Chapter 25
The dossier on my desk was thin, offensively so. A single sheet of paper containing the sum total of a man's existence.
I stared at the photograph stapled to the upper right corner.
I read the data points, dissecting them with the cold precision of a coroner performing an autopsy.
Age: 24. Occupation: Municipal Clerk / Freelance Data Developer. Height: 185 cm. Weight: 190 lbs. Blood Type: O.
My jaw clenched, a slow, grinding pressure in the hinge of my mandible.
185 centimeters. He was tall. Not as tall as me, but tall enough to be considered "statuesque" by civilian standards. Tall enough that Aleesha—who stood at a microscopic 152 centimeters—would have to crane her neck to look at him.
Smells like citrus, she had said.
I looked at the photo again. He had a symmetrical face. Brown hair. A smile that suggested he had never had to make a difficult decision in his life. He looked soft. He looked like he paid his taxes on time and volunteered at animal shelters.
Education: College Graduate. BS in Data Science & Business Administration. Financial Status: Lower Middle Class. Salary commensurate with municipal entry-level positions.
He was poor. By my standards, he was destitute. He likely drove a used sedan and budgeted for groceries.
And yet, this was the "Eli" she had spoken of. The one we met at the ice cream shop. The one who made her giggle.
I flicked the paper with my index finger. It made a sharp, dismissive sound.
He was irrelevant. He was a gnat. I could buy the municipality he worked for and fire him before lunch. I could have him reassigned to a sanitation plant in Alaska.
"Cardboard... check. Pink glitters... check. Pink pentel pens... check. Glue... check. Pink ribbons... check."
The voice cut through my calculations, pulling me from the dark precipice of planning Elijah Martinez's accidental deportation.
I turned my chair slowly.
Aleesha was occupying the center of my bedroom.
She was sitting cross-legged on the Persian rug—a rug woven by artisans in Isfahan, now serving as a coaster for a bottle of glitter glue. She was hunched over, using the edge of the mattress as a desk, her notebook splayed open on the Egyptian cotton sheets.
I observed her posture. It was appalling.
There was a mahogany desk in the corner. There was a velvet armchair. There was a library downstairs with tables worth more than this "Eli's" entire life earnings. And yet, she chose the floor. She chose to compress her spine and press her chest against the mattress.
Why?
It was inefficient. It was illogical.
"Pink construction paper... check!"
She murmured the words with the intensity of a bomb defusal expert. Her lips were puckered, pushing out slightly in a look of deep concentration. A strand of black hair had fallen into her eyes, and she blew it away with a puff of air, only for it to fall back instantly.
My gaze drifted past her to the wall.
The floating shelves.
They had appeared two days ago. Pink. A soft, dusty, insulting shade of pink that clashed violently with the dark emerald wallpaper I had selected for its calming properties.
They held nothing of utility. A plush toy. A jar of folded paper stars. A framed photo of that golden retriever.
It was a visual assault. It was a territorial marking.
And yet, I had not ordered them burned.
Aleesha snapped her notebook shut. She dropped her pen on the rug. She looked up.
Her eyes met mine. They were wide, brown, and glistening with a weaponized level of innocence. I braced myself. I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, inhaling deeply, preparing my nervous system for whatever nonsense was about to exit her mouth.
"Gabby?"
I opened my eyes. "What."
"Can we go to the mall?"
I stared at her. "The mall."
"Yes!" She scrambled up from the floor, clutching the notebook to her chest like a sacred text. "I need supplies! I need to complete my First Aid Kit! I checked the weather app, and there is a storm coming on Saturday! A typhoon! It's going to be super scary!"
She widened her eyes to emphasize the terror of precipitation.
"And," she continued, breathless, "I need to visit Mommy and Daddy. I need to bring them a copy of the First Aid Kit! Because they are unprepared! They probably only have Vicks Vaporub and prayers! I need to save them!"
I looked at the pink bookshelves. I looked at the dossier of Elijah Martinez on my desk. I looked at the girl.
The request was trivial. A logistical errand.
The logical response was delegation.
I have an entire security detail downstairs.
Sean, Marcus, and Luca were currently in the west wing, consuming my resources and awaiting deployment.
They were trained drivers. They were lethal combatants.
They were perfectly capable of escorting a nineteen-year-old female to a commercial center to purchase adhesive bandages.
I could stay here. I could finish analyzing the Southeast Asian shipping routes. I could enjoy the silence.
