Chapter 3 Dante
She’s insufferable. Incredibly active—like she’s got a damn propeller stuck right up her ass. Always twitching, shifting, her eyes darting around the space like she’s hunting for something she doesn’t even know exists.
And yet… there’s this strange ache in my chest as I watch her.
A quiet warmth. A sense of comfort, like I’m sitting across the table from an old friend, not a deadly assassin I’m trying to fool.
The atmosphere doesn’t match the danger of the situation, and I find myself clinging to that dissonance like it might make this easier.
She’s transformed now—clad in a black T-shirt and matching bicycle shorts.
Damp strands of hair cling to her face and neck, darkened from the shower, framing the subtle tension in her features.
She carries an air of ease, but the bruises marring her skin scream of the torment she endured in that prison.
A sharp spike of worry lances through me, twisting into a strange, spiraling sensation that tightens in my chest.
Before I can get too lost in that feeling, Estella reaches for a camembert bite, lifting the golden-crusted piece and dunking it into a small bowl of cheese sauce.
“Double cheese,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “You’re a psychopath.”
She raises an eyebrow, and I can’t tell if she’s offended or just surprised by how lame that was.
“Your sense of humor is terrible, Dante,” she says, shoving a bite of food into her mouth with complete disregard, the sauce smearing the corners of her lips as if daring anyone to care.
My name on her tongue sends a sudden twinge through me. Ever since she found it out, she’s been saying it again and again, drawing out each syllable as though she’s rolling a secret across her palate. And I don’t know why, but it twists something deep in me every time.
“Things started off a little weird between us,” I offer, trying to steer the mood somewhere safer. If I want to reset the dynamic, this might be the time. “First day on the job, and all of the—”
“I don’t care,” she cuts in, the sharpness of her voice startling me. I swallow hard, my body tensing like a pulled chord. That earns me a wicked smirk from her as she reaches for a handful of fries and shoves them into her mouth, her brown eyes never leaving mine.
It still feels like a test. Like she’s assessing how much I can take—how long I’ll last under the pressure she applies without mercy.
“Why are you here?” she asks once she finishes chewing, her tone laced with both curiosity and mockery. She leans to the side, wiping her greasy fingers with a napkin before balling it up in her hands.
“Let me guess… Mommy and Daddy didn’t love you.
You got dumped in some shitty orphanage, abused mentally and physically.
One day, you snapped, killed someone by accident, and ran off.
You survived the streets somehow. And now you’re here, chasing this job because the high you got from your first kill never really left you? ”
The mere mention of my parents sends a sharp, icy pulse rattling through me. She studies me like a predator circling its prey, her eyes narrowed and sharp, dissecting every subtle flicker of emotion that passes across my face.
“Is that how it looks?” I ask, managing to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Do I really give off that impression?”
Estella leans back in her chair, her sneakers scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “Cliché,” she replies coolly. “But ninety-nine percent of people in this line of work have the same tragic backstory.”
“It is kind of tragic,” I parry. “Don’t you feel it?”
She tilts her head, a faint half-smile curving her lips. “Every day, thousands of people are abused, mocked, and humiliated. If you let yourself feel for all of them, you’ll go insane. Probably end up blowing your brains out.”
I part my lips, a soundless gasp caught in my throat. Words refuse to form, and for once, I can’t argue. She isn’t entirely wrong. Harsh as it may sound, there’s a thread of raw truth tangled in her words.
“That’s not exactly my story,” I murmur, forcing the words past my lips. My gaze sharpens, cutting through the air between us. “You haven’t been told anything about me, have you?”
“That’s a stupid question. I was in prison, remember?”
I nod quickly. “Right. Just thought maybe—”
“You can’t just assume things if you want to survive here,” she interrupts again. I bite my lower lip, holding back a surge of frustration. When I said she was insufferable, I meant every goddamn word.
“Rule number one,” she begins, eyes locked on mine. “Pay attention. You snooze, you lose—and if you lose, you die.”
She lifts a glass of Coke to her lips, taking a sip of the dark liquid before setting it back on the table.
Her other hand rises almost absentmindedly, index finger pointed skyward as her brows draw together, lost in a swirl of thought.
“Actually, scratch that. There are no rules. You dying might be the best-case scenario.”
Somehow, that makes me laugh. A dry, involuntary sound bursts from my chest as I lean forward and grab a few French fries. Food won’t fix the tension pulsing through me, but I need something to ground myself.
“So,” I begin, voice low, “do you want to hear my backstory or not?”
“Nice try.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I question.
“It means,” she begins, fingers threading through her messy, half-dried hair, tugging at stray strands as if each motion helps her gather her thoughts, “that you’re trying to use it as leverage. But it won’t work on me. I’m not going to chase you for some tragic confession.”
She leans in and snatches the fries straight from my hand. “Because I don’t care,” she states, popping them into her mouth one by one, chewing slowly, all the while holding my gaze.
My breath catches in my throat, stuttering like a broken engine. Heat races up my neck and spreads across my cheeks in a fiery flush I can’t stop. Her wicked little smile forms and stretches, and in that moment, I realize exactly why.
She craves this reaction. She’s savoring it, every flicker of my discomfort feeding her amusement.
“I killed my parents,” I blurt out. It’s a lie, but for her, it’s going to be the only truth she ever gets. “They were good people,” I add, my voice evening out, emotion crafted just right. “Kind. Caring.”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” she mutters, her words dripping with disinterest. “Why’d you kill them, then?”
A bitter lump climbs up my throat, dense enough to choke me. My fingers twitch, desperate to curl into fists and slam into something solid—maybe the wall, maybe the table between us. That kind of release usually steadies me, a violent reset that drags me back from the edge.
