He nods. “Yes, boss.”
Seven lingers. I can feel his gaze. Setting the gun on the corner of the table, letting go of it, I turn to him. “Something you care to talk about?”
“I’m surprised you let those guys go this afternoon,” he says. “You let them live.”
“So?”
“So you’ve been giving a lot of second chances lately.”
“Is that a problem for you?” I ask. “Figured you’d be happy to have less dead bodies around, since I’m pretty sure murder is a sin in every religion, including yours.”
“It’s not a problem for me,” he says. “I just want to be sure it won’t lead to a problem for you.”
I stare at him. “You think I’m getting soft?”
“Not at all,” he says. “But every second chance you give is just another opportunity for that person to harm you again.”
“Yeah, well, that sure keeps things interesting, doesn’t it? A win was always a win to me, no matter how it came about, but where’s the fun in winning if it’s always by default? If I’m the only man left in the race, does it even really matter if I cross the finish line? Because I’m not entirely sure that’s a win for me anymore, Seven. I think everyone else just lost.”
He doesn’t seem to get the distinction. In fact, he’s looking at me like I might be going crazy. I’ve done a lot in the presence of this man. I’ve slit throats, stolen money, fucked women, and blown up stuff, and he never once looked at me like he’s looking at me right now.
Like I’m making no goddamn sense.
Like maybe it’s his right to question me.
Nuh-uh, ‘fraid not.
I snatch the gun from the corner of the table, switching the safety off before cocking it, pointing it at his feet.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
He jumps back, out of the way, his reflexes fast, as three shots tear through the floor of the house, right where he was standing. The bewilderment leaves his face real fucking quick, replaced with one I’m used to seeing aimed at me: fear.
Just like that, he’s sweating profusely, eyes wide, stance guarded, like he wants to get the hell away from me but he knows he can’t go, not like this.
I have a lot of respect for Seven, respect others didn’t seem to have for him. Once a cop, always a cop. That’s what they say. NYPD gets in their blood and the only way to get it out is to spill every last drop. But I’ve always liked that about him. He is who he is. He’s a man that would do anything for his family, and I mean anything, and I’ve been able to use that loyalty to my advantage.
But don’t think he’s indispensable.
Don’t think I need him.
Don’t think I won’t shoot him in the fucking foot if he’s not smart enough to jump out of the way of the bullet flying toward him.
I’m not training monkeys here. This isn’t a three-ring circus. The man’s gotta be able to follow his gut.
“What gets you out of bed in the morning, Seven?”
“My family,” he says quietly. “They have needs. It’s my responsibility to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what.”
That’s the answer I expected.
“Do you know what gets me out of bed in the morning?”
He doesn’t even hesitate before saying, “Leo.”
I laugh and set the gun back down, seeing him visibly relax once it’s out of my hand. “I wish I could agree with that. I wish I could say he gets me out of bed. He used to, you know, but he’s grown up, and when it comes down to it, he doesn’t need me. Not like he used to. He keeps me grounded, keeps me from doing a lot of things I shouldn’t, but that’s not because he needs me, Seven. It’s because I raised him right, and if I become a danger to him, he knows to cut his losses. Snip, snip.”
“So what gets you out of bed?”
I sit down, not sure how to answer that, so I just go with the word that makes the most sense: “Hope.”
Surprise flickers across his face.
That, he didn’t expect.
“Hope,” he repeats.
“Hope that maybe today will be exciting,” I say. “Maybe today I won’t be so goddamn bored. Maybe, if I get my ass out of bed, something will actually happen. Maybe something will get my blood pumping and I’ll feel things instead of wasting away in tedium. Maybe, just maybe, today will be different and I’ll finally find a real reason to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t begrudge you your purpose, Seven. I respect it. You do what you have to. But don’t walk in my house, questioning what I’m doing, because if you step on my toes, I’ll shoot yours off. You got me?”
“Yes, boss.”
Just as he says that, a ringing shatters the silence. Sighing, I pull the phone from my pocket. Blocked caller. I toss it at Seven, annoyed. “Take this fucking thing before I break it.”
He catches it, nodding in acknowledgement, before leaving the library.
I sit there once he’s gone, listening as the guys move around the house, making themselves at home as usual, as I stare at the fresh holes in the floor. It’s funny, I think, how looks can be so deceiving. Here we are in suburbia, with picket fences and big backyards, perfection from the outside, yet nobody knows what goes on within the walls.
I work on my puzzle some more, trying to distract myself, and hear the front door open after a while. I figure it’s Leo getting home from work, so I’m surprised when tapping echoes through the library, followed by the soft feminine voice. “Knock, knock...”
Scarlet.
I don’t acknowledge her, and she stands there, quietly waiting, and waiting, and waiting, until her patience grows thin. Groaning, she shoves away from the doorframe and takes a single step closer, right over the threshold.
Grabbing the gun, I cock it, aiming it her direction, my finger on the trigger, ready to pull it when she takes an immediate step back.
“Whoa, buddy,” she says, raising her hands defensively. “Testy today.”
“You stole my car.”
“I borrowed it,” she says, pulling the keys from her pocket and holding them up. “It’s right outside.”
I look at her, raising my eyebrows, voice dead serious as I repeat myself. “You stole my car.”
“No,” she says. “I didn’t. You told me to do whatever I wanted. Those were your exact words. Do whatever you want to do, Scarlet.”
“I didn’t mean take my car!”
“Yeah, well, you really didn’t specify, did you? ‘Do whatever you want to do’ means I could do whatever I wanted to do.”
“And what, you wanted to steal my car?”
“I wanted to drive it,” she says, “so I borrowed it.”
My fingertips are tingling, my heart pounding hard. The adrenaline, as it merges with the anger, is one hell of a rush. It almost makes me sick to my stomach, the way it takes over my insides.
God, I want to shoot this woman...
“So you borrowed it,” I say, repeating her words.
“Got you on a technicality, huh?” she says as she leans against the doorframe, like she’s not worried at all.
“You think I won’t kill you? Do you honestly think I won’t pull this trigger, technicality or not?”
“I think you might,” she says.
“That doesn’t scare you?”
“Should it?”
She sounds genuine, asking that, like she really wants to know if she should be scared. I want to say yes, it should terrify her, because it terrifies damn near everybody else, but I don’t know... would I be scared? I don’t think so. The fear of dying left me long ago, the first time death knocked at my door. I don’t know exactly what she’s been through, but being as the head of the Russian mob is currently hunting her, I’m thinking shooting her in the face would be merciful compared to what he might want her for.
But mercy killings aren’t really my thing.
“Where’d you go?” I ask, lowering the gun, setting it back down on the table.
“Home,” she says.
“Home?”