I take the stool across from her. "You want to know who I am. What I do. Why you're in danger."
"Yes."
"I'm an enforcer for the Outfit. I hurt people for money. I collect debts, I send messages, I solve problems that can't be solved with words. When someone needs to disappear, I make it happen. I've been doing this since I was a kid. My father brought me into the life. His father before him. It's the family business."
She's very still, watching me, taking it in.
"The Bratva is the Russian mob. They've been trying to move into our territories for years. Drugs, gambling, construction.We've had an uneasy truce, but it's been breaking down. A few weeks back, they hit one of our bookmaking operations. Killed some of our guys. My boss, Don Marco, wanted to send a message back. I was supposed to make an example of one of theirs."
"The man you killed the other morning," she says quietly.
"Orlov. Bratva lieutenant. I took him and his bodyguards in an alley behind a warehouse in Brighton Beach." I hold her gaze. "That's what started the war."
"Why?"
"Don Marco ordered the hit. But I was supposed to do it quietly. One clean kill to send a message." I lean forward. "Instead I did it in broad daylight. Killed his bodyguards too. Made it messy."
"Why would you do that?"
I don't answer right away. Can't tell her the real reason. That I was already on edge, already thinking about her, already making mistakes. "Lost my head. Made it personal when it should have been business."
Her breath catches. "And now there's a war."
"And now there's a war. Then I had another problem to handle after my meeting with Don Marco." I don't elaborate on the fourth kill. She doesn't need those details. Not yet. "Multiple bodies in one day. A quiet hit turned into a declaration of war."
She turns. "How many people have you killed?"
I don't hesitate. "More than forty. I stopped keeping an exact count years ago."
The number hangs in the air between us. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.
"Do you remember them?"
"Every single one." I stand and walk toward her. "The first one. The last one. The ones who fought back. The ones who begged. The ones who deserved it and the ones who didn't. Eachone has a face, a name, a reason." I stop close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me. "I don't lose sleep over them. But I remember them all."
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she asks the question I've been waiting for. "Why me? Really."
I stop a few feet away from her, close enough to touch but giving her the illusion of space. "You want the truth?"
"I think I deserve it."
"That night in the ER, I had a gunshot wound in my shoulder. I should have gone to our doctor, but he was out of town and it needed treatment. So I went to the closest hospital and fed you some bullshit story about a nail gun accident."
I can still see it. The fluorescent lights. The blood on my shirt. Her hands on my shoulder, gentle but efficient, cleaning the wound.
"You looked at me and you didn't see a criminal. You didn't see a monster. You saw someone who needed help and you helped me. No judgment. No questions. Just compassion." I move closer. "You lied on the report. You protected me."
"I didn't know what you were."
"You knew enough. You saw the gunshot wound. You're not stupid, Francesca. You knew I was dirty and you saved me anyway."
She shakes her head. "That doesn't explain months of stalking."
"I went back to check on you, to make sure you didn’t get into trouble for helping me. Then I went back again. And again. I told myself I was making sure you were safe. That it was about gratitude." I reach out and tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. She flinches but doesn't pull away. "I was lying to myself. Truth is, I couldn't stay away. You got under my skin that night. Infected me. The way you looked at me, the way you touched me. Like I was worth saving. Like I was human."
"So you decided I was yours."
"No. You were already mine. I just decided to stop pretending otherwise."