Send them, my logic dictated. Remain here. Avoid the sensory overload of the public.
I opened my mouth to issue the command. "I will have Sean drive you to—"
The words died on my tongue.
If I sent Sean, she would sit in the front seat. She would talk to him. She would probably buy him a pretzel. She would smile at him.
And I would be here. Alone. With the dossier of the citrus-scented clerk.
Boredom.
Yes, that was it. I was bored. The shipping routes were tedious. The silence of the mansion was suddenly... oppressive.
I stood up, pushing the dossier into the drawer and locking it.
"Fine," I said.
Aleesha gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Really?"
"Do not make me repeat myself," I muttered, striding past her. "We leave in five minutes."
??
The drive to the city was controlled. The experience at the mall was not.
The shopping center was a hive of consumerist filth. It was loud. It smelled of recycled air, fast food grease, and the perspiration of too many people occupying too little space. The fluorescent lighting hummed with a frequency that was designed to induce headaches.
I hated it.
I hated the way people walked—slowly, aimlessly, drifting like cattle. I hated the noise. I hated the way eyes lingered on me.
But Aleesha loved it.
She had exited the Aston Martin with a bounce in her step, and before I could secure the perimeter, she had grabbed my hand.
She didn't ask. She just took it. Her fingers interlaced with mine, her palm warm and small against my skin.
I looked down at our joined hands.
I should have pulled away. Holding hands compromised my reaction time. It was a tactical error. It signaled vulnerability.
But I let her drag me.
She pulled me through the automatic doors and into the chaos.
"To the pharmacy!" she declared, marching forward.
We entered the store. She grabbed a shopping cart and pushed it with aggressive enthusiasm.
"Okay! List!" She whipped out the notebook.
"Band-aids!"
She swept her arm across a shelf. Several boxes clattered into the cart.
I picked one up. It was bright yellow. It featured a cartoon cat with no mouth.
"Hello Kitty," I read dryly. "Is this intended for trauma management?"
"Yes!" She snatched it back. "The cuteness distracts from the pain! It is psychological healing! If you get shot, Gabby, would you rather have a boring beige strip or a kitty?"
"If I get shot," I said, "I would require a tourniquet and a surgeon, not a cat."
"You have no whimsy," she huffed, throwing the box back into the cart.
She continued her rampage.
"Sterile gauze pads!" Whoosh. "Medical tape!" Clatter. "Cotton balls!" Poof. "Antiseptic wipes!" Thud. "Ointment!" Clink.
She was preparing for a war, armed with cotton balls.
Then, she stopped in the seasonal aisle.
"Raincoat!"
She grabbed a yellow plastic poncho from a hook.
I stared at it.
"Aleesha," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the store.
"Hmm?" She held the poncho up to her chest. "Is yellow good? It's high visibility! So the rescue helicopters can see me!"
"You live in the Muratori Estate," I stated flatly. "The walls are three feet of stone. The roof is reinforced slate and iron. The elevation is well above the flood plain. You do not require a poncho. You require common sense."
"But the storm!" she insisted, eyes wide. "What if the roof blows off? What if I need to go outside to save a squirrel? What if the windows break and water comes in?!"
"The windows are bulletproof," I informed her. "They will not break from rain."
"You never know!" She threw the poncho into the cart. "Better safe than soggy! And I need one for you too! Black, obviously."
She threw a black poncho in.
I watched it land on top of the Hello Kitty band-aids. My life had become a farce.
She continued down the aisle, muttering about batteries and chocolate rations. Then, she stopped.
She turned to face me. The manic energy seemed to drain out of her, replaced by a sudden, nervous fidgeting. She twisted the hem of her blazer.
"Gabby," she said softly.
"What."
"About the storm," she started, looking at her shoes. "I was thinking."
"A dangerous pastime."
She ignored the insult. "I... I think I should stay at my parents' house on Saturday. Until the storm passes."
I froze.
The noise of the pharmacy—the beeping registers, the soft pop music—faded into a dull roar. My focus narrowed entirely on her.
"What?" I asked. My voice dropped an octave.
"My parents," she explained, rushing her words. "Their house... it's small. It's yellow. It's old. The roof leaks sometimes. And if the power goes out, they get scared. Daddy's back hurts when it rains because of his arthritis. Mommy gets anxious."
She looked up at me, her eyes pleading.
"They need help," she said. "I need to bring the kit to them, and I should just... stay there. Just for a night or two. Until the typhoon is gone."
