“You’ll like this,” I promise.
She snatches them from my hand but refuses to look, her anger blooming hot across her features. Her eyebrows knit into deep furrows, her mouth tightening with a confusion so sharp it sparks something strange and thrilling within me.
I can’t deny it—I enjoy this little game far more than I should.
Then, the night finally erupts. A deep, concussive boom rolls across the sand, followed by a spear of light and a thick column of flame tearing into the dark. Her anger shatters instantly, replaced by raw confusion, her posture freezing before instinct finally kicks in and she lifts the binoculars to her eyes.
Cane told her I was good with tech, but before tonight, I didn’t stand out. Now I’ve paired skill with imagination and built something I knew she hadn’t seen before. Because the plan was never just swapping the water bottles.
It was swapping the shipment itself—millions in filthy cash replaced with identical crates hiding a device keyed to blood. Killing the man earlier wasn’t only about taking him out. It served two purposes.
The first: priming the bomb. The moment his blood touched the trigger, the timer started counting down.
The second: proving to her that I can do more than shoot from a distance. That I can kill up close. That I can take what I want. That there’s passion behind the precision.
Two birds, one stone.
From afar, we watch the chaos unfurl—orange tongues of flame licking the sky, thick smoke curling upward in dense, suffocating coils. After what feels like an eternity, I tear my eyes away and catch her reaction.
A fleeting shadow of something I can’t name passes across her features. Her lips part slightly, fingers clutching the binoculars until they turn white, knuckles taut. She doesn’t speak. Instead, she studies the scene with the detached focus of a scientist observing a volatile experiment.
A tremor flickers at the corners of her mouth, blooming into a fragile, deliberate smile. She takes her time, drinking in the destruction—the flickers, the collapses, the heat and light—holding herself perfectly still so she won’t miss a single detail.
She savors it all: the death, the chaos, and the meticulous performance that brought it to life.
Time stretches, elongated and warped, as we stand there together. The silence that grows between us isn’t heavy or oppressive anymore—it’s a quiet, eerie calm, a pause carved into the storm raging in the distance.
Eventually, she slaps the binoculars against my chest. Reflexively, I clutch them before draping the cord back across my shoulders.
“That old-school diner we drove past looked nice,” she murmurs, turning and pivoting, eyes still fixed on the inferno before us.
A slow, sharp smile spreads across my face, fully blooming now, twisted and alive, as I fall into step beside her.
Barcelona, Spain
I’m baking.
When I woke up this morning, I remembered that one of the women I killed in prison once told me her daughter loved blueberry cake every Sunday. Now that I’m actually making it, I can’t help thinking about how spoiled that kid must’ve been—wanting this sweet nonsense every goddamn week.
The flight back was long, but finally, I can breathe. Cooking helps me unwind—never enough to silence the constant churn of new ways to kill people, but it takes the edge off.
I fix my gaze on the oven, the warm orange glow spilling over the cake like molten light. It rises slowly, imperceptibly, the surface mottled with golden and purple bruises that speak of blueberries and caramelizing sugar. The timer ticks down: three more minutes. My stomach growls, a low rumble echoing in the quiet kitchen, and I lean closer, inhaling the sweet, tart perfume of sugar and blueberries mingling in the heat.
Cane should be here any minute. The bastard always shows up to eat whatever I have left, so I learned it’s easier to cook for him than let him raid my kitchen.
I straighten, reaching for the oven button before noticing the sugar clinging to my fingertips. I hold them up, studying the tiny crystals, rubbing them together, feeling the grit scrape lightly against my skin. Usually, I’m not this messy.
My teeth bite down on my lower lip as the memory of a few days ago flickers through my mind—Dante and his infuriatingly brilliant plan. At first, I was impressed. Shocked, even. But the feeling didn’t linger. It twisted, curdled into irritation faster than a blink, leaving a sour edge in its wake.
By the time we reached the diner I’d picked out, my mood had already shifted. I didn’t want to be near him anymore—let alone sit down and eat together. He insisted on paying for my takeout, but I just turned around and went straight back to the hotel, and I haven’t heard from him since. Not when I boarded the plane, not when I landed, not even after I got home.
I’ve never felt that way before. Every time I was assigned to train someone, they ended up dead. I was always faster, sharper, smarter. They all tried to impress me, but never hard enough. Turning a mission into a messy bloodbath that attracts unwanted attention isn’t impressive—it’s pathetic.
But Dante was different. He waited, he listened, and then he executed perfectly. No noise, no arrogance, no sloppy mistakes. There wasn’t a single flaw to pick at, and I hated it as much asI admired it, a sharp twist of frustration and reluctant respect curling in my chest.
I don’t know why my mood shifted so quickly. Maybe I just wanted to get rid of him. I’ve never worked well with anyone; partnerships always fracture, always implode. Yet with him, I can’t just walk away. Cane has something lined up for us, and the unknown gnaws at me.
I twist my fingers in front of my face, trying to reel in the storm of my thoughts. That instant our hands brushed—the spark that flared hot and sharp, searing through me—it felt like the universe itself had slammed a warning into my chest.
