, how to get out of Mexico without drawing heat. Then, how to get my hands on a damn van and the gear I’ll need to pull this off.
No more waiting.
