Chapter 3 #2
She waves toward the displays ahead. “Come on, I’ll show you where the best zucchini is.”
“Zucchini. Great.”
I fucking hate zucchini.
Still, I follow her deeper into the market, calculating how many hours of this charade I’ll have to endure before I can get her alone and extract the necessary information.
The diamonds are the mission.
Not the way her hair glints in the sunlight. Not the dent in her bottom lip from her front teeth when she smiles…a charming and endearing imperfection.
And certainly not my unsettling desire to witness her falling apart in my hands.
The diamonds.
She hops to a halt at an apple vendor’s stall, the weathered wooden structure adorned with baskets brimming with fruit in vibrant hues of red, green, and yellow.
I position myself beside her, just close enough to catch the vendor’s cordial greeting.
She knows everyone here, weaving connections like a spider spins a web, except she uses glittery, sparkly, syrupy-sweet thread.
The older man behind the table beams, his leathery face crinkling with affection. “My favorite teacher. How many this week?”
“Two dozen, mixed varieties, including Gala and Zestar, please.” Her hand dives into her shapeless purse and withdraws her wallet. “Red, green, and yellow.”
He nods, selecting apples with care and placing them in a paper bag as if each one is a treasure. “For the little ones again? Always doing something fun.”
His smile wilts when he finally notices me, then redoubles as she leans forward and recaptures his attention. Her sunshine banishes my darkness.
Fascinating.
“Always. Food and games are the best ways to keep their focus.” She offers me an inviting grin, as if I might share in her excitement over this mundane exchange. “He gives me a discount for my class.”
With a wink, the vendor adds two extra apples to her bag. “On the house.”
I’m intrigued by the ease with which she navigates this world, her laughter light and free. She’s a stark contrast to the shadows I inhabit.
I should concentrate on the objective, on the diamonds, but I keep finding myself both distracted and captivated by her simple joys.
Chloe accepts the heavy bag with both hands. “You’re too kind.” She nudges my shoulder before dropping her voice as if sharing state secrets. “For Tuesday. We’re sorting and graphing them and then making applesauce.”
I nod. “Productive.”
Her smile widens, and I’m again stabbed by its intensity. If I believed in witches, I’d think she was casting a spell on me.
Focus. The mission.
My gaze sweeps over the crowd, scanning for movement patterns and threats. Anything to distract from Sunshine on Legs walking beside me.
I tense.
There.
Two young men linger near the honey stand, both in hoodies that seem out of place in the warm sun.
Their attention is glued to their phones, though they’re not scrolling or otherwise engaging with the devices.
They’re faking. The shorter of the pair sports expensive sneakers that clash with the rest of his cheap attire.
The taller guy keeps a hand stuffed in his pocket, his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to disappear.
The taller one’s eyes flit to Chloe before darting to her purse, from which her wallet and iPad stick out. Frustration clenches my gut.
The shorter guy pretends to text but glances up every few seconds, tracking her movements with predatory interest.
I subtly reposition myself to get a direct view of these two fuck nuts. They’re so zeroed in on Chloe, they don’t even notice me. Big mistake.
Beneath my casual facade, every muscle coils, ready to spring into action.
“Do you want to try the cider samples?” Chloe remains relaxed and carefree, unaware of the looming threat. “They make it fresh. You can watch them press the apples.”
Under different circumstances, her obvious delight might actually tempt me.
“Later.” I lead her away from the old man and the apples, keeping my tone steady and my attention fixated on the two wannabe gangsters. They shadow us, maintaining their distance. “Tell me more about your classroom plans.”
The request is calculated, meant to keep her talking and distracted while I assess the situation.
It works.
She launches into an explanation of apple-themed mathematics and the nutritional benefits of homemade applesauce versus store-bought.
I hear nothing but the slow, steady thud of my heart, my focus narrowing on the imminent threat. These guys are idiots to approach with me here, but there’s no solving stupid.
Must be my attire. Maybe they have some absurd notion that men in tailored suits can’t fight. My mind races, assessing angles, distances, response times…
We’re near the damn zucchini when they strike.
The taller guy closes the distance too quickly for the casual market atmosphere. His hand darts out, grabbing Chloe’s purse strap and wrenching the bag from her shoulder.
Chloe reacts with surprising speed, her hand clamping down on her bag before even I can grab hold.
She yanks it close to her body. “No! We do not take things.”
Shock temporarily roots me in place as she wags her finger at him like she just caught one of her kindergartners stealing crayons.
The thief’s face twists in confusion and rage while the second guy steps right in front of me, brandishing a small knife with a cheap plastic handle. “Don’t move, asshole.” The blade trembles in his grip.
