Chapter 36
Four days had elapsed since the eradication of the variable known as Elijah Martinez.
Four days of absolute, terrified silence from the external world regarding the "family tragedy" that had befallen a quiet clerk in the suburbs.
My cleanup crew was efficient; the local authorities had ruled it a domestic psychotic break, just as I had orchestrated.
The variable was gone, locked away in a padded room where his screams would disturb no one but the orderlies.
And yet, inside the fortress of the Muratori Estate, the noise persisted.
The source of the noise was, predictably, the Asset.
Aleesha had not changed. One might assume that living with a man of my temperament—cold, distant, prone to long silences—would dampen a person's spirit. It had not. She remained a clingy, oblivious, pink-clad idiot who moved through my house with the grace of a drunken toddler.
She filled the silence with a relentless, bubbling energy that seemed to defy the laws of thermodynamics.
She hummed while she brushed her teeth. She narrated her own life while she walked down the stairs.
She spoke to the inanimate objects I owned, apologizing to table legs when she inevitably kicked them with her clumsy feet.
I sat in the living room, a leather-bound book on geopolitical strategy open in my lap. I was not reading. I was observing.
Aleesha was occupying the floor.
She sat on the pink faux-fur rug she had insisted on installing in the foyer—though she had dragged it into the living room for "better lighting." She was cross-legged, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, exposing smooth, pale skin.
Primrose, the golden retriever, lay on her back beside her, tongue lolling out in ecstasy as Aleesha vigorously rubbed the animal's belly.
"And then," Aleesha babbled, addressing both the dog and me without differentiation, "Professor Miller said my code was 'creative.
' Creative! Can you believe it, Prim? That is code for 'messy but functional.
' It is a compliment! I wrote it in my new journal.
It's pink, Gabby! With glitter on the spine!
I'm collecting all my happy thoughts in it. "
She paused to scratch behind the dog's ear.
"I also collected a rock today. It looked like a heart. And a wrapper that was shiny. I put them in the journal too."
I turned a page of my book, not absorbing a single word.
Nonsense, I thought. Her mind is a repository for debris.
"But..." Her voice dropped. The cheerful bubbling slowed to a trickle. Her hand stopped moving on the dog's fur. "I haven't seen Eli."
My hand froze on the page.
There it was. The name.
"It's been four days," she murmured, looking down at the rug. "He wasn't at the cafe. He wasn't at the arcade. He hasn't replied to my texts. Do you think he's okay? Maybe his power is still out? Or maybe he lost his phone?"
She looked up at me, her brown eyes wide and brimming with a concern that the boy did not deserve. A concern that irritated me to a degree I found difficult to quantify.
"Gabby?" she pressed. "Do you think he's sick?"
I sighed, a long, controlled exhalation through my nose. I closed the book and set it down on the mahogany coffee table.
I looked at her.
"He is not sick," I said.
"Then where is he?"
I leaned back, crossing my legs. It was time to rewrite her reality.
"I made inquiries," I lied smoothly. "Since you were... distressed."
Her eyes lit up. "You did? You checked on him?"
"He has relocated," I stated. "Urgent family matters. His parents required... assistance. In a different state. He left immediately. He likely did not have time to inform casual acquaintances."
"Oh," she whispered. Her face fell. "Family matters? Like... an emergency?"
"A permanent relocation," I emphasized. "He will not be returning."
It was a kindness, in a twisted way. I was giving her closure. I was severing the thread so she would stop pulling at it.
"But... the bunny," she mumbled, reaching for her bag. She pulled out the blue, lopsided crochet rabbit she had made days ago. "I made him Mr. Blue. I didn't get to give it to him."
I stared at the blue yarn. It was an eyesore. It was a symbol of her affection for another male.
"He does not need a bunny," I said sharply. "He is gone, Aleesha. Focus on the present."
She looked at the bunny, her lower lip trembling slightly. She looked ready to cry over a man who was currently strapped to a gurney in a state facility.
My annoyance flared. I needed to redirect her. I needed to claim that energy.
"Dispose of it," I ordered.
"What?" She clutched the bunny to her chest.
"The blue one," I said. "It is poorly made. The tension is uneven."
She gasped, offended. "It is rustic!"
"I require a keychain," I said. The lie formed instantly. "For my office keys. My current one is... insufficient."
Aleesha blinked. "You... you want me to make you something?"
"Yes."
"But you said my crocheting looks like potatoes!"
"I do not care if it resembles a tuber," I said, my voice low. "I want a red flower. A red rose. Or a tulip. Whatever is within your limited skill set. And I want it by tomorrow."
Her sadness evaporated instantly, replaced by a surge of purpose.
