13. Charlotte

13

CHARLOTTE

T he house smells like dust and old money—an unbearable mix of things that should have been burned away a decade ago. But here we are. Another estate. Another person to wipe off the map.

I don’t know why this job, this man, but it isn’t my place to ask questions. Besides, I don’t have to. It can only be one of a few reasons: Someone’s made an enemy. Someone doesn’t like the competition. Someone has enough resources to make someone go away. In the end, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I do what I came to do, and I move onto the next job.

But this doesn’t stop my daughter from asking questions. Why are we here? How long is this going to take? When can we go back to the hotel? Do I have any aspirin? Can you die from a hangover?

Sophie’s walking a few paces behind me, as usual. Her footsteps are uneven, and she’s barely keeping up. She looks like she’s about to pass out, and I want to scream at her to shut up, to get it together, but that would be a waste of energy. I can feel it in my bones—the weakness. The lack of forethought. It’s suffocating her, and I’m not sure how much longer I can let it slide.

I step over the threshold into the entryway. The quiet here is almost unnatural. The house is too perfect, too clean for someone who has committed the kinds of sins I know this man has.

I don’t look back at Sophie. Not yet. But I can feel her pulling away. I know what she’s doing—watching, waiting. Second-guessing.

I know what I have to do.

I reach into my jacket and pull out my gun. The cool metal feels good in my hand. I don’t check the safety. I don’t need to.

Sophie’s eyes meet mine from across the room, but she doesn’t speak. She knows the drill.

I lead the way to the kitchen, where the man’s already sitting at the table. He’s supposed to be working, reviewing paperwork—his family business. And he is. He doesn’t even notice me when I enter. I step into his line of sight, and his eyes flicker up to meet mine. He freezes. Which is what I want.

The room’s still too quiet. His pulse is too loud.

The gun feels heavier than it should. There’s no emotion in this. There can’t be. I know this moment—this split second before everything goes to shit. I’ve done it too many times before.

I pull the trigger.

The noise is deafening in the stillness of the kitchen. His body jerks back, the blood spurting across the table and the wall behind him. I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink.

His body slumps. He doesn’t make a sound, just falls to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut too soon.

Sophie doesn’t move. She doesn’t look at me. She’s still standing there, watching him die, and I don’t know what to make of it.

I step past her. “You should’ve done it. ”

Sophie blinks like she’s been snapped out of a trance. Her face is pale, her hand still gripping the doorframe like she’s afraid to follow. She’s standing there like she can’t decide if she’s going to throw up or collapse.

“I—I couldn’t.”

I know.

I don’t need to say anything. She’s aware of what’s expected of her. And she knows the consequences of failure. I won’t be able to protect her forever. The agency will dispose of her. She knows too much; she’s seen too much.

I don’t wait for her to catch up. I walk down the hallway, my heels echoing in the otherwise silent house. I’m pissed, and it’s not only with Sophie. The man was supposed to be alone. But he isn’t.

Carlo was either wrong or he lied on purpose.

Regardless, it doesn’t matter. It is what it is.

The next one is crouched in the living room between two end tables, a woman with too much makeup and too little time to figure out how much danger she’s really in. I move quickly. A shot to the chest, and she’s gone before she even has the chance to beg.

Blood splatters across the wall. It’s messy, it’s brutal, and it’s exactly what I need today.

Upstairs, there are footsteps. I take the stairs two at a time, each step deliberate, closer to what I hope is the final act.

This job was supposed to be easy. In and out. One target.

But as I push open the door to the bedroom, I see another man standing there—expecting me.

He’s holding a gun.

I don’t hesitate. Not for a second. I pull the trigger faster. He’s still trying to aim, his hand shaking. The gun goes off. But it misses.

I fire once. The shot rings out and hits him in the neck.

He drops, his blood pooling across pristine sheets.

I stand over him, watching his life bleed out onto the bed. It’s a quick death. Clean. No lingering.

Sophie stands behind me. Her face is tight, her hands trembling.

I can feel her eyes on me, trying to read something in my face. I can feel the judgment—hers, mine, maybe both. But it doesn’t matter. Not now.

We’re done.

I turn away, pushing past her without another word. The house is silent now, but it won’t stay that way for long.

Sophie doesn’t speak as we walk out, but I feel her presence behind me. The air around us feels thick, heavy. She wasn’t expecting to have to murder an entire family any more than I was. It’s a first for her, not for me. It’s a line she won’t be able to erase, no matter how many times she tries to justify it.

But she’ll be fine.

Eventually.