Page 16 of The Hitman’s Final Job

“Vaughn.” He leans forward slightly, and his expression shifts into territory that makes the ambient noise of the restaurant feel very far away. “We’re in Europe. We’re a very long way from home. Do you know what that means?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“It means anything is possible,” he says, “when you’re in an impossible place.”

I meet his eyes across the small table, in the amber light, with the smell of good food and the sound of other people’s quiet conversations around us, and I think about doors I’ve kept carefully closed for thirteen years.

I don’t say anything.

Because we can’t. Because there are a hundred reasons we can’t, and they don’t disappear just because we’re in Warsaw and the pierogi is extraordinary and Silas is looking at me like that. Rowan is reason enough on his own, and Rowan loves Silas like a brother, and I will not be the person who complicates that.

So I say nothing.

Silas seems to know when to push and when to let something breathe, so he picks up his fork and moves on to the next pierogi on the plate.

We stay until the restaurant begins to empty. We talk about Rowan, about the conference, about a documentary on vertical vegetable growing Silas watched recently and which he describes with way more enthusiasm than I’d expect from someone who’s just confessed to having a single cactus he spies on via a home camera system because he travels so much.

I tell him about the farm, about the research, about the valley in the early morning when the mist is still sitting in the low places. He listens completely, without interruption, like what I’m saying is the only thing happening in the world.

It’s one of the things I’ve always⁠—

I won’t finish that thought.

We walk back through the now-much-cooler streets. At this time of year, Warsaw isn’t much different from where I live in Colorado. Hot in the day with a slight chill at night.

Outside my hotel, we stop.

The city is quiet around us, and he meets my gaze with an expression I can’t read, the one that might be nothing and might be everything.

“Coffee?” I ask. “You could come up.”

The moment stretches just slightly longer than it should.

Then he steps forward and presses a kiss to my cheek. His mouth is warm against my skin, and he stays there for just a breath too long. “Not a good idea,” he says quietly, “when my head is full of bad ones.”

He holds my gaze for one more second.

Then he turns and walks away, his hands in his pockets.

I stand outside the hotel and watch him go.

My cheek is still warm.

I touch it and feel faintly ridiculous, so I go inside.

SIX

SILAS

I leave Vaughn behind, the smell of his cologne still filling my senses, without turning back.

If I do, then I might be tempted to turn around and follow him to his room.

Once I’m a safe distance away, I pull out my phone to message Zuza.

Silas:

On my way to you.