The tall guy then pushes Chloe, who stumbles backward, arms flailing as she crashes into a pyramid of tomatoes. Produce cascades around her, rolling across the pavement in a chaotic scatter.
Red blurs my vision. Who the hell shoves a woman like that?
Rather than slow down, the world sharpens.
Colors intensify. Sounds clarify. Time keeps its pace, but my perception accelerates, processing information at combat speed.
I don’t even glance at the knife-wielder. That blade is a secondary threat, his awkward handling telegraphing his inexperience.
My focus zeroes in on the first attacker. The one who dared to touch Chloe.
I glide past Shorty with fluid precision and strike the purse-snatcher in the throat with my elbow.
A choked gasp escapes him.
He collapses to the ground.
The knife-wielder reacts in a clumsy and predictable manner.
I sidestep his advance and clamp my hand onto his wrist.
A sharp twist and applied pressure to his radius and ulna do the trick. Beneath my grip, the satisfying, sickening crack of bones is just barely muffled.
The knife clatters to the pavement.
A guttural grunt of pain erupts from him as my boot connects with his knee, driving the joint sideways at an impossible angle.
The joint gives way with a wet popping sound. A victorious symphony.
The guy crumples.
Screaming.
Silence descends over the rest of the market.
A rush of satisfaction oozes through my veins.
Situation locked down.
Control regained.
And in less than five seconds.
The two would-be attackers twitch on the ground, moaning. Tomatoes continue their lazy roll across the asphalt, coming to rest against shoes and table legs.
Several onlookers stand frozen, mouths agape, shopping bags dangling from their hands.
I straighten my jacket, tugging the cuffs into place with a practiced motion, my heart rate unperturbed. For me, violence—as instinctual as breathing—requires no more thought than tying a shoelace.
But I admit that seeing these two young gangster wannabes on the ground, groaning and incapacitated, pleases me.
I shift toward a pale, wide-eyed Chloe and scan her for injuries.
She has one hand pressed against her mouth in shock. There’s a smudge on her bright yellow dress and a small scrape on her elbow where she must’ve caught herself falling.
Rumbling irritation tickles my chest, then fades.
The damage is minor. Acceptable.
“You okay?” My voice cuts through the silence that blankets the market as I offer her my hands and pull her up.
She thanks me with a quick nod before straightening out her dress.
Then she pivots and gapes at the whimpering, broken punks on the ground, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
As I watch, her expression transforms, fear dissipating into surprising resolve.
“Well, someone definitely needed a time-out. I hope they learned their lesson.”
“I’d say. But since I didn’t have one of your tiny plastic chairs, time-out wasn’t an option.” I can’t help but stare, astonished by her absurd response and unexpected resilience.
Where most would scream, cry, or demand answers, she stays right in character, reprimanding the men who attacked her as if they’re unruly children who knocked over a block tower during playtime.
An odd whoosh flurries through my stomach.
She’s ridiculous, but there’s clear strength beneath the construction paper and popsicle sticks.
I grudgingly acknowledge the smallest bit of respect for her ability to remain calm in the face of what just happened.
A murmur ripples across the gathered crowd. Someone calls the cops. The tomato vendor hurries around his table, asking if Chloe’s all right and offering her water while glaring at the groaning men on the ground.
I angle my body in front of her to shield her from the fallen attackers and the gathering crowd of onlookers. “We should go. Before the police arrive.”
Her brow furrows, a glimmer of trepidation passing over her face. “Shouldn’t we speak to them?”
“Trust me, considering the shape those guys are in, it’s better if we leave.”
She glances up at me, her expression transforming. Not with gratitude or shock but with a flicker of wonder that startles me. “Okay…” She gestures vaguely at the incapacitated men still sprawled on the pavement. “But I should ask. How did…”
“Basic self-defense.” I direct her away from the consequences of my violence. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head while bending down to gather her scattered produce. “I’m fine. Just surprised.” Her earnest brown eyes search mine. “Thank you. That was… You were… I mean, I think you broke his arm.”
“He’ll be fine.” I take the bag from her hand. “Let me carry these.” When our fingers brush, I feel the slight tremor in her grip.
Unacceptable.
As we drift away from the chaos, I keep her close, my free hand resting on the small of her back.
With my instincts on high alert, I scan for every exit point, every potential threat in the thinning crowd.
Mission parameters have shifted.
Retrieving the diamonds is still my ultimate goal, but a new element has entered into the equation. A foreign, unsettling protective instinct that has nothing to do with Roman’s orders and everything to do with the naive woman at my side.
It’s an unprofessional, dangerous vulnerability I can’t afford.
Yet as she walks beside me, chattering nervously about how she’ll need to wash the apples extra carefully, I can’t seem to quarantine my reactions.
For the first time in years, I acted on impulse.
And that’s far more perilous than any knife.