“Have you thought about starting your own charity one day?” I ask, looking at her over the kitchen partition.

  She smiles as she adjusts a fork. It’s a small thing, shifting the cutlery to the side, but it floods me with sudden emotion. It’s like we’re already married, like we’re already set up in our new lives.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says, with a quiver of anxiety.

  I’m learning to read my woman’s moods. Maybe learning isn’t the right way to think about it since it feels so natural, like everything does with us.

  “Why not?” I go on. “You are very passionate about your work.”

  She rolls her eyes. She has no clue how gorgeous she is, how every little gesture or shift in expression sends affection deep into me. The dark, the blood, and the bluntness of my life fade into the background.

  “I’ve thought about it,” she says.

  “So…”

  She sighs, shrugging. “That’s the thing with lots of charities, I guess.”

  “What’s the thing?” I reply, chuckling, again awed at the simple act of laughter, of letting go.

  She returns my laughter. It’s a gorgeous sound, so welcoming, so beautiful.

  So mine.

  “With a lot of them, the money doesn’t get to the people who need it most. I’m not claiming that all charities are like this, but when I do my research, I guess I’m struck by how high some salaries are. Sometimes, it seems it’s more about the people running the charity than the people who need help, but…”

  She trails off with an aura of anxiety.

  “I’m interested,” I tell her.

  “Are you sure you want to listen to me go on and on?”

  I smirk. “I’d listen to you for weeks. Years. Decades.”

  She grins, taking it as a joke. She doesn’t know how completely serious I am. She doesn’t know I mean it with more depth than I’ve ever meant anything.

  “People have to live, too,” she says.

  “You need to find a man who can support you. Then money won’t have to enter the equation. You’ll be able to focus on your work and nothing else.”

  “Oh, yeah. Let me just find some generous benefactor to finance my dream.”

  She says it like it’s an impossibility, but I’m right here. Ready to do what it takes. I turn to the steaks, knowing I’m getting close to crossing another line.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “What about me?” I flip the steaks. “I’m not much of a PR man. It goes against every instinct I have.”

  “No, I get that. I mean… what do you want to do after you’re done with, uh, this career?”

  I turn back to her.

  “It’s difficult for you to talk about my work.”

  “It’s not as difficult as it should be.” She stares at me bravely, with heat in her cheeks. “I keep thinking that. Oh, I should want to run. I should have more of a problem with this.”

  “It must be my charm,” I say, smirking.

  “Don’t make a joke of it,” she replies. “I mean it. How amazing is that? It might say something about me. But despite your job, Luke, I know you’re a good man. I can feel it. Surely, you don’t want to do this work forever.”

  “It’s all I’ve known for so long,” I reply.

  “Ever since you were nineteen,” she puts in.

  “You remembered,” I say. “I never thought about what came after. Truth is, Violet, I never thought much beyond the next week before…”

  “Before you saved me and Dad?” she prompts.

  Yes, but not how you think. I never thought about the future before I met you, and you opened a whole universe of possibilities for me.

  “Yeah,” I say, since all that other stuff could make everything so damn messy.

  “So, what about now?”

  “I’ve got money,” I reply. “Enough to last the rest of my life. I could use it to seed a business.”

  Or a charity.

  “There are plenty of options.”

  She smiles, as if that’s what she wanted to hear, as if she needed to know there was a path forward that didn’t include killing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Violet

  “What were you like as a kid?” I ask.

  We’re sitting across the table from each other, the sun bathing the scene, so that it’s easier to forget about the threat hovering over us every single moment.

  “In what way?” he replies, cutting into his steak.

  The cutlery looks tiny in his hands. He sits upright, wearing a T-shirt that seems formed to the shape of his chest, his pectorals bulging. His forearms are tense. I wonder if it has anything to do with the discussion last night. I’ve noticed his cut knuckles, too. They weren’t like that last night.

  “Were you funny? Quiet? Cheeky?” I ask.

  “I didn’t have much of a childhood,” he grunts.

  I think about blurting the “Dad” stuff, the connection Dad basically admitted. However, this situation feels oddly fragile, this date… the first I’ve ever had. I wonder what Dad would make it of it if he wandered downstairs and found us like this.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Luke stares bleakly, hinting at so much pain. I want to reach inside of him and soothe it all, make it so he never has to live with whatever’s gnawing him to pieces. I know there’s something there, something he’s holding back.

  “You were a kid once,” I go on.

  “Yeah,” he replies, nodding.

  “What sort of things did you like?”

  I see a twitch in his lips, a near smile, not the ironic smirk he often aims at me. “I used to love baseball cards. I’d run to the store every weekend when I got my allowance and buy as many as I could. Me and my friends would spend hours comparing, arranging them. But then…”

  “But then?”

  I’m hungry for far more than the steak. For any morsel he’ll throw in my direction, any hint of the man beneath the gruffness, beneath the shield.

