I drop the act, stab a piece of bacon, and shove it into my mouth. “It happens.”
He doesn’t respond right away, but I can feel his eyes on me, watching with that unnerving focus of his. Deep down, I know he understands. Shediddeserve it.
“I won’t be able to protect you anymore, Estella,” he lies. “If you keep doing whatever you want, you’ll get yourself killed.”
I laugh. “Nobody will kill me, silly,” I say between bites, licking grease from my lip. “I’m the best they have. You said it yourself.”
It’s not a lie. Cane has always told me I’m not just his favorite—I’m theirs too. It took years and a thousand cruelties to get here: practice until movement becomes muscle memory, patience until the work feels like breathing, the quiet repetition that turns violence into an art form.
Every assignment they hand me, I finish. Distance, wealth, power—they’re just details, variables that only shift the logistics.I’m not the only assassin in the organization, but I am the one who walks the line between craft and blood.
So what if I take a few side quests now and then? They never wrote a rule that an artist couldn’t dabble.
“I’m getting tired of your constant negative energy,” I say, exasperated. “Was there a particular reason for your uninvited visit?”
He exhales like a man finally conceding a pointless argument. “Yes. There’s a new job for you and Dante.”
Cane slips a hand into his coat pocket and draws out a folded sheet of paper. The moment it appears, something sharp and bright flares inside me—a spark cutting straight through the dull hum in my chest. Excitement slices upward, quick and electric. My hand rises instinctively, fingers already curling toward the edges of the page, eager to seize it.
But before I can fully grab it, he strikes the back of my hand. The gesture is barely more than a flick, but it carries the weight of both reprimand and ritual, a silent reminder of the roles we play.
“Because you disobeyed me again,” he begins, his voice tightening as his lips purse into a thin line. “And stirred up my trust…again.” He shakes his head slowly, as if disappointed in something that used to be different. “You’ll be working with others.”
The spark inside me snuffs out the instant the words leave his mouth, extinguished as quickly as it ignited. My hand falls, fingers uncurling in midair as if the strength drains straight out of them. Disbelief carves itself across my features, settling there like a fresh scar.
“What?” I ask, incredulous, the question fracturing into a short, disbelieving laugh I don’t intend to make.
“Did you think we’d let you continue without consequences?”
“I’m already working with Dante, wasn’t that punishment enough?” I shoot back. The idea of extra idiots around me tastes like an insult.
He sneers. “You’re not working with Dante. You’reteachinghim. And I don’t see why you’re upset. The more people, the faster the job gets done.”
I arch a surprised brow. “You know I can do it alone—fast, slow, painful, painless, you name it. More people means more noise, more annoyance for me. I won’t be—” I falter, searching for the exact word that matches the sheer volume of my frustration. “—productivethis way.”
Cane shrugs, the motion indifferent and final. “You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”
He drops the paper onto the table and flattens it with two fingers like a stamp. Then he pushes it toward me, and my eyes trace the small, official print on the page.
Mount McKinley.
Well. At least it’s a scenic death trap.
“The target,” he begins, clicking his tongue like he’s tasted something bitter, “is our agent. Former agent.”
“Somebody pissed you off, huh?” I ask, letting curiosity lace my tone as I inspect the paper with my fingers.
“He’s unreliable. Started demanding too much,” Cane explains, his words carrying that clipped, managerial calm that usually comes before bad news. “Thisis one of those examples, Estella. You think I say these things to scare you, but I’m actually worried about you.”
I look up from the paper, my brows furrowing. “Wait,” I blink, tilting my head, disbelief and offense carving themselves into my features. “Did you just compare me to some lame double agent nobody gives a fuck about?”
He looks up at the ceiling, as if searching for divine forgiveness. Realization flickers across his face like a shadow passing through light.
“Not exactly. I didn’t mean it like that,” he says at last. “Do you have a hunch what kind of information he’s been carrying?”
“How long are you planning on being cryptic and trying to make me care about this?” I ask, ripping my attention away from the paper and meeting his eyes.
He holds my gaze, his expression hardening, all humor stripped away. “We believe there’s an organization that targets The Order,” he says slowly. “Which means they’re trying to get their claws into me. Intoyou.”
