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"Chris," I whispered, nudging him. His eyes snapped open, no grogginess, just alert—predator-like.
"Morning, sunshine," he grumbled, his voice rasping from sleep. He sat up and stretched.
"Priscilla," I started, biting my lip. "We can’t run forever. I've been thinking. No matter how far or fast we go... she will always come after us. We fucked her over. BIG time."
His jaw set, a muscle ticking. "Fuck running then. We're taking her down."
"Back to the mansion, then?" My heart hammered at the thought.
"Damn straight." He swung his legs over the bed, standing in one fluid motion.
We dressed in silence, lost in our own thoughts. We were going back into the lion's den, but this time, we were the hunters.
"Let's grab something to eat first," Chris said, checking the blade of his knife, running his thumb across it as a thin bead of blood welled up.
"Okay," I murmured, slipping on my shoes, and grabbing the few items we'd brought here.
The restaurant was a dive, dim lights casting more shadows than illumination. The perfect place for two people plotting murder.
"Booth at the back," Chris muttered, scanning the room. No threats. Just locals.
I slid into the booth, the vinyl squeaking beneath me, and Chris followed, his body shielding mine from the rest of the room. There was a safety in his nearness. One I hated to admit I enjoyed.
"Once she's gone," he said, low enough that only I could hear, "we burn every fucking bridge. No turning back."
"Good," I replied. "So... how?" My fingers toyed with the edge of the napkin dispenser.
"First, we need to get you inside, close to her—"
"Without raising suspicion," I finished for him, knowing Priscilla would never expect me to come at her, not after years under her thumb. She'd also not expect me to just show up after being on the run. "So... maybe we pretend like you've had a change of heart and you're bringing me back?"
"Exactly." A ghost of a smile danced on his lips, but there was no joy in it.
"Then, when she least expects it..." I let the words hang, unable to voice the act that would end her reign of terror.
"Death," Chris said simply, and the finality in that one word sent a chill down my spine.
I distracted myself by waving over the waitress and ordering us some food. The clink of silverware was comforting. People eating, talking. Like life was normal. I guess, for them, it was. They didn't know that a couple tables over two psychos were planning to murder a mafia queen.
I sat there, soaking it all in—the sizzle of meat on the grill, the laughter from a couple kids.
"Fuck, this feels weird," he muttered, eyeing the exits. Even here, in this slice of everyday life, he was always alert. "Eating without watching our backs."
A plate clattered onto the table, the scent of seared steak and garlic butter wafting up to greet us. For a moment, everything else faded away as I took a bite, the flavors bursting on my tongue.
"God," I groaned, closing my eyes as I savored the taste. "I can't remember the last time I ate something this good."
"Priscilla's cooks ain't got shit on this," he agreed, tearing into his own meal with a primal intensity.
"I never got to eat what they cooked anyway," I said, swallowing another mouthful. "I ate leftover diner food, or random bits and pieces left in the cupboards."
"Fucking hell. Now that bitch is really going to die." He paused, locking eyes with me, a storm brewing deep within those icy depths. "We get through this, I'll cook for you—steaks, whatever the hell you want."
The thought of a domestic Chris made me smile. I pictured him in an apron, dancing around the kitchen, which had me almost in stitches.
The remnants of our dinner lay scattered across the table. He pushed his plate aside, leaning back in the booth with a sigh.
"Ever climbed a tree?" His question sliced through the hum of the restaurant.
