Chapter 7 Estella
Barcelona, Spain
I’m baking.
When I woke up this morning, I remembered that one of the women I killed in prison once told me her daughter loved blueberry cake every Sunday. Now that I’m actually making it, I can’t help thinking about how spoiled that kid must’ve been—wanting this sweet nonsense every goddamn week.
The flight back was long, but finally, I can breathe. Cooking helps me unwind—never enough to silence the constant churn of new ways to kill people, but it takes the edge off.
I fix my gaze on the oven, the warm orange glow spilling over the cake like molten light.
It rises slowly, imperceptibly, the surface mottled with golden and purple bruises that speak of blueberries and caramelizing sugar.
The timer ticks down: three more minutes.
My stomach growls, a low rumble echoing in the quiet kitchen, and I lean closer, inhaling the sweet, tart perfume of sugar and blueberries mingling in the heat.
Cane should be here any minute. The bastard always shows up to eat whatever I have left, so I learned it’s easier to cook for him than let him raid my kitchen.
I straighten, reaching for the oven button before noticing the sugar clinging to my fingertips. I hold them up, studying the tiny crystals, rubbing them together, feeling the grit scrape lightly against my skin. Usually, I’m not this messy.
My teeth bite down on my lower lip as the memory of a few days ago flickers through my mind—Dante and his infuriatingly brilliant plan. At first, I was impressed. Shocked, even. But the feeling didn’t linger. It twisted, curdled into irritation faster than a blink, leaving a sour edge in its wake.
By the time we reached the diner I’d picked out, my mood had already shifted.
I didn’t want to be near him anymore—let alone sit down and eat together.
He insisted on paying for my takeout, but I just turned around and went straight back to the hotel, and I haven’t heard from him since.
Not when I boarded the plane, not when I landed, not even after I got home.
I’ve never felt that way before. Every time I was assigned to train someone, they ended up dead. I was always faster, sharper, smarter. They all tried to impress me, but never hard enough. Turning a mission into a messy bloodbath that attracts unwanted attention isn’t impressive—it’s pathetic.
But Dante was different. He waited, he listened, and then he executed perfectly. No noise, no arrogance, no sloppy mistakes. There wasn’t a single flaw to pick at, and I hated it as much as I admired it, a sharp twist of frustration and reluctant respect curling in my chest.
I don’t know why my mood shifted so quickly. Maybe I just wanted to get rid of him. I’ve never worked well with anyone; partnerships always fracture, always implode. Yet with him, I can’t just walk away. Cane has something lined up for us, and the unknown gnaws at me.
I twist my fingers in front of my face, trying to reel in the storm of my thoughts. That instant our hands brushed—the spark that flared hot and sharp, searing through me—it felt like the universe itself had slammed a warning into my chest.
Don’t touch him. Don’t reach for him. Not ever.
The timer blares, yanking me violently from my thoughts.
I reach for the oven handle, pulling it open slowly, the heat and smell striking me in a comforting wave.
But another thought claws its way in, dragging my attention back to my mind—the way he’d taken that goddamn souvenir, as if he’d plucked it straight from my own thoughts.
I’m a collector too. I abandoned the habit of taking things from my targets years ago, lost the thrill in it, but I still gather trinkets of another kind.
I don’t like the way our similarities gnaw at me, stirring something dark and unacknowledged inside.
Steam rises from the oven, curling around my face, warm and insistent, forcing my eyes shut. I blink through the haze, trying to clear the blur, but right then, the doorbell cuts through the quiet.
I hit the Off button, hearing the oven’s hum die, and straighten, adjusting the silky belt of my robe.
One of my favorites, it carries a phoenix stitched in sequins across the chest—bold, colorful, and impossibly soft against my skin.
My platform slippers click against the floor as I cross the room.
Fingers dusted with sugar graze my lips before I reach for the handle with my other hand, swinging the door open with a quiet flourish.
Cane stands there, tall and still, his silhouette casting a faint shadow across the floor and walls.
The usual smirk curves his lips, a black coat draped over his frame, gloves still on.
He always looks ready for a murder—which is funny, considering he rarely gets his own hands dirty.
He prefers to let others do the job for him.
“You know this door’s always open for you,” I say, arching a brow with mock warmth.
The corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile, and I mirror it, a flicker of amusement slicing through me. But the feeling dies quickly when someone moves behind him.
Dante steps into view behind Cane, wearing a black T-shirt stretched over every defined muscle, cigarette-cut pants framing him as if tailored to his body.
His dark hair falls in a deliberate kind of chaos, and when his eyes lock on me, something unreadable flickers there—sharp enough to make my chest tighten before I can stop it.
I drag my sugar-dusted fingers across my lips, rubbing the grains in, trying to anchor myself. But the longer I stare, the more my thoughts slip. There’s no point pretending—the man is beautiful in a way that borders on offensive. I don’t believe in God, but whoever made him didn’t rush.
A perfect body—muscular, but not the kind that screams steroids.
Tall, with hands big enough to cover my entire face.
Tiny moles speckle his arms, veins threading along them, shifting and tightening with even the smallest movement.
Light stubble shadows his jaw, giving him that effortless, just-woke-up look—and somehow, it makes him look even better.
He’s too perfect.
Too composed.
Too fucking confident in knowing exactly that.
“What you did was very bad,” Cane says, slicing through my thoughts with that half-mocking, half-warning tone he’s perfected.
I roll my eyes, turn my back on him, and stroll toward the kitchen while licking the sugar from my fingertips like it’s the most important thing happening in the room.
“Snitched about everything, huh?” I toss over my shoulder. Their footsteps trail behind me, and the door clicks shut. “I’m not apologizing for leaving on my own.”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” Cane replies, his voice turning clipped, colder. “It wasn’t hard to put it together, Estella. I expected to meet with both of you—not separately.”
I shake my head and slide on my gloves, the fabric snapping lightly against my wrists before I reach into the oven.
Heat washes over my face as I lift the cake out, its scent rising in a warm, sugary wave.
Cane steps in closer, his dark, expensive, unapologetically masculine cologne cutting straight through the sweetness.
His coat rustles when he leans in, fingers already poised to tear off a piece. I flick my gloves aside and slap his hand without hesitation, shooting him a warning glare.
“How many times do I have to tell you? Outerwear off. Hands washed. Only then can you eat.”
He grunts, muttering under his breath as he straightens, but he obeys—shrugging off his coat and tossing it carelessly onto my couch before stomping toward the bathroom.
Dante sinks into the couch, his gaze drifting over my apartment, tracing the lines, colors, clutter, and careful precision of it all. He takes it in slowly, like he’s reading a language he’s never seen before.
It took me ages to shape this place into exactly what I wanted.
With the amount of money I make, I could live anywhere: a penthouse, a mansion, ten mansions if I felt like it.
I used to have one, filled with five bedrooms, a private theater, and too many empty spaces filled with nothing but silence.
It was too much. Too meticulous. Too lifeless.
This apartment fits better, like clothes tailored to my bones.
One bedroom, one kitchen, one bath, a small balcony, and a living room.
Just enough. Ordinary, maybe, to anyone else.
But to me, it’s perfect precisely because it’s overflowing with the things I chose, the things I love, the things I actually care about.
“You like what you see?” I ask, the edge in my voice sharper than I meant it to be. Truth is, I just want to hear what runs through his head—what he thinks when he steps into my private world and breathes my air.
Dante’s gaze shifts to mine, steady and unguarded. He drags his fingers along his stubble, deliberately slow, making the moment feel intentional.
“Yes,” he says, nodding once, then again. “Yes, I do. It’s very… chic.”
I narrow my eyes. “Expected something else?”
His brows pull together, a flicker of confusion slipping into his tone. “I didn’t. Or I did,” he admits, searching for the right shape of the truth. “Either way, it’s better than anything I could’ve imagined.”
I roll my eyes, even though the compliment settles warmer in my chest than I care to admit. Of course he’s impressed. Who wouldn’t be?
The living room opens into the kitchen, sunlight spilling through tall French windows draped in sheer ivory linen. A cream boucle sofa—currently claimed by Dante—anchors the space, its curves contrasting with the sharp lines of the glass-and-chrome coffee table.
Magazines are scattered across its surface in glossy stacks, beside a crystal ashtray. I don’t smoke, but it looked perfect, so I bought it anyway.