Chapter 7 Estella #2
The walls are adorned with vintage fashion posters, each carefully framed, each a quiet declaration of taste. Sculptural floor lamps in matte gold stand like sentinels in the corners, elegant without ever begging for attention.
This is the kind of place someone with true taste dreams of.
Cane emerges from the bathroom, and the first thing I notice is the Glock at his waistband catching the light, gleaming like a threat he’s too comfortable carrying. Only after that do I look at his face.
“Always so prepared,” I scoff. We both know the truth—no matter how armed he is, a gun won’t save him if the day ever comes when I decide he’s expendable.
I move to the counter and pick up the knife before sinking the blade into the cake, slicing it into halves, then quarters. It eats through the soft crumb with a clean, satisfying ease.
It should be that simple with people, too—if you know where to cut.
Cane reaches up for plates on the tallest shelf. “I won’t need one,” I inform him.
It’s not for you,” he says, and my eyes widen in disbelief. He moves as if he owns the place, not like a guest. Without looking at me, he takes one piece of cake, sets it neatly on a plate, then does the same with the other before grabbing two forks.
“You forgot I’m the one holding the knife,” I warn.
He gathers both plates in one hand, fingers curling around the porcelain. The tendons in his forearm tighten, making the ink etched into his skin ripple and shift with every slight movement—like his tattoos are alive, stretching over muscle and bone as he lifts the weight.
“Then stab me,” he suggests calmly. “It wasn’t a problem for you before.”
I frown, watching him walk back to the couch with such ease, as if we’re discussing the weather.
“You can’t still be mad about that,” I say, waving the knife lazily before setting it back on the counter and lifting my hands in mock surrender.
“It was one time. And I was careful. I made sure I didn’t kill you. ”
I can feel Dante’s confusion hanging thick in the air, but neither of us looks his way. Cane places the plates on the coffee table, drops onto the couch beside Dante, and turns his head toward him. Without waiting, Dante reaches for the cake, and I swear I can see him drool.
“She’s lying,” he says before stabbing the fork into the cake. The soft sponge gives way, the tines leaving three clean punctures. “She gutted me. Took me weeks to heal. A miracle I’m still alive.”
I grab the spatula still slick with batter, twirling it thoughtfully before bringing it to my mouth. My tongue slowly flicks over the sweetness. “Ever wondered what would’ve happened if you had died?”
Dante coughs mid-bite, his hand snapping to cover his mouth as he struggles for air. The confusion on his face is raw and visceral, and I feel a dark thrill coil inside me, feeding on it, growing sharper and hungrier.
My relationship with Cane has always been strange. You could call it a bond, though I’ve never figured out what exactly ties us together. When I was younger and more na?ve, I thought he was my family.
The way he trained me was brutal, relentless, as he pushed me past every limit, tore down everything soft left in me. But I found comfort in that. In his cruelty, his certainty.
He couldn’t break what was already broken.
He didn’t fix me. He didn’t heal me. With patient hands, he fused the broken shards, leaving just enough space for me to step forward, to perform, to shine.
Memories flash like a movie, and the corner of my mouth quirks. Maybe I’d miss him for a day or two if my blade actually killed him.
“Of course I did,” he says, pulling me out of the drift.
The fog lifts, curling away like smoke dissipating into the morning.
I watch him, dark eyes fixed on the cake I baked, every bite so careful and slow.
He would never admit it—wouldn’t dare—but he is afraid of me.
Time has dulled him; he’s grown complacent, outsourcing the dirty work to others.
He still trains, keeps a hint of the edge he once had, but the man before me is a shadow of who he used to be.
I can still see the moment I stabbed him—the blank look in his eyes when he didn’t expect it, his gloved hand crushing my shoulder until it bruised.
None of that would’ve happened if he hadn’t been distracted by his daughter.
You can’t tell me that getting stranded on a private island after finishing a job was less urgent than her getting her first period at school.
Cramps can be vicious, sure, but they pale against the torment I endured back then.
He didn’t come for me, didn’t even bother to send someone.
What should have been a single day of waiting stretched into five relentless days of storms. The memory still presses against my chest as if it happened yesterday, though two years have already passed.
