Five days ago, I’d watched her sign the contract. The line in her own handwriting: Must be honest at all times. No games. She’d said it with a little edge, like she knew I’d try to wriggle past it if I could.
Now I was about to lie to her. Not about a small thing, not about a missed check-in or a code in the lock. About her safety, about her future. Even if it was for her own good, it felt so wrong, so terrible.
I told myself it was operational necessity. That she had to act normal, had to walk like she wasn’t being watched, had to eat and sleep and live like nothing had changed. If she believed, even for a second, that the world was closing in, the whole plan went to shit.
That’s what Dante wanted. It’s what Sal wanted. It’s what Tonio wanted, even if he wouldn’t say it. And it’s what I wanted, too, if I was honest: for the world to leave her alone, at least until I could figure out if she wanted to keep me after.
The more I tried to make the rationale hold, the less it did.
No games, she’d written. And here I was, prepping the biggest one of my life.
The lights of the building hit my eyes. I killed the engine in the garage, then just sat. The car’s interior went silent so fast it felt like a vacuum, the only sound the faint hum of the electric motor winding down.
I didn’t want to go up. I didn’t want to see her and have to talk, or touch, or look her in the face. I wanted to keep her safe, but more than that, I wanted to be able to tell her the truth and not have it break the thing we’d only just started to build.
After it was over, I’d beg forgiveness, or walk, or do whatever it took to fix it.
I gripped the wheel. Let go. Gripped it again.
The apartment was full of light when I came in. Not just the city winter outside, but real, electric, in every surface. She was at the kitchen table, glasses low on her nose, three highlighters scattered around a legal pad and an empty mug spinning slow in her hand. Her hair was up, but already breaking out in wisps, and her cheeks were pink with concentration.
She looked up when I opened the door. Her face did something. Not a smile, but softer, like she’d just remembered how good it felt to see someone you wanted to see.
I crossed the room, dropped my keys on the counter, and bent to kiss her on the forehead. Her skin was warm, warmer than the air.
I said, “What are you working on?”
She held up the legal pad. Her handwriting was a riot: all angles, underlines, arrows through the margins. “Marco’s files. I think he knows I’m poking through them, but he’s not locking anything down. I’m finding patterns. Shell companies, dummy invoices, a fund that keeps popping up in different places. It’s like—” She paused, searching for the right word. “It’s like they want to be found, but only by the right person.”
I pulled a chair and sat next to her, close enough that my knee brushed hers under the table. I rested my hand on her shoulder. She didn’t flinch; she leaned into it.
She said, “Did you eat?”
“No,” I said. “But you didn’t either.”
She smiled, faint. “Is it that obvious?”
“There’s a half-eaten pear on the plate.”
She made a face. “I forgot it was there.”
I stood, pulled open the fridge, and started assembling dinner with one hand while the other still rested on her arm. Eggs, the end of a chorizo, a pepper, the good cheese. She watched, narrating her discoveries as I chopped.
“This fund—” she tapped the page, “It’s supposed to be Canadian, but every time it moves money, it routes through a bank in Milan. France is involved, too? And the paperwork is a mess. Not even pretending to cover the tracks. I think it’s intentional. Like a flag for someone watching from outside.”
I said, “It’s a signal. Like a lighthouse.”
She looked at me, something sparking in her eyes. “Yes. A lighthouse. Exactly.”
I cracked eggs into a bowl. She watched my hands, tracing the movement.
She said, “Why are you nice to me?”
The question took me off guard. “What do you mean?”
She stared at the mug, spinning it by the handle. “People don’t do this. Not for me. Not unless they want something.”
I went to the stove, started the pan. “What do you think I want?”
