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I don’t believe in fate or destiny or any cosmic power. But this irony isn’t lost on me as I flip my left palm upward next to his, revealing the pinkish scar that disrupts the natural lines. It’s shorter and newer than Nick’s, the stitches freshly dissolved, but otherwise, it’s almost identical.
We match. When it comes to one short stretch of scar tissue, we seem meant to be.
Not to mention, it’s a permanent reminder of the knife slip that’s the reason I’m here.
Nick stares at the healed cut for a beat too long to be a cursory glance. “Alex did a good job.”
That’s all he says before climbing out of bed, pulling on his discarded clothes, and walking out of the room.
* * *
When I walk downstairs, Nick is talking on the phone. Leo is kneeling down on the carpet, petting a pile of black-and-brown fur with a wide smile on his face.
As I draw closer, I realize it’s a dog. A very big, very sleepy dog.
Leo looks up at me, a huge smile on his face. “Mom! Look!”
“I’m looking,” I say dryly, crouching down beside him. “I see the dog.”
“Dad said I could play with him today.”
Dad.
I want Leo to know his father. I knew, when I climbed on that plane, there was a good chance Leo would learn who owned it. But hearing it spoken so matter-of-factly is different.
“He did, did he?” I cast a look at Nick, which he misses, too busy barking orders into the phone. “Did you eat breakfast?”
Leo nods, completely focused on the dog, who’s wagging and drooling, thrilled with the undivided attention.
I stand and walk into the formal dining room, where breakfast is already waiting. One of the maids is clearing an empty plate I assume is Leo’s. She gives me a nervous smile and then hurries through the swinging door that leads into the kitchen.
I fill a plate with toast and eggs and take a seat at the table. I alternate between sipping coffee and chewing, staring out the glass doors that lead to a patio.
Gray stones peek through the blanket of snow here and there, melted in spots the sun has hit. Aside from that, the rear view of the house looks the same as the front. The tree line doesn’t start for a half a mile, the fence that surrounds the property just past it.
Without asking, I know it’s a tactical choice. There’s no way to approach the house under cover, not even in darkness, thanks to the floodlights.
I’m finished with food and sipping on coffee when Nick walks into the dining room. I watch him fill a mug and drink from it without flinching, the coffee straight black and steaming hot.
“A dog?”
“You mentioned Leo wanted one.”
I should be surprised Nick remembered such a small detail from a long rant, but I’m not. It must help his criminal empire succeed.
“If you play good guy, I’ll always have to be the bad guy.”
“According to you, I’m always the bad guy.”
I let that comment slide. “Whose dog?”
“Roman’s. My dad used to keep hunting dogs here. After he died, Roman took a puppy. I asked to borrow it for the day.”
Leo rushes into the room. “Are you ready, Dad?”
Something soft and warm settles in Nick’s expression. I wonder if this is the first time he’s heard Leo call him that. It feels surreal to me, so it must be strange for him.
“I’m ready,” Nick responds, taking one final sip of coffee and setting the cup back on the table.