"A red flower!" she beamed. "For your office! Yes! I can do that! I will make the best red potato-flower ever!"
She shoved the blue bunny back into her bag—forgotten, just as Eli should be—and began rummaging for red yarn.
Good. Focus on me.
BZZZT.
My phone vibrated in the inside pocket of my jacket.
I ignored it.
BZZZT.
It vibrated again. Persistent.
I reached in and pulled it out, annoyed at the interruption. I glanced at the screen.
I opened the message.
You can burn the ink, Gabriel, but you can't burn the memory. I know you're sitting there, pretending to play house. I know you're thinking of me. Come back to the headquarters. I'm waiting.
A wave of visceral revulsion washed over me. It was a physical sensation, like swallowing oil.
I hated her.
I hated her audacity. I hated that she had returned after fourteen years, thinking she could simply walk back into my empire and reclaim her throne. I hated that she knew my schedule. I hated that she existed.
And I hated Eli for making Aleesha sad.
And looking at Aleesha now, happily humming as she untangled a ball of red yarn, I found that I hated her too.
I hated her for being so simple. I hated her for making me lie. I hated her for making me feel this constant, low-level buzz of anxiety whenever she wasn't in my direct line of sight.
Everything was piling up. The past, the present, the lies, the pink rugs, the texts.
I stood up abruptly.
"I am retiring for the evening," I snapped.
"But Gabby! It's only 7 PM!" Aleesha protested.
I didn't answer. I turned and stormed out of the living room. I walked up the grand staircase, my footsteps heavy and angry.
I entered the master bedroom and slammed the door.
I paced.
I loosened my tie and threw it on the bed. I unbuttoned the collar of my shirt, feeling suffocated.
I hate everything, I thought, running a hand through my hair. I should send her away. I should send Natalia away. I should burn the world down and sit in the ashes alone.
That was what I wanted. Silence. Ash. Peace.
Knock. Knock.
The sound was hesitant.
"Gabby?"
Her voice drifted through the wood. High-pitched. Tentative.
"Go away," I growled.
"But..." She hesitated. "I just have a question! For the project!"
Hearing her voice was my undoing.
I marched to the door.
I ripped it open.
Aleesha stood there, clutching a ball of red yarn and a crochet hook. She looked up at me, her eyes wide, her mouth opening to speak.
"Do you want a rose or a—"
I didn't let her finish.
I let my body win.
I reached out, my hand clamping around her wrist. I pulled her into the room with a force that made her stumble.
I kicked the door shut behind her. SLAM.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Aleesha looked up at me. Her back hit the wood of the door. Her eyes went wide, pupils dilating. She looked... terrified.
For a split second, I saw the fear.
I fucking hate that look. I don't want her to fear me.
But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. The adrenaline and the rage and the confused, twisted need were boiling over.
I didn't care about logic. I didn't care about being the "Logistician."
I gripped her jaw, my fingers digging into her soft cheeks, tilting her face up.
And I slammed my lips against hers.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision.
It was aggressive. It was punishing. It was a release of days of tension, of jealousy, of suppressed violence.
Her eyes widened in shock, staring into mine for a heartbeat before fluttering shut.
I expected her to push me away. I expected her to cry.
Instead, I felt a heat radiate through my body that I had never experienced before.
It wasn't the practiced, performative heat of Natalia. It wasn't the cold, transactional heat of the escorts I had used in the past.
This was raw. It was clumsy. It was real.
I opened my mouth wider, devouring her. I slanted my lips over hers, demanding access, demanding submission.
Aleesha made a muffled noise in her throat—a whimper of surprise that turned into something else.
Her hands, which had been holding the yarn, dropped it.
She reached up. Her small fingers gripped the fabric of my shirt, bunching it tightly in her fists. She pulled me closer.
She was kissing me back.
She was mimicking my movements, her soft lips trying to keep up with the bruising rhythm of mine. She tasted like strawberries and shock.
I groaned, a low, animalistic sound vibrating in my chest.
I bit her lower lip. Hard enough to sting. Hard enough to mark.
She whimpered, her mouth opening with a gasp.
I took the opportunity. I deepened the kiss, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming it, tasting her, owning her.
I didn't know what I was feeling.
It wasn't love. It couldn't be love.
It was possession. It was desperation. It was the need to erase every other touch, every other thought, every "Eli" and every "Natalia" from existence until the only thing left in the universe was this.
I moved my hand from her jaw to the back of her head. I gripped her hair, tangling my fingers in the dark strands. I tilted her head back further, exposing the column of her throat, but I kept my mouth on hers, unwilling to break the connection.
I pulled her body flush against mine. I felt her softness against my hardness. I felt her heart hammering against my chest, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't calculating. I wasn't strategizing.
I was just burning.