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But I have no such remorse, because each decision I’ve ever made has led me here.
To my family.
To my Layla.
To my home.
I follow them outside, grinning at the balloons, streamers, and the table of food to the left with a matching balloon tablecloth. All of our friends we’ve made over the years are gathered about, wearing smiles on their faces as they wait for us. The bouncy castle remains unoccupied at the back as we start to sing “Happy Birthday,” and they join in.
When my son blows out the candles, I clap and kiss him on the cheek, making him giggle, and then I share a look with my wife. Her eyes shimmer with such happiness that my cold heart beats faster.
Only for her. For them.
Zoey takes my arm and kisses my cheek, making me grin down at her. I can’t believe how grown up she is, but to me she will always be the little girl who stood face-to-face with a killer—me. I see that same girl in her eyes now. I know she’s going to give me a run for my money when she turns eighteen and decides she no longer wants to follow all my strict rules, but moments like this, when there is love and happiness in her eyes, make all that future drama worthwhile.
I squeeze her briefly before I move to help Layla pass out the cake. When I hand out the next slice on a paper plate, a familiar scarred hand takes it. My eyes meet his unusual bright gray orbs. They are cold and dead, just like mine used to be. For a moment, the party fades as I stare into them. The jagged scar on the left side of his face, which he usually hides from everyone, is on clear display for a moment before he tugs his baseball cap down to conceal it and his identity.
He’s taller than me, which he never lets me forget, and his muscular body is only growing by the day, which is necessary for the work he does.
The same work I used to do.
Gray, the man they are making me train to fill the hole I left when I handed in my resignation, doesn’t have a family like I do.
The first day I met him, when he was a foul-mouthed teenager, he told me as much.
Gray doesn’t have anyone to love or care about, and sometimes when I watch him in action, I wonder what I am unleashing on the world, because he enjoys it more than he should. He thrives on bloodshed and death and in the pain. For me, it was always just a job, but for him, it’s his whole life—the sole reason for his existence.
His whole purpose is to take lives, and I’m the one who was chosen to mentor and teach him better ways in which he can go about it.
He inclines his head before fading into the background. I’m surprised he even came. I invited him in hopes it might help him integrate back into the world after the shitty hand he has been dealt, but now I regret having such an unbridled killer near my family.
Keeping my eye on him, I tug my family close, nodding and adding words into their conversations as I keep my eyes on him like a he’s a bomb ready to go off.
Just like I predicted, it does, but not how I thought it would.
Zoey stands with her back to the outside wall, scrolling on her phone. She wears a grin curled on her lips when the neighbor’s huge, teenage, football player son spots her and makes his way over. She’s clearly annoyed and keeps edging away, and just when I’m about to haul his ass away, he grabs her ass and tries to drag her closer. I’m moving before she even slaps him. I know she can handle herself, I taught her how to deal with assholes like him, but she’s still my daughter.
I’m halfway to them, but Gray is faster, moving like the ghost he is.
He materializes before the boy, whose face pales when he sees the death clearly written in Gray’s eyes. Zoey’s eyes widen, not just with fear, but also with interest—which I will need to deal with later. She watches Gray with something much deadlier than the horror and fear everyone else does. He’s oblivious as he grips the young boy’s neck and hauls him into the air, cutting off his air supply.
“Do. Not. Touch. Her. Again,” he snarls, his dark voice filled with the wildness he tries to contain inside himself. He’s about to lose it. I see it written on his face, especially when the boy spits out a reply like a fool.
“She liked it.”
Sighing, I manage to move closer, blocking the view before Gray can snap the kid’s neck, or worse. “Let him down,” I order. Gray hesitates, his nostrils flaring. “Down now, Gray. If you kill him, I will have no choice but to deal with you after.”
And by deal with him, I mean kill the fucker.
There is no way I can let him murder this kid in my home with so many fucking witnesses—my kids included—and let him off the hook.
Gray might be many things, but he’s not stupid.
If he snaps this kid’s neck, his head is next on my chopping block.
And he knows it.
So, despite the fact that he hates it, he slowly lowers the boy before standing over him, his fists balled at his sides. His body vibrates with barely contained violence—the strength of which even surprises me. “If I find out you touched her again, I’ll come back for you. You won’t even see me coming,” he threatens, and the young boy actually pisses himself.
