25. Charlotte

25

CHARLOTTE

T he streets of New York are darker tonight. There’s no moon out, but neon signs stretch across the city like jagged streaks of light, throwing sharp, garish colors across the concrete. There’s still movement, a few people here, a few more there. But none of them matter. Only the one we’re after does.

We reach the address. The building is impressive. It’s clean, functional, and far too sterile for its own good. The kind of place where people try to blend in. Try to seem ordinary. I slip inside without a sound, moving past the concierge like I own the place. Sophie sticks close behind, but I can feel the unease radiating off her. Her shoulders are tight, her eyes flicking nervously. She’s expecting something to happen. I can see it, but I don’t say anything. I can’t—she has to figure it out for herself.

“Get out of your head,” I tell her. “This requires you to feel, Sophie. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She says she thinks so, which tells me she has no clue at all.

But that’s okay. This is how you learn.

We make our way to the door. The mark is inside. He’s not alone, but that’s fine. He never is. He’s always been careless—too many enemies, too many wrong moves. And now it’s come back to bite him.

I pull out my gun, feeling the familiar weight in my palm. It’s comforting, like it’s part of me. “You wait here,” I tell Sophie, my voice leaving no room for argument.

Her mouth opens, like she’s going to say something—maybe something stupid—but I don’t give her the chance. I push the door open just enough to slip inside.

The scene inside hits me like a slap to the face. My mark, the one I’ve been tracking for days, is sprawled out on the couch, tangled up with a woman. They’re making love, slow and messy, unaware of the danger that’s about to swallow them whole. I stand there, frozen, my mind struggling to process the sight before me. I’m not in the mood for a double tonight. One and done, that’s what I was aiming for.

But the longer I wait, the more it becomes apparent that what I want doesn’t matter. They aren’t stopping. It just goes on and on, like they’re on to something, like they’re trying to give tantra a run for its money. I’ve seen a lot of things. But I’ve never seen this.

Talk about stamina. I’m not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed.

The woman is moaning, her fingers gripping his chest as she arches against him. He looks too comfortable—too fucking satisfied. It pisses me off. I can’t name the feeling, but something about this scene makes the blood in my veins run cold. It’s too intimate, too real, too fucking human. A sharp contrast to my encounter at the hotel the other night.

These aren’t just two people fucking. They are in love.

And if that doesn’t make a person homicidal, I don’t know what will.

Of course, it makes me think of Michael. I close my eyes for just a second, the image of the woman’s body pressed against his reminding me of the times I’ve tried to forget. The way Michael used to hold me like this, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. And then, like all things that feel too good to be true, it all came crashing down.

None of it was real. Not our marriage. Not how I thought he felt about me. He was using me. I was using him. We were both pretending—and not very well, I should add—pretending to be something, to be someone we were not.

The thought of him, the way we used to be, makes a knot tighten in my stomach. The truth is I miss being married. I miss having a person to come home to, to call when the shit hits the fan, to have an emergency contact that isn’t my kid or coworker. But I push these thoughts away, the same as always, forcing myself back to the task at hand. I can’t let myself get raw about something like this. Not now. Not ever. Regret is a waste of energy.

I made the decision. I had Michael handled. And while a part of me does regret it—I mean, in hindsight I can see that maybe I might have overreacted—I know it was for the best.

Love, or anything that even remotely resembles it, has no place in this business. It was always going to be kill or get killed, once the cat was out of the bag. Once we’d seen each other for who we really were.

But enough about that.

I step further into the room. They don’t notice me at first, but then he does. His eyes flicker up, widening in recognition. And for a split second, I see it—the realization that his life is about to end. The fear in his eyes makes me feel a strange resolve.

The woman gasps, turning her head, her eyes widening in shock.

I don’t wait. I don’t give them a chance to process. I raise the gun, aiming right at my mark. Before he can say anything, I pull the trigger. The shot echoes, loud and sharp, and his body jerks back. Blood splatters against the woman’s chest, but she doesn’t move. She’s frozen, her eyes locked on her lover.

I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. This is just business.

The woman makes a move for the door. I don’t give her the chance. One more shot, quick and clean, and she drops to the floor. It’s done.

I glance back at Sophie, still standing in the doorway. She’s frozen, her hands trembling, her face pale. She’s staring at the blood, at the bodies, at the mess I’ve made. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap, stepping toward her. “I told you to wait for me out there.”

She blinks, slow, her eyes still glazed. “I couldn’t…”

“You couldn’t? Please tell me you have something better to offer than that. ” My tone is harsh, but I don’t care. I’m not here to babysit her. I’m here to teach her.

“It sounded like he was killing her. I had to see.”

“He was. But in a good way. And now, not so much.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just hot.” She nods at the fat suit. “I’m sweating like a pig in this thing.”

“That is not a politically correct thing to say, Soph.”

“You just murdered two people in cold blood—and you’re schooling me on right and wrong?”

“I was polite about it. No one suffered.”

Sophie doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. The look on her face—like she’s waiting for some kind of approval for her behavior, some reassurance that this is okay—drives me up the wall.

“When you don’t listen, people get hurt,” I say. “That woman,” I motion with my gun, “she is dead because you got impatient. Because you had to see.”

Sophie doesn’t offer a response. She’s still standing there, but I don’t need her to say anything. She needs to learn what happens when you see things you shouldn’t. She needs to learn fast.

I turn and walk to the bags. We’ve got work to do.

And as I leave the room, I don’t look back. The bodies, the blood—the lesson I just taught my daughter—it’s already forgotten. The job is done. And I’m already thinking about the next one.