22. Joao
22
JOAO
S tefi’s normal sharp alertness fades into blissful pleasure when she orgasms. She leans back against the wall, and her eyes flutter shut. Her breathing evens, and her muscles turn relaxed. The shell of the killer fractures for a moment, and what peeks through is the real woman.
Watching Stefi’s face as she comes is transcendent . I’ve killed more people than I care to remember, and this is close to heaven as an assassin like me is going to get.
Awareness slowly returns to her eyes. Her gaze locks onto my erection, and for a heartbeat, I want to stay here forever, just her and I, like it’s always been. Us against the world. But the noises of the party raging around us intrude into our oasis, and Stefi sharpens into focus.
“What time is it?” she asks. She fumbles for her purse and pulls out a cheap burner phone. “Shit.”
“Do you have some place to be?”
“The smoke bombs are going to blow in ten. I’ve got to get to Zaworski.”
“Smoke bombs, that’s your plan? The fire alarms will go off, the sprinklers will come on, and as everyone stampedes to the exits, you’re going to stab him in the resulting confusion?”
It’s not a bad plan. Simple and efficient, it’s a variation of her approach in Bucharest. But this isn’t just any old bar, and this isn’t some random guy. The security here is tighter, and her plan is not without risks.
I fight the urge to protectively hustle her out of the bar. I want to; God knows I do. But Stefi will never forgive me if I stop her from taking out Zaworski. The other hits might have been routine, but this one is personal.
“Pretty much.” She holds her hand out for the knife I just fucked her with. The handle is still sticky with her juices. “Why are you here, Joao?” Her voice is cool, but the tremor in her fingers gives her away. She’s not unaffected by what just happened.
“I’ve already answered that question. You’re just not listening to me.” My fear, kept tightly contained for the last week, spills out. “Going after Bach’s network? What the fuck, Stefi? This is a suicide mission.”
“How did you find out?” she demands and then shakes her head. “Never mind. I don’t have time for this. Give me the knife and stay out of my way.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I growl. “You might not care that what you’re doing is suicidal, but I do.” I hand her the blade. “I’m going to be right next to you.”
She takes the knife from me and notices the blood on it. “Did you get cut?”
“It’s not important.”
I keep my hand in a fist so she can’t see the cut, but she grabs my wrist. “Show me.”
I open my palm. Blood wells from where the knife blade sliced into me when I was fucking her, and I see the precise moment she puts it together. “You idiot,” she hisses. “You were holding the blade? This is your right hand. How could you be so careless? How deep is it?”
She tugs my hand closer so she can better see the wound in the dim light. I resist. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes, it is. Stop trivializing?—”
“I’m fine.” I clench my hand into a fist again and stare into her luminous green eyes. “Do you think I give a fuck about this cut?” My throat feels like sandpaper. Her touch is gentle and careful, and it’s that softness that undoes me. Her obvious concern makes long-buried emotions rise to the surface. I’ve been holding the words back for days, weeks, but I can’t anymore. It hurts too goddamn much. “I mourned you for e ight fucking years. Eight years, two months, and five days—that’s how long I believed you were dead. And for all that time, my heart bled. I walked around like a zombie, feeling hollow and incomplete. Day after day, I woke up alone, wishing you were in bed next to me. I would have given everything for one more night with you.” I hold up my hand and watch the blood drip down my wrist, staining the white cotton of my shirt a bright, vivid crimson. “This is nothing compared to that . This is just skin and flesh—it will knit itself back together. This cut will heal. ”
She freezes like a deer caught in headlights. For a long moment, she says nothing. The weight of everything I lost feels like an anchor tugging me under, but Stefi’s fingers are still locked around my wrist, and her touch keeps me from drowning.
“Joao,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.” She swallows hard. “I know there’s nothing I can say to erase those lost years. Nothing I can do?—”
I tug her forward so our foreheads touch. “You can tell me why.”
“I can’t,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t want to remember. Ask me anything else, please, but don’t ask me this.”
The evening Antonio told me that Stefi was still alive, he asked me if she was worth it. Right after the incident in Zurich, Daniel reminded me that Stefi came into Venice and abducted one of our own. Valentina warned me that she was an assassin. Tomas pointed out that even though we were married, even though I loved Stefi, she let me think she was dead.
Standing in a secluded alcove in a nightclub in Warsaw, I finally find my answer. Standing next to Stefi, our foreheads touching, so close that our breaths mingle with each exhale, something clicks into place.
I know my wife. She is not fickle, and she’s not flighty. I don’t know what she’s hiding or why, but I know with absolute certainty that she left for a good reason.
And for the moment, that’s enough.
“I thought you were dead, but you’re alive.” A tear rolls down her cheek and I brush it away. “And I don’t care about anything else. Run from me if you need, little fox. But know this. I will always find you. If I spend the rest of my life searching for you, it will be a life well-lived.”
“Joao,” she says. “I can’t. . . You can’t. . .”
“Not now, little fox.” I pull my hand free from her grasp. “We’re running out of time. Your smoke bombs are going to blow in two minutes. It’s time for you to kill Varek Zaworski.”
“Just like that?” she asks, her voice trembling. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”
“No. But after this job, we’re going to Venice, where you will be safe. And if you still want to go after Bach’s associates, we do it together. ”
The moment she hears the word Venice, her expression changes. “I’m not going to Venice with you.”
“What the fuck is it about Venice? You’ve been dreaming about living there ever since you were a little girl. Why are you so resistant now?”
Her chin comes up. “I have my reasons.”
“And, let me guess, you’re not going to tell me what they are. Well, I don’t care. You have an unknown enemy, and you should be in hiding until you figure out who they are and why they’re after you, but instead, you’re here in Warsaw in the middle of a roomful of killers. So yes, we’re going to Venice after this. Whether you like it or not, I’m going to keep you safe.”
“You don’t control me. You can’t stop what I’m doing.”
“I’ll be happy to have that discussion with you. In Venice, over a glass of wine, at this great cafe I know across from the Palazzo Ducale.”
She glares at me, but there’s no yield in my expression, and she knows it. She abandons the fight for the time being. Grabbing the hem of her dress, she wipes the knife clean of my blood so that no trace of my DNA will come up when the coroners do an autopsy on Zaworski. Clever girl. Then she laces her arm in mine and gives me a sweet smile. “Shall we?”
Before I can respond, gunshots ring out. “Everybody, down on the floor,” a man’s voice yells. “Now.”