  “My mom died when I was young,” he tells me. “Like yours. I don’t remember much about her. After that, it was just me and my dad. He had different ideas about parenting.”

  He speaks each word heavily, as if they’re trying to drag him down into an abyss, trying to twist him up.

  “We can talk about it, if you want.”

  “What good will it do?” he snarls. “It’s all ancient history.”

  “I know it’s hard,” I say, reading his rage as emotional pain. I know I’ll always do anything I can to help him ease it if I can’t cure it.

  “It’s fine,” he says, then lays his fork down. “I’m sorry, Violet. I never want to snap at you.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry.”

  We share a moment, staring across the table. It’s like our first kiss in the forest, like we’re communicating so much. Or is just the feeling buried within me, telling me lies I want to believe?

  He needs me as fiercely as I need him. He envisions the same future. He sees it all laid out as I do, shaded with hope.

  “Do you still collect baseball cards?” I ask.

  He chuckles, shaking his head. “No.”

  “Maybe when you have kids, you can collect them together.”

  I focus stubbornly on my steak after throwing this shred of craziness out there. I didn’t plan on bringing this up, but maybe he’s against the idea. Maybe he’s tried before and discovered he can’t. That would end the picture-perfect life that won’t quit in my mind. That would end all thoughts of the future. Not really, because we could adopt. We could make it work. There are options, but what if he’s against the idea completely?

  “Maybe,” he says after a pause. I look up and find him staring down, as if he’s having trouble with eye contact.

  “You want kids, then?”

  “I’m not sure what sort of father I’d make.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve only ever had one role model for that job,” he says.

  “Are you saying you’d be like your dad?”

  “No,” he snaps, fury immediately entering his voice, his fist clenched around his steak knife like he’s ready to stab the very idea. “My kids will have every chance to be who they want to be. I’ll never hit them. I’ll discipline them and make sure they have the tools they need to succeed in the world—the discipline and the drive—but I’ll never hurt them.”

  His chest heaves as he goes on. He’s talking about us. I just know it. Hope it. Want it.

  “They’ll never know what it’s like to be afraid of their parents. They won’t want for anything, but they’ll learn the value of hard work.”

  “It sounds to me like you’d be an incredible dad,” I say, struggling to keep the emotion out of my voice. “The best dad.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s easy to say those words. Different thing being a parent.”

  “But clearly, you do want them.”

  “I’d want to work on it,” he says. “On myself, I mean. Work on the job, the duty of being a father. I’d want to do it well.”

  “I can tell you’d do a great job just from you saying that. Just from you wanting to do well. You’re a capable person, clearly. If you aimed that energy at being a dad, I know you’d get all A’s.”

  It’s such a gift, being able to make him smirk away his rage.

  “What about you?” he asks. “Are you too young to be thinking about that?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I don’t think my age has anything to do with it. I don’t think my age matters, in terms of relationships, family… any of that.”

  “So, you don’t think I’m too old for you? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “You are not too old for me,” I reply.

  Is that what he thinks? Hello, roadblock. Time to crash right into it.

  Then he says, “No,” and my anxiety flutters away.

  “I don’t care about our age gap,” he growls. “If anything…”

  “If anything?”

  He bites down on a hunk of steak, chewing.

  “You can stuff steak into your mouth all you want,” I say, laughing, “but you’ll have to answer eventually. What were you going to say?”

  “You’re so sassily persistent, you know that?”

  “I’ve never been called sassily persistent before. I kind of like it.”

  “Good, because it sums you up perfectly.”

  I lean forward, staring at him, knowing we have something special here, something unique. We wouldn’t be able to sink so easily into this banter if there wasn’t something real.

  “Do I need to keep saying it until you answer? Then I can show you how really mature I am. Okay, fine. If anything, if anything, if anything…”

  He grins. “If anything, your age would be a good thing. If we, you know… and I’m talking about the future here.”

  “You’ve suddenly gone very shy for a hit man.”

  Said differently, this comment might be insulting, but every time we meet eyes, I know he can read my intent. I know he can sense the positivity I’m aiming at him.

  “Let’s say we get out of this alive,” he says.

  “Fingers crossed.”

  He chuckles.

  What is happening here? I imagine a different version of us, on the run, where laughter’s only a distant dream, and I’ve spent every second torn apart by fear. With us, it’s like we can push the rest of the world away and focus on being together.

  “Let’s say we keep dating.”

  I’m liking what I hear more and more each second.

  “Yeah…”

  “Your age would help us,” he says.

  I’d say there was some redness in his cheeks.

  “With a family?” I murmur. “Hypothetically, obviously.”

  “Hypothetically,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, it could help. You’re young enough that we could…”

  “Hypothetically,” I cut in when I can sense his nerves threatening to strangle him.

  “Yeah, we could hypothetically have as many kids as we wanted.”

  “Whoa, how many are you thinking?”

  “If you’re going to do something, might as well do it right.”