But not this time. Cracking isn’t an option. Not in front of her. Not when every breath feels like another test I’m not allowed to fail. In Estella’s version of me—and in everyone else’s I’ll have to fool—I hate my parents. I am the son who killed them and never looked back.
“Sometimes people are just too fake,” I say, forcing a scoff into my voice like it’s second nature. Inside, my stomach twists. Every word out of my mouth slanders their memory, but it’s the only way.
“So fake with their kindness,” I continue, “you can feel it splitting at the seams. Every time I had a problem, they smiled, told me to be a better person. To fight hate with compassion. But when everyone’s grinding you down with their boots, when the whole world is against you—how the fuck can you stay blind and composed? ”
The smile vanishes from her face, fading as if it had never existed. Her features soften just enough for me to strike. I lean into the script I’ve rehearsed countless times, repeating every word and gesture etched into me.
“I did love them,” I admit, my voice low, raw. “In my own way. The kind of love that didn’t fit their pristine, nauseating vision of goodness. So they tried to change me. Reprogram me. Force me into a performance for the world, so I could hide the darkness that burned inside.”
I make a small pause. “So I killed them and ran off. Stole some cash. Made it thanks to my tech skills. Without those, I’d have been dead years ago.”
She studies me intently, eyes scanning every detail. After a long moment, she finally speaks, her voice quiet, her expression carefully unreadable. “Interesting,” she says.
I can’t tell whether she believes me or sees straight through the facade. Probably the latter. But that’s fine. The more I spin this story, the more it solidifies, hardening into something tangible. The mask I wear will only grow heavier, sharper, and all the more real.
She tilts her head ever so slightly, and I feel the spark of curiosity in her eyes. I don’t fit the usual pattern, and it shows—her gaze lingers, drawn to the unfamiliar, the unexpected, as if anything new and sharp could captivate her attention. “How many people have you killed since then?”
I’ve lost count. Over the years, I’ve taken out more people than I can remember—mostly assassins like Estella, but others, too. Innocents—people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All of that to end up here.
“Um…” I stall, letting my gaze wander around the dining area. The place is worn-down—warm tones smudged across the floors and ceilings, furniture that’s scratched and half-torn. Still, the food’s unbelievably good. “Not many,” I say eventually. “That’s where I was hoping you’d come in.”
She laughs, a dry, raspy sound cutting through the mostly empty restaurant. The only waiter shoots another concerned glance our way, and I understand why. Her face is a mosaic of bruises and swelling, her ribs probably cracked, and I’m the man sitting across from her. He likely thinks I did it.
“You want me to do what?” she asks, tone steeped in sarcasm. “Teach you how to kill? Or maybe train you up so you won’t end up with another scar like the one on your chest?”
Caught off guard, I blink, my breath hitching in jagged bursts—not just that she saw it, but that I let my guard drop enough for her to notice. For a fleeting, absurd second, a part of me feels… flattered.
Because she saw it? Ridiculous.
The scar is massive, thick, impossible to miss, and visible even through decent fabric. But it isn’t just a scar—it’s a warning carved into my skin, a constant reminder of what’s at stake and how little time I have to finish what I started.
I push myself upright, forcing my shoulders back and my spine straight.
Then, I shake off the flicker of surprise that still lingers on my face, masking it with a controlled calm.
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m hoping you’ll help me learn to control my emotions.
Sharpen the rough edges so I can operate in this world better. ”
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice. “I’m not your enemy, Estella. I’m here to learn.”
Estella doesn’t strike me as someone who enjoys company on a job. Everything about her screams control, independence, and fierce competition. She doesn’t care about the bodies left behind. For her, it’s not personal—it’s a game. One she plays to win.
“Cane said you’re a good tech,” she says, almost offhandedly.
I nod. “That I am.”
She mirrors the gesture, but there’s a mocking tilt to it.
“Perfect. While you were outside playing chimney, Cane dropped a new assignment in my lap.” Her tone sharpens with purpose.
“One week from now. A criminal lawyer in Seattle. You’ll be sitting in a van outside his house.
That’s your test. Get into every camera—inside, outside, doesn’t matter. Show me you’re worth something.”
A spike of frustration rises in my chest, but I clamp down on it hard. Years of leading others, being the one in charge—and now I’m expected to sit quietly and follow? The shift grates at me. “I thought I was supposed to—”
“You’ll do what I tell you,” she snaps, cutting me off without missing a beat.
“Exactly what I say. When I say. No excuses, no complaints. This is serious, and I’m not about to let you fuck it up.
You’ll watch me, learn how I operate. If you don’t get in my way, maybe you’ll live long enough to earn your own kill. ”
I exhale slowly, biting down the sting of my pride. “Fine. But I don’t have a van. Where am I supposed to find one?”
Estella scoffs, already pushing her chair back. I follow her movement, confused, my eyes locked on her as she stands. She still doesn’t look at me—not even when she snatches up the last of the fries from the plate and tosses them into her mouth.
“You need to start figuring shit out, Dante,” she says flatly, then turns and walks off as if she hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at my feet.
Her silhouette moves toward the door, hand on the handle, and I follow with my eyes. She steps into the sunlight, steadfast and unhesitant, and without a backward glance, melts into the bright street, rounding the corner, leaving me erased from her world.
I cast my gaze back to the table. Empty plates stare up at me, greasy napkins crumpled and abandoned, half-drunk glasses catching the fading burn of the evening light. Her absence presses into the space, and the silence that follows lands heavily in my chest, almost suffocating.
She’s right. I have to start figuring shit out, and fast. First, how to get out of Mexico without drawing heat. Then, how to get my hands on a damn van and the gear I’ll need to pull this off.
No more waiting.
No more doubts.