I hold her gaze. “Violence isn’t unusual where I come from.”
Her face changes. Not panic. Not yet. “The men with you,” she says slowly. “At the office. Last night. They’re not just security.”
“No.”
“And your father.”
“What about him?”
“He’s part of this, too?”
“Yes.”
Her throat works. “This is organized crime.”
There it is. The real word. I don’t answer immediately, which is answer enough.
She takes a small step back. “Jesus.”
I let her have the silence she needs.
She turns away from me for a second, collecting herself, then looks back. “You could have told me before.”
“I could have.” But I didn’t want to scare you away.
“So what are you, exactly?” she asks. “Because right now I’ve got billionaire, criminal, bodyguards, guns, attempted kidnapping, and a father who apparently wants your life. That’s not a normal Venn diagram.”
Despite the situation, I laugh. “No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
Her mouth twitches, just once, then flattens again. “This is not funny.”
“I know.”
She looks at the old scars on my shoulder, then lower. “These are all from that life.”
“Yes.”
“Bullets. Knives.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze lifts back to mine. “Have you killed people?”
The question is blunt. Honest. Very her. I think about giving her a less direct answer. I don’t.
“Yes.”
She goes very still.
I watch it happen. The flicker of shock, then the effort to hide it. Her hands press into her own arms. Her lips part slightly. She is not naïve enough to think men like me are dangerous only in theory. But hearing it is different from suspecting it.
For a second, I almost tell her to leave. To go now, while fear still has a chance to do the work distance couldn’t.
But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “You should be afraid of what this means.”
She looks at me for a long time. Then, very quietly, “I think I am. Just not enough.”
That goes through me harder than any accusation could have. Because I know exactly what she means. She should be frightened enough to keep away from me, enough to stop looking, enough to stop wanting.
