His brows pull together, a flicker of confusion slipping into his tone. “I didn’t. Or I did,” he admits, searching for the right shape of the truth. “Either way, it’s better than anything I could’ve imagined.”
I roll my eyes, even though the compliment settles warmer in my chest than I care to admit. Of course he’s impressed. Who wouldn’t be?
The living room opens into the kitchen, sunlight spilling through tall French windows draped in sheer ivory linen. A cream boucle sofa—currently claimed by Dante—anchors the space, its curves contrasting with the sharp lines of the glass-and-chrome coffee table.
Magazines are scattered across its surface in glossy stacks, beside a crystal ashtray. I don’t smoke, but it looked perfect, so I bought it anyway.
The walls are adorned with vintage fashion posters, each carefully framed, each a quiet declaration of taste. Sculptural floor lamps in matte gold stand like sentinels in the corners, elegant without ever begging for attention.
This is the kind of place someone withtruetaste dreams of.
Cane emerges from the bathroom, and the first thing I notice is the Glock at his waistband catching the light, gleaming like a threat he’s too comfortable carrying. Only after that do I look at his face.
“Always so prepared,” I scoff. We both know the truth—no matter how armed he is, a gun won’t save him if the day ever comes when I decide he’s expendable.
I move to the counter and pick up the knife before sinking the blade into the cake, slicing it into halves, then quarters. It eats through the soft crumb with a clean, satisfying ease.
It should be that simple with people, too—if you know where to cut.
Cane reaches up for plates on the tallest shelf. “I won’t need one,” I inform him.
It’s not for you,” he says, and my eyes widen in disbelief. He moves as if he owns the place, not like a guest. Without looking at me, he takes one piece of cake, sets it neatly on a plate, then does the same with the other before grabbing two forks.
“You forgot I’m the one holding the knife,” I warn.
He gathers both plates in one hand, fingers curling around the porcelain. The tendons in his forearm tighten, making the ink etched into his skin ripple and shift with every slight movement—like his tattoos are alive, stretching over muscle and bone as he lifts the weight.
“Then stab me,” he suggests calmly. “It wasn’t a problem for you before.”
I frown, watching him walk back to the couch with such ease, as if we’re discussing the weather. “You can’t still be mad aboutthat,” I say, waving the knife lazily before setting it back on the counter and lifting my hands in mock surrender. “It wasonetime. And I was careful. I made sure I didn’t kill you.”
I can feel Dante’s confusion hanging thick in the air, but neither of us looks his way. Cane places the plates on the coffee table, drops onto the couch beside Dante, and turns his head toward him. Without waiting, Dante reaches for the cake, and I swear I can see him drool.
“She’s lying,” he says before stabbing the fork into the cake. The soft sponge gives way, the tines leaving three clean punctures. “She gutted me. Took me weeks to heal. A miracle I’m still alive.”
I grab the spatula still slick with batter, twirling it thoughtfully before bringing it to my mouth. My tongue slowly flicks over the sweetness. “Ever wondered what would’ve happened if you had died?”
Dante coughs mid-bite, his hand snapping to cover his mouth as he struggles for air. The confusion on his face is raw and visceral, and I feel a dark thrill coil inside me, feeding on it, growing sharper and hungrier.
My relationship with Cane has always been strange. You could call it a bond, though I’ve never figured out what exactly ties us together. When I was younger and more naïve, I thought he was my family.
The way he trained me was brutal, relentless, as he pushed me past every limit, tore down everything soft left in me. But I found comfort in that. In his cruelty, his certainty.
He couldn’t break what was already broken.
He didn’t fix me. He didn’t heal me. With patient hands, he fused the broken shards, leaving just enough space for me to step forward, to perform, to shine.
Memories flash like a movie, and the corner of my mouth quirks. Maybe I’d miss him for a day or two if my bladeactuallykilled him.
“Of course I did,” he says, pulling me out of the drift.
The fog lifts, curling away like smoke dissipating into the morning. I watch him, dark eyes fixed on the cake I baked, every bite so careful and slow. He would never admit it—wouldn’t dare—but heisafraid of me. Time has dulled him; he’s grown complacent, outsourcing the dirty work to others. He still trains, keeps a hint of the edge he once had, but the man before me is a shadow of who he used to be.
I can still see the moment I stabbed him—the blank look in his eyes when he didn’t expect it, his gloved hand crushing my shoulder until it bruised. None of that would’ve happened if he hadn’t been distracted by his daughter. You can’t tell me that getting stranded on a private island after finishing a job was less urgent than her getting her first period at school.
Cramps can be vicious, sure, but they pale against the torment I endured back then. He didn’t come for me, didn’t even bother to send someone. What should have been a single day of waiting stretched into five relentless days of storms. The memory still presses against my chest as if it happened yesterday, though two years have already passed.
After I came back, I had to do it. The assassination was stressful enough on its own, and the relentless storm made me think I’d actually end up stranded there forever.
