Jason lifts a hand and signals to the waitress. She approaches quickly, though her steps stiffen when she reaches our table.
Obviously, she’s upset. I rejected her number without hesitation, and she probably thinks I’m an asshole. Maybe I am. I could’ve at least pretended to keep the slip of paper, spared her the humiliation. But I didn’t. I had no interest in offering false hope.
Estella is the only woman in my head. The only one in my bloodstream.
Jason orders a cup of coffee in his clunky German, each word dropping with the weight of effort, and the moment the waitress walks away, I lift my brow at him. “You realize they speak English here, right?”
“Did you use English here?” he asks. When I shake my head, he spreads his arms as if presenting an undeniable truth. “Exactly. I want to practice. One day, I will become just like you.”
A chuckle rises in my chest. I have always been drawn to new languages, ever since I was a child. It was never something required for my mission—I could have relied on Google Translate for a few basic phrases to slip through whatever cracks I needed, but I never wanted that.
So whenever time allowed, I spent it learning something unfamiliar, something that made the world feel a little less foreign. I am nowhere near Estella’s level—not even close—but there is still enough in me to brag about.
“You look different,” Jason observes, his gaze drifting over my frame with a curious slowness. “I cannot place what it is, but I canfeelit.”
“It is constant travel,” I lie smoothly. “That, and the need to blend in without looking suspicious. I am always on the alert.”
His eyes narrow. “Is that why you stopped picking up your phone?”
Unease coils low in my stomach, a cold, tightening knot, and right then the waitress returns, placing a steaming cup of coffee in front of Jason. He thanks her before turning his full attention back to me.
“Did something happen before I came in?” he asks, darting a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction she left. “What did you say to her?”
I let out a long, tired sigh. “Why do you think it has anything to do with me?”
The corner of his mouth curves up. “Every time she walks near our table, she keeps cutting nervous glances your way.”
“So observant,” I say, lacing my voice with mockery. “Use those skills when we are working, will you?”
Hurt flickers across his face before his features shift into surprise. “What is happening to you, Dante? You really changed. Now I am glad Lucia did not come. She wanted to be here, but if she saw you like this, the poor girl would be crushed.”
“I am deep in my thoughts,” I reply sharply. “And just because I did not take a number from the waitress does not mean I am a monster.”
His brows lift high. “So that is what this is. You broke her heart. I suppose that is acurse.”
My own brow creases. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He grimaces as he takes a sip, the bitterness hitting him hard. Jason reaches for the small packet of sugar on the table, tearing it open with a sharp flick of his fingers. The tiny crystals cascade into the cup, and the ceramic spoon clicks against the mug as he stirs. “First, one dies. Now, one leaves with a broken heart.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache blooming at my temples. “What? Died? Who died?”
He looks at me from under his lashes, a frown settling across his features. “You don’t know?”
“Obviously not.”
He pauses, studying me with suspicion creeping into his gaze. “That restaurant you both went to in Barcelona. You did not see the news? A waitress died there.”
Thrown completely off balance, I reach into my pocket for my phone and type the restaurant’s name. The article appears instantly, and I tap it open. It takes less than a minute before the page loads, and my eyes move quickly across the lines of text.
Something unfamiliar spirals through me, rising fast, filling my insides with a strange, heated pressure. The sensation climbs to my ribcage and erupts into a scatter of bright, prickling tingles when the photo of the waitress comes into view.
A rush of memories surges forward, and although my mind often fractures and leaves gaps where important things should be, this memory breaks through with the clarity of sunlight after a storm.
I remember that night—the one that shifted something deep within me. The lingering longing after Estella went home. Thestrange, suffocating mix of emotions that followed me back to my hotel room. Her comment about the waitress. The sharp edge of her humor, the bitterness that made me pause, the tone that hinted at something I had not dared to name.
Jealousy.
Jason says my name, but his voice feels distant, muffled as if I am underwater. My vision narrows, and the numb corners of my mind throb as sensation crawls back into them. A buzzing begins to ripple under my skin, like thousands of tiny spiders waking from the depths of my brain as the memories shake themselves free from sleep.
