“He owes me. The last payment for my last job.”
“David,” I say, and he nods.
“He paid the first half promptly. But before I could collect the second half, I was incapacitated.”
Because I shot him. “That’s a shame,” I say with a straight face.
“Indeed.” He clears his plate and washes it right away. It would take me a few seconds to rush around the island to jab my fork into his kidney. But I doubt he’s distracted enough to let me. Besides, the pale, muscled expanse of his back is so pretty. And I want to keep eating.
“Stephanos has gone to ground,” Victor tells me as he cleans up the cooking area.
“I know.” I grind my teeth.
“But I found several members of his gang and spoke to them today. One way or another, they will lead me to him.”
When Victor turns from the sink, I’m gripping the fork like a weapon.
“Lula, breathe.”
“What will you do when you find him?”
“Retrieve what is owed to me. One way or another.”
“Will you kill him?”
“Do you want me to?” He looks me dead in the eye. It’s a genuine question.
“No. I can’t afford to hire you. Left my wallet in my other pants.”
His expression doesn’t change at my little joke. Which is fine. I don’t feel like laughing, either.
My appetite is gone, but I poke at my food, unwilling for the meal to be over. “How many people have you killed?”
Victor tilts his head as if he’s doing mental math. “Men and women?”
I have a horrifying thought. “Do you kill children?” There’s a metallic taste in my mouth.
“No. No one under the age of twenty-two. There are rarely contracts on children unless they are heirs.”
I feel the tiniest bit of relief. The psychopath has standards.
He’s still a monster, I scold myself. I don’t want to think about this dark world that Victor lives in, but I can’t help myself. “What you told me last night. The story of the little boy. Was any of it true?”
“There are no lies between us.” He leans over the island, and that slight movement is enough to send his winter-fresh scent wafting my way.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I want to protest, but he’s staring at me so intently, gaze scalpel-sharp enough to dissect me, that I have to look away.
“Everything I told you was true. My mother slept with men for money. She did her best to survive. A butcher took us in and gave us food and a place to stay. In return, my mother did whatever he wanted, and I worked for him in the shop. He taught me everything I know.” He’s leaning into the island counter, gripping the edge. It looks casual, but his fingers tighten until they’re almost as white as the quartz. “One night, he hit my mother, and I killed him. I used his favorite knife to cut him into pieces. A graduation of sorts.”
I swallow. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
I blink rapidly. My heart bleeds for the young, tow-headed boy. “And your mother?”
