Page 46 of Broken Mercy
It’s a simple dossier. Not much information, nothing personal about a target, but dread fills my stomach anyway. Mostly it contains instructions, a layout, and some vague intelligence on safe models I might encounter.
But I recognize the blueprints. It’d be hard not to, since I’ve studied them recently.
It’s the god damn house Tallie grew up in.
Which means my target is her father.
I shove the papers back into the envelope, my hands shaking. What the fuck is going on right now? Arsen wants me to steal from my own father-in-law? There’s not much on what I’m taking, but I can make some good educated guesses. He’s looking for material, likely bad material, the sort of information that might start or swiftly end a civil war.
Alexan was right: I want to refuse this straight up.
But what choice do I have?
And how is this going to put Tallie into danger?
The house smells like cooking.God, she keeps surprising me. Tallie comes off like a classic crime lord’s princess daughter, the youngest darling girl, spoiled rotten. But I keep finding new layers to her I never expected.
Like the cooking.
“There’s no way you didn’t have a private chef growing up.” I watch her moving around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
She barely registers my presence. “We had several.”
“How did you learn to cook then?”
“There was this really young cute guy named Rodrigo?—“
“That’s not funny,” I say through my teeth.
She looks back, eyebrows raised high. “Who said I was kidding? Anyway, when I was little I’d hang around when Rodrigo was cooking and I’d bug the crap out of him. I think he started showing me what to do and letting me help mostly to keep me from awkwardly staring and making eyes at him. Annie said I was like a dog in heat. But it was more like puppy love.”
“What’s Rodrigo’s last name? And last known address?”
“Settle down. I was twelve. Here, try this.” She gives me a small bowl. It’s marinara, cheese, sausages, and what looks likelasagna noodles, but instead of in layers it’s like a broken-down version.
I take a bite and struggle not to groan. “That’s incredible.”
“I think it needs more salt.” She wrinkles her nose happily and stirs some in. “Hungry?”
“I wasn’t, but now I’m starving.”
“Sit down. I’ll get you a bowl.”
When her back’s turned, I shove the envelope with the blueprints of her family’s house deeper into my pocket.
She joins me at the table. I eat in silence, hunched over my food like a prisoner in the mess protecting his meal. She seems like she wants to chat, but eventually gives up after I’ve exhausted her with one-word answers. I know I’m being a prick, and it’s especially not nice since she went to all this trouble to make dinner, but I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye.
I’ve lied all my life. I’ve lied to my parents, my sister, friends, lovers, partners. I’ve lied to politicians, judges, cops, psychologists, and doctors. I’m generally good at it, and it has never bothered me before, not a single time. Lies are part of what I do, they’re another layer to the game. They’re shielding on a tank. They’re the walls of a tower.
But right now, lying feels like poison in my throat.
I don’t want to introduce that to our marriage. As soon as I start, we’ll spiral down a path I’m not comfortable with. I know this thing we have is temporary, but there’s still a strange part of me that wants to take it seriously.
And that part of me came out the other day when I punished her in the alley.
Jealousy. Fuckingjealousy. I’ve never been possessive in my life, not a single time. Women come and go, they stick around or they don’t, it never mattered until now. When Tallie transformed into that other, confident woman, and leaned forward to chat up the bartender, I felt like my blood was going to evaporate straight through my skin.
“You’re quiet,” she observes, looking at me over her wineglass as she takes a long sip. “Anything going on?”
