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“I know.” I grind my teeth.
“But I found several members of his gang and spoke to them today. One way or another, they will lead me to him.”
When Victor turns from the sink, I’m gripping the fork like a weapon.
“Lula, breathe.”
“What will you do when you find him?”
“Retrieve what is owed to me. One way or another.”
“Will you kill him?”
“Do you want me to?” He looks me dead in the eye. It’s a genuine question.
“No. I can’t afford to hire you. Left my wallet in my other pants.”
His expression doesn’t change at my little joke. Which is fine. I don’t feel like laughing, either.
My appetite is gone, but I poke at my food, unwilling for the meal to be over. “How many people have you killed?”
Victor tilts his head as if he’s doing mental math. “Men and women?”
I have a horrifying thought. “Do you kill children?” There’s a metallic taste in my mouth.
“No. No one under the age of twenty-two. There are rarely contracts on children unless they are heirs.”
I feel the tiniest bit of relief. The psychopath has standards.
He’s still a monster, I scold myself. I don’t want to think about this dark world that Victor lives in, but I can’t help myself. “What you told me last night. The story of the little boy. Was any of it true?”
“There are no lies between us.” He leans over the island, and that slight movement is enough to send his winter-fresh scent wafting my way.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I want to protest, but he’s staring at me so intently, gaze scalpel-sharp enough to dissect me, that I have to look away.
“Everything I told you was true. My mother slept with men for money. She did her best to survive. A butcher took us in and gave us food and a place to stay. In return, my mother did whatever he wanted, and I worked for him in the shop. He taught me everything I know.” He’s leaning into the island counter, gripping the edge. It looks casual, but his fingers tighten until they’re almost as white as the quartz. “One night, he hit my mother, and I killed him. I used his favorite knife to cut him into pieces. A graduation of sorts.”
I swallow. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
I blink rapidly. My heart bleeds for the young, tow-headed boy. “And your mother?”
“Dead. I had to run, you see, and she had to hide. She found another man, but he hit her, and it was fatal. I killed him, too.”
“My god.”
“There is no god.” He stalks around the island to stand over me. The wound in his stomach is on display, the bullet puncture a half-healed pink. His head is bowed and shadows like in the hollows under his cheekbones. “Are you finished?”
Yes, please, let’s change the subject. I lean back to let him take my plate and invite a new danger. My skin prickles as he reaches over me. In this setting, it’s easy to imagine him as a friend or a lover. I’m not a hugger, but all that beautiful muscle, godlike in its perfection? I want to draw him close under the pretense of comfort. Lay my head on his pecs. Slide my hands up his strong back. There’s an ache deep in my gut, one that will only dissolve if I touch him. He’s so close I’d only have to move an inch. . .
I swallow and deliberately angle myself away from him.
I can sense him silently laughing as he carries my plate away.
