“And yet, you are.” He takes my hand and kisses it, his lips soft and warm, promising my undoing. “You’re fucking perfect.”
My mouth twitches with a smile. “You’ve been tending to me for far too long. Let me settle my debt,” I say jokingly, but this isn’t really about some kind of payback. I just want to be able to ground him like he has been grounding me through all this mess.
“I’ve been alone most of my life, Cecilia. My pain knows no company, no relief. It’s mine to carry, and I don’t want it to touch you more than it already has.”
“But—”
“Eat your dessert. I’ll be right back,” he says, standing to walk to the others—Rodion and Niko. He asked them to come with us, and it was the only way I could convince him to take me with him to find my mentor. Otherwise, he says it would’ve been too dangerous, that he would’ve brought her to me at home instead.
But I want to be there when we find her, to see the look on her face when she realizes I’m no longer the child she forged in lies and manipulation.
Most importantly, I need to know if she’s the one who killed the most important person in my life. One thing is for sure, though—she never cared about me. She was just doing a job, a job she told me she was exceptionally good at. I can’t believe I trusted her so blindly.
What else has she been lying to me about? Had no one truly reached out to me to perform at their events all those years? She knew it was what I wanted—what I needed to do in order to survive my claustrophobic life. Instead, she kept me small and dependent, making sure my memory stayed stuck in that rut.
I bite into my cinnamon bun—the one from the Alemont City bakery I love—and the flavors make me audibly moan, my eyes fluttering closed. When I open them again, my husband turns to me with amusement in his eyes, his tall, dark figure standing with his hands in his pockets, watching me from afar.
We land in Michigan,and Rodion drives us through the five PM traffic to what appears to be a homeless shelter. When Maksim told us this was where Ms. Donatello was last seen, I was confused. What would she be doing here? If anything, she’d look completely out of place in her precious designer outfits. Unless, perhaps, she’s not here to hide, but to talk to someone.
“Stay here,” Mikhail orders me, but I get out of the car anyway, following him. When he sees me, his brows shoot up.
“Please. I can’t just sit twiddling my thumbs. Take me with you.”
He takes my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine, making my heart flutter. “Stay close then.”
I nod, and we walk into the shelter together, him first, me trailing close behind him. Inside, people are queuing up to eat,the smell of soup and biscuits filling the air. Mikhail drags me through the crowd, and I smile to those who make eye contact.
They look trapped, like they don’t want to be here but have nowhere else to go. I hate that they have to go through this, making a mental note to call this place later and ask if they accept donations.
“How do you know where we’re going?” I ask, following him.
“The shelter manager. His office has to be somewhere around here,” he says.
And, sure enough, there is one. We stop in front of a closed white door, the paint chipped around the edges. Without knocking, Mikhail barges in like he already had a meeting with the man. I doubt that’s the case.
“Excuse me, you can’t be in here!” the manager—a man in his fifties with a pointy mustache—yells.
“Close the door, sweetheart,” Mikhail says calmly.
I do what he says.
“We’re looking for someone, and she was last seen here,” my husband continues, showing the man his phone with a picture of my mentor. “Ring a bell?”
He takes in Mikhail’s tattoos then glances at the door behind me. “I—I don’t know. Lots of people come and go around here.”
“Mmm, yes. But see, this person wouldn’t be too hard to miss. Look again.”
“I don’t—I…” By the look on his face, he truly has no idea who Ms. Donatello is.
“If you have a list of people who have passed away recently, could you maybe give us that instead?” I chime in. Mikhail looks at me, his eyes flashing with understanding.
The man frowns. “I really wish I could help you, but I can’t give out information like?—”
My husband places his gun on the table, and I don’t fail to notice how absolutely unfazed I am at the gesture. Not anymore. “My wife asked you a fucking question.”
“Jesus…” The manager shrinks back, awkwardly shifting through a bunch of documents with shaky hands. “H-Here. Take it and leave.”
“Attaboy,” Mikhail says, his demeanor changing to the amused, charming version of him. He snatches the paper and takes my hand, leading us out of the shelter and back into the car.
