“You were not asking for anything. That is your problem.”
He hands me one of the mugs anyway.
I take it. The heat settles into my palms. I watch him lean against the counter across from me, white shirt open at the throat, tattoos dark against his skin. I know I should say something useful. Ask about the flight. Ask about Raven. Ask what happens when we get to Boston.
Instead, I say, “You were good with Heath.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “I am aware.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The answer lands gentler than it should.
I look down into my coffee. “He trusts you more than he should.”
“So do you.”
My head lifts.
Stefano’s expression does not change. “You are coming to Boston with me.”
“I’m coming for Leon.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. The kitchen clock continues ticking above the doorway. I hate the sound of it. Every second feels like something being taken away.
“What happens after Boston?” I ask.
Stefano’s gaze shifts to my face.
“You know what I mean,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And Boston happens first.”
I set the mug down harder than I mean to. “You keep asking me to trust you while refusing to tell me what you are doing.”
“I have never asked you to trust me.”
“You act like you have.”
“I have asked you to stay alive.”
“That is not better.”
“No,” he says. “It is honest.”
I laugh once, sharp enough to hurt. “You know what your problem is?”
“I am certain you are going to tell me.”