My grip on the handle of the shopping cart tightened until the metal groaned under the pressure.
"No," I said.
It was instinctive. It was a reflex born of possession.
"But—"
"No."
"Why?!" She whined, stomping her foot slightly. "I just told you! They are old! They are in their fifties! When you are fifty, your bones grow weak! You become brittle! Like dry twigs! If the wind blows too hard, they might snap!"
I stared at her. Fifties. Brittle.
"I am thirty-eight," I said coldly. "I am not a twig. Your father is a grown man. He is capable of securing his own perimeter."
"He isn't!" She argued. "He fixes appliances, he doesn't fight nature! They need someone to look out for them! They need a leader!"
"And you are the leader?" I scoffed. "You?"
"Yes! I am the daughter! I am the owner of the First Aid Kit!"
She reached out, grabbing my hand again.
"Please, Gabriel," she whispered. "I'll be safe. I promise. I'll call you! Every hour! I'll FaceTime you! You can talk to Primrose! You can watch me eat! Whatever you want! Just let me go take care of them."
I looked at her hand on mine.
She wanted to leave.
She wanted to pack a bag and walk out of the estate. She wanted to sleep in another house. A house I did not own. A house I did not secure. A house with thin walls and cheap locks.
A storm was coming. Chaos was coming.
And she wanted to be away from me.
She is an Asset, the voice in my head recited desperately. An Asset must be secured. An Asset cannot be risked in uncontrolled environments.
It was unacceptable.
It caused a spike in my cortisol levels that I could not justify with logic.
I was not considering letting her parents stay in the estate—that was a security breach I would not tolerate. But I also could not tolerate her absence.
"You are not staying there alone," I stated.
"I won't be alone! I'll be with Mommy and Daddy!"
"They are civilians," I dismissed. "They are liabilities. They cannot protect you."
"I don't need protection from the rain!"
"You need protection from everything," I growled, leaning down so my face was inches from hers. "You attract disaster. You trip over air. You cannot be trusted to survive a weather event without supervision."
"But they need me!" she wailed softly. "I can't leave them!"
I clenched my jaw.
This was a stalemate. She would not abandon her loyalty to her progenitors. It was an admirable trait, though deeply inconvenient.
I could force her. I could lock her in the mansion. But if I did that, she would cry. She would pace. She would be stressed. Stress is bad for the reproductive system.
And... she would hate me.
"Fine," I said.
"Fine?" She blinked, hope blooming in her eyes. "So I can go?"
"No."
I straightened up. I adjusted my cuffs. I looked around the aisle, ensuring no hostile elements were nearby.
"I am coming with you," I said.
Silence.
Aleesha stared at me. Her mouth opened in a perfect 'O'. Her eyebrows shot up.
"Come again?" she whispered.
"I said," I repeated, enunciating every syllable, "I am coming with you."
"To... my parents' house?"
"Yes."
"To sleep over?"
"Yes."
"In the yellow room?"
"If that is where the sleeping quarters are, yes."
"But..." She looked at my suit. She looked at my watch. She looked at my face. "But you are Gabriel Muratori! You are the King of Shadows! You hate small spaces! You hate yellow! You hate people!"
"Correct," I agreed.
"Then why?!"
"Because," I gritted out, angry at my own irrationality, "if your parents require protection, I am the optimal solution. I am the security."
I pointed at her chest.
"You are small. You are weak. You faint at the sight of blood. You cannot protect them."
I placed a hand on my own chest.
"I can."
"End of discussion."
I felt annoyed. I felt mad at myself for saying such nonsense bullshit. I was the head of a global syndicate, and I was volunteering to sleep in a suburban guest room to guard a retired couple from rain.
It was pathetic.
But the alternative—leaving her alone—was impossible.
I pushed the cart aggressively toward the counter. The wheels squeaked.
"Let's go," I barked.
We paid.
We drove home in silence, though I could feel Aleesha vibrating with excitement beside me.
When we arrived at the estate, she didn't even stop to walk. She ran.
"Packing time!" she shouted, sprinting up the grand staircase.
I followed her.
She threw open her suitcase. She packed clothes. She packed the kit. She packed the dog.
Primrose. The golden retriever looked at me and wagged its tail.
"You too," I muttered to the dog.
I grabbed my own bag. A small, black leather duffel.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Ready!" she saluted, beaming at me.
I sighed. I picked up her pink suitcase.
We hopped into the car. I engaged the engine.