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“Which smells bad,” Royal said. “Like Ramen.”
“You haven’t been here in weeks!” And I only ate Ramen every other day, at most.
“We’ve lived together for a while, my friend. I know how it smells.” Royal looked thoughtful. “What you need is a plant.”
If I took care of a living green thing, it would quickly be followed by a brownening… and Royal’s ire. I would have to pass.
I needed to escape, but Karma convinced me to take a bowl of spaghetti—and a piece of garlic bread clutched between my teeth—as I fled back into my room.
There was something about the way they had family dinners that just reminded me a little too much of how different this life was from the life I was supposed to have, before my parents were murdered.
Back in my room, it felt as if I were too lost in my thoughts about my parents. I had the faintest wisps of memory about them. My father, picking me up when he came home from work; the silver badges on his dark blue uniform. He’d always put his hat on top of my head because it made him laugh.
I tried to focus on the code instead.
That was all that mattered. The past was foggy and dark. Revenge was a clear, bright path into the future.
So I had spaghetti sauce on my sweatshirt—which paired well with the sweatpants and gnarled hair—when Royal stuck her head in the door. She’d just had her debrief, and Man had summoned me.
I walked into his office. He looked as immaculate as ever, with his well-trimmed gray beard and his perfect black suit. I thought it was a bit much as daily wear for someone who never left the mansion, but then, I was never going to be anyone’s style icon.
He raised his eyebrows at my appearance but luckily he hardly ever talked, so he wasn’t criticizing. As I sat down, he simply slid an envelope across his desk to me.
I opened up the envelope to find a file on Gavin Crude. Gun runner, mob kingpin, stone-cold silver fox; the man in the black-and-white 8x10 photo staring up at me was ridiculously handsome except for the intense, serial killer gaze.
“I’m on it,” I said. I loved killing people who had hurt other people. Maybe someone else wouldn’t have to live through the pain I had. I turned more pages in the file, then groaned.
Man had identified more than one location where I’d find Gavin Crude.
But one option was the annual gala he held, fundraising for charity. Quite the cover for a mob kingpin.
“You know I hate wearing dresses,” I told Man.
He didn’t look particularly sympathetic.
“I’ll get it done,” I promised him, and he nodded.
“I know,” he said.
“Love you too, Daddy,” I muttered.
But only once I’d left the room and closed the door softly behind me.
He wasn’t my father, of course. But he’d raised me—and forged me into a near-perfect killer—since I was five years old, so… close enough.
The girls might’ve made a big deal of it if they’d known I was getting ready to leave on a job. Instead, I reluctantly left my new code running, working on tracking down my parents’ killer even while I was busy, and took a long, hot shower. It took a while to comb the knots out of my hair, blow it out into smooth, shiny brunette tresses, and do my makeup.
I cleaned up well enough. I just hated to waste the time.
The girls would’ve wanted to see me off, but I packed my bags quietly, listening to the sounds of them rattling around the mansion, retiring to their rooms. I ducked out after midnight.
Man knew my ways, and he was waiting by the garage to raise a hand in goodbye as I left. I hopped into the car with Pierce, who I knew would be blessedly quiet as he drove me to the airport.
The girls were nice, and so was Man, in his own way.
But there was no reason to get attached to assassins.
Sooner or later, we all find ourselves receiving instead of giving.