  “How many is doing it right?”

  “Three, four, five,” he says. “I never had siblings. I had a brother once, but I lost him.”

  “Oh, Luke,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

  He flinches. “No, it wasn’t like that. It was… Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Do you want kids?”

  I’m tempted to push him on the brother thing. By it wasn’t like that, what does he mean? His brother didn’t die? Maybe his brother moved away or something, but I can’t keep pushing him every single moment.

  “Yes,” I say. “I always have. Call it maternal instinct. Call it anything you want. I’ve always pictured myself with lots of happy, smiling faces around me. Lots of love. Lots of joy. Lots of forward momentum, like we’re all building toward something.”

  “A family,” Luke says huskily. “A home.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “All of that.”

  Surely, this is more than theoretical. Surely, this means he’s seriously considering it. That would make him as crazy as me, and I’m fine with that.

  “But you have to picture the bad, too,” Luke says. “That’s one lesson I’m glad my dad taught me. Whenever you think about the future, don’t romanticize it. Imagine the bad moments. Don’t just think about the love and the joy. Think about the sleepless nights, changing diapers, the fear of something going wrong.”

  “Of course, think about that,” I say. “Those are challenges. If you found the right partner, you’d overcome them. That would add to the joy, not take away from it.”

  “Hmm,” he grunts.

  “Hmm, what?”

  “Guess you’ve got me rethinking a few things.”

  I wave a hand. Go on…

  “I’ve never thought into the future, never let myself, I guess. I’d work, work out, save money, and go fishing now and then. I used to think that was enough. I used to think I could be okay with that, but when I hear you talk about challenges, joy… it makes me wonder.”

  “You can go fishing with your kids one day,” I murmur. Our kids, more like.

  We’re still talking as though he could find a different woman. He said I was young enough to give him lots of children. Another person might find that offensive, but it fills me with light and hope. We haven’t said anything concrete yet, anything I can rely on. I still don’t know how he knows Dad, either.

  “I’d like that,” he says. “It’d be good to have somebody to talk to.”

  “Just don’t let them fall in,” I joke.

  He looks at me humorlessly, with the fierceness of the protector in his eyes. “I’d always protect my family… always. I consider it a man’s most important duty.”

  Just like Dad’s protecting me, by being upstairs rooting around in the mafia’s finances.

  We eat quietly for a time, as I process everything we’ve said, all we’ve hinted at. As far as first dates go, I’d consider this the best. Not that I have any comparison.

  “I’m glad you didn’t see the error in your ways until you heard my oh-so-wise words,” I say after a long pause.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Then you would’ve met a woman, had kids, and we wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have saved us. We wouldn’t be on our date.”

  It’s difficult to say that Luke smiles, since his hard features form to such natural seriousness, but positivity swells from him. It’s a general aura, a feeling of Yeah, we can do this. We’ve got this.

  “I’m glad too,” he says.

  We go on eating, and then I ask about his knuckles. “What happened?”

  “Last night, after you told me… what you told me, I went outside and beat the hell out of a tree. I lost control. I rarely do that. Never might be more accurate, but thinking about that scumbag doing what he did…”

  I stand slowly, walk around the table, and gently take his cut hands in mine. “Oh, Luke.”

  He stands too, cradling both my hands in his, bringing to mind how men and women stand beneath altars when they’re giving themselves to each other, when they’re pledging everything.

  “I can’t stand the idea of anybody hurting you,” he says, leaning down and moving into what’s quickly becoming my favorite position. It’s when he’s close but not kissing me. I can feel how badly every inch of him wants to collapse against me, like last night when he yanked down my shorts, when he rubbed with obsessive heat until my world blistered into a million starry points of euphoria.

  “As long as I’m around, I’ll never let that happen.”

  I stand on my tiptoes, moving my lips to his, ignoring any nerves and ripples of anguish from the memory of the guidance counselor. Yeah, even thinking his name is still a challenge.

  “How long will that be?” I whisper.

  “Until you get sick of me…”

  That will never happen, I almost reply, but then we’re kissing, fully consumed by the act as we always are, lost in it. He moves forward, directing me across the room, against the kitchen counter. When he lifts me, I feel completely weightless, like I’m floating.

  My legs wrap around him. He pushes forward, letting me feel his lust. It’s got new significance after all this family talk. I shouldn’t feel hurt when Luke swiftly moves away. Even my body acts on instinct when I hear footsteps running down the stairs. I hop off the counter and straighten my outfit.

  Dad runs into the room with a beaming grin, so consumed with whatever he wants to say, he doesn’t notice how strange it is for me and Luke to be standing on one side of the dinner table.

  “I think I’ve got it,” he says. “A way to make the mob back off. I think I’ve got the kill switch.”

  “Well done, Andrew,” Luke says.

  That’s the first time I hear it—the tone Luke uses to say Dad’s name. It’s weird, but I can’t quite figure out why. Something to do with their secret past?

 

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