After I came back, I had to do it. The assassination was stressful enough on its own, and the relentless storm made me think I’d actually end up stranded there forever.
That was not exactly great for my mental health.
Shaking the negative thoughts off, I turn to Dante, and he straightens, flexing his broad shoulders.
A few pie crumbs cling to the corner of his mouth, drawing my attention there.
Grateful for a distraction, I twist the spatula, licking the sweet cream from it, the image of my tongue tracing those crumbs away flashing before me.
I’ve always hated it when people eat clumsily.
“You’d be deep in shit if I were gone,” Cane says. My brows lift on instinct, tension pulling faint creases across my forehead, and he jabs a fork in my direction as if delivering a final verdict. “You need me, Estella.”
A laugh escapes me, low and amused, sparking warm in my chest. “Keep telling yourself that.” My gaze slides to Dante, who looks even more bewildered than before, and I raise the spatula to cover the side of my mouth, though I know Cane can still hear me. “They’ll just send us another one.”
That’s how The Order works.
“What did you put in this? Tastes… amazing,” Cane mutters around a mouthful, shifting the conversation as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Mother’s love,” I reply, letting the words hang in the air. Both of them stare at me like I’ve completely lost it.
I set the spatula down with a soft clink and reach for the espresso machine. It’s early, and they’ve already dragged too much chatter out of me. I need caffeine before I dive headfirst into the rest of this goddamn day.
My eyes wander over the curated ceramics perched along the counter, lingering on the small wine rack where a single bottle of Veuve Clicquot rests.
Normally, alcohol strikes me with a rush sharper than coffee ever could, and for a fleeting second, I almost consider pouring myself a glass just to feel that familiar surge.
“This woman who was with me in prison,” I begin, pressing the right buttons to start the coffee machine.
The rich aroma of brewing coffee fills the room, blending with the sweet scent from the pie.
“She told me about her daughter, who loved blueberry cakes on Sundays,” I continue, dreamily turning off the machine once it finishes a full cup.
I step closer to the fridge, feeling the cool hum against my skin as I open the door, lift out the cream, and close it behind me.
“She said that once she gets out, she’ll make one for her,” I murmur, tilting the bottle and letting the thick liquid swirl into my coffee.
I stir it slowly, watching the colors blend, and add, “I’m just making her wish come true, in my own way. ”
“How nice of you,” Cane says, amusement lacing his voice.
“I know, right? And…” I tilt my head at him, letting the words linger in the air, “I think I already forgave you for not getting me out sooner. If I’d been freed just a few days earlier, I’d never have baked it.”
He snorts a laugh, and the sound curls warmth through me, making me smile despite myself.
Slowly, he sets the empty plate on the glass-and-chrome coffee table, then reaches into the coat draped over the back of the sofa.
With a sharp slap, an envelope stuffed with cash lands atop the table, the impact scattering a faint echo across the surface.
“You’ll have to split it between you,” he mutters.
Amusement floods me as I stride to the coffee table and snatch the envelope before Dante even reacts. “I’m taking ninety-five percent,” I state, my fingers rifling through the bills. “His success is my achievement. I inspired him to be that original.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Dante says, his tone calm, measured, like he’s stating a fact rather than sparking a conversation.
I can feel Cane’s reaction—a flicker of surprise rippling across his features, radiating a tense heat I can sense. Dante just shrugs, effortless and unconcerned. “Learning from the best,” he adds, his words a challenge wrapped in casual ease.
He’s flattering me. People don’t say things like this without expecting something in return, I know that. And yet… I feel pride surging through my veins, a smile threatening to break across my face.
I am the best. Always have been, always will be.
“Right,” I say, momentarily at a loss for words. I could bite, tell him he’s trying too hard, but I don’t want to. Not now.
“How wonderful. I see the progress already,” Cane mocks, and I roll my eyes, slapping the cash back onto the coffee table. “That’s why you both deserve a break. For now, there’s no job. Instead of running away or pissing each other off, I suggest you two go out together. Do something.”
My fingertips ghost over my lips, pressing lightly, tugging just enough to feel the skin give. A flicker of electricity hums beneath the surface—a ghost of our fingers brushing, sparking across my memory.