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Zoey is clutching Layla’s hand and looking around, and when she spots me, she grins widely, reaching out for my hand too. I don’t know why, but that one gesture, that fucking smile, it’s like a shot to my heart.
I actually stumble before taking her hand as I reach her side. “What’s your dad like? I can’t remember much of mine,” she murmurs softly, innocently.
Layla’s eyes close for a moment, and I quickly brush over her pain, not wanting to discuss it until she’s ready to talk about that night. Kneeling, I brush Zoey’s hair behind her ear and smile at her as tenderly as I know how to. “He’s a wonderful man. He taught me everything I know. He’s in . . . security too,” I explain vaguely. “Or was. He was the best, the strongest man I ever knew. He taught me that strength, and although it didn’t leave a lot of time for being a kid or just playing, I’m grateful all the same.”
She nods, squeezing my hand and looking at Layla. “Layla was never a kid either, maybe that’s why you work so well together.” With that, Zoey turns on her heel and walks to the door, leaving us both staring after her.
Smart fucking kid.
“Maybe it is,” I murmur, straightening. I take Layla’s hand in mine as she stares after Zoey and raise it to my lips, kissing her knuckles. When she inhales and looks at me, satisfaction pours through me. “Come on, baby girl.”
As we head inside the two-story brick building, I can’t help but think of my words to Zoey. They were partly true, and even though I hate lying to her, it’s for the best. How could I explain that on Saturday mornings I spent hours learning the best ways to kill a man when other kids were in the park playing baseball or football?
Or how on the weekdays when I missed school it was because he took me on a job and gave me my first kill?
Or when he showed me how to cut flesh from bones and how to dissolve bodies?
My father was the best hit man in the world . . . until me.
He taught me everything he knew, and like I was born to kill, I took his lessons and I made them better until I was untouchable, unkillable. By that point, he retired and lived vicariously through me. Even if I wanted to be someone different, someone better for Layla, I can’t. Killing is all I know. My hands are so coated in blood that they will never be clean again. It never bothered me before . . . not until her.
Now, I’m aware that those same hands that have taken thousands of lives without remorse or a second thought are holding her so tightly, lovingly, and staining that perfect skin with the souls of the dead, and she doesn’t even know it.
Maybe this was a bad idea, but as I lead them down the old, ugly carpeted hallway to his room at the end, I know there’s no turning back. My father would have heard us coming, and if I didn’t show? Well, I’m never too old to get my ass kicked, as he likes to remind me.
I crack my neck once we arrive outside the wooden door with the number thirteen hung in silver. I look at Layla once more, and her soft, encouraging smile has me knocking on the door and entering without waiting for a reply.
The TV is on in the corner, sitting on an outdated chest of drawers as it plays some old war movie he loves so much. Two windows with a radiator between them line the wall next to it, looking out at the city—not that he can enjoy the view—and his huge Lay-Z-Boy is pointed right at it. It’s where he’s sitting now, with his slipper-clad feet propped up. He’s dressed in some slacks and a white shirt, with a chunky gray cardigan over it. He’s always been a sharp dresser, even now. The horrible carpet continues into here as well, with a tiny kitchen to the right and an open door to the left leading to his bedroom and bathroom.
It’s nice, all things considered, and the furniture is placed in exact positions for him to know where to go, though I know he mostly sleeps in his chair anyway.
Clearing my throat, I tug Layla closer and shut the door behind us as Zoey hesitates near us. He makes no signs he’s heard us, but I know he has. Nothing escapes my father. Not even the sound of a pin dropping.
“Dad,” I call, leading the girls around to the sofa against the wall, which is only used for visitors like us. “I brought some friends.”
“No shit, my boy,” he replies, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. Layla gasps when she sees him, and I wince.
“You look so much like him,” she whispers, and that’s when I comprehend she hasn’t realized it yet. If the aviator sunglasses covering his eyes hasn’t tipped her off, I don’t know what will, but she’s too busy looking at his styled gray hair, and yes, okay, facial features similar to mine, to notice that only a few people can get away with using shades indoors without looking like assholes.
My dad tilts his head like he can see her, something he works hard on. He says he finds it amusing to throw people off, to make them wonder if he really is blind. “And who’s the beauty?” he asks.
“Dad, this is Layla. Layla, this is my father.”
Layla steps forward, holding her hand out. “It’s nice to meet you!” she gushes, but when he doesn’t take her hand, she looks back at me nervously.
“You didn’t do anything, baby. My father’s blind,” I explain slowly. Her eyes widen with recognition as she looks back at him, stuttering now.
“Ignore my grumpy son, it’s fine. Happened ten years ago, stupid diabetes,” Dad grumbles. “Come sit, sit.”
Layla’s mouth snaps shut, and she takes her seat, Zoey hopping up right next to her. She clearly feels awkward for not realizing he’s unable to see, but she soon loosens up as I sit by her side, squeezing her knee consolingly. I wrap my arm around her shoulders to pull her closer, more for me than her, so I can feel her heat and curves against me.
“Layla is my wife, Dad. I got married,” I tell him as I coil a strand of her hair around my finger, playing with it.
“Did ya? Fucking hell, you kidnap her or something?” He booms out a laugh. “Need me to kill him, girl?” he carries on jokingly.
Zoey giggles, and my dad stills.
“Alaric?” he growls, serious now.
