CHAPTER TWENTY #2
She doesn’t make a peep while we descend the nineteen flights of stairs, or dash through the lobby, or cross the street. She barely breathes.
When we reach the bike, I set her on the passenger seat, slip on my shoes, and tuck my gun away before I quickly take her face between my palms and kiss her lips.
She emits a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl as a chill washes over her.
I’m not sure what that means other than it being a sign of life.
My chest is leaden when I put her helmet and leather jacket on her.
Still not a word.
But once she’s snug behind me, her arms fastened around my waist, and we’re headed out of the city, she mumbles into the helmet mic, something about how reckless that was to do near a Van Gogh.
I careen through traffic, eager to get us back to the jet as fast as possible. “What, baby?”
“Of all the damn places to shoot someone,” she rants.
“Let’s say I can get past the fact that you wiped two people off the face of the earth and had professionals there to take care of it in minutes.
If I don’t dwell on how often you must have a hand in something like that, I get it.
Because I think they would’ve killed me.
And while this probably makes me a horrible person yet merely human, I choose my life over theirs.
But there is etiquette around art like that.
That’s what I wanted to take. Because it’s priceless.
And the fact that it was nearly splattered in blood … ”
I do my best not to laugh, but my best falls short. “You’re pissed because I killed them too close to art?”
“A fucking Van Gogh,” she sneers. “Do you have no respect for what I do?”
While I was prepared for her wrath, fear, or sadness surrounding my methods, I did not anticipate an art-etiquette lecture, but shock sends people in weird directions, so as I speed up the on-ramp, I try to send her in a different one. “You weren’t there to steal the art.”
“I should’ve been.” There’s a wistfulness to that, like it’s a secret she’s launching into the universe.
Since that’s an indication that she’s probably in her head about her father, I give her a minute to process what she confessed while I lean the bike to the right around a bend, veer into the lane that will lead us to the private airfield, and clamp my arm over hers.
As we vanish into the open road under an inky sky, the city lights fading in our wake, I delve a little deeper. “Is that what you want to do?”
“I wish I could, but … no. I mean,” she huffs, her exasperation breezing through the mic, “I don’t want to steal anything after I’m done with this because what happened tonight …
and going to jail or dying … the high isn’t worth any of that, which might be the healthiest perspective I’ve had in a long time.
After my dad died and then after I lost the baby and found out about Flora and Danny, I didn’t care.
” Her voice cracks with that, and I battle the urge to pull over and hold her while she continues, “Freedom wasn’t enticing enough because there was nothing to come home to. I wasn’t … I’m rambling.”
“Not rambling. It all sounded clear to me.” Hope swells at the base of my throat, and if I didn’t grasp it fully before, I know now that I am completely and utterly gone over this woman.
And the notion that she has the power to make me whole or absolutely destroy me pulses with every thump of my hammering heart.
But still, never one to back down, I raise her, like I would in a poker game.
“Is there something you want to fight for now, baby?”
“I don’t know,” she breathes, and the wrecking ball swings. “Not a life where murder is easy.”
I can’t really fault her for that because despite her profession, Sylvie is good to her very core.
That’s what makes this world such a tangled mess for her.
It’s why she’s pissed about the Van Gogh—because his work should be revered, even by thieves.
It’s why she wants to forgive her sister when most people wouldn’t even consider rebuilding that relationship.
It’s why she put off the Olympics until the man who’d poured his heart into training her could be there.
And why she was willing to sacrifice a medal she’d worked her whole life for after he was gone.
It’s why she holds herself accountable anytime she utters something harsh.
So, of course, she doesn’t want to be aligned with a world where murder is commonplace. She values the sanctity of life with the same conviction most people in my circle dismiss it. But she’s overlooking a vital point.
“You talked about what things are worth—like the painting in that office—about how imperative it was to protect it. I won’t claim to be someone I’m not.
That wasn’t the first time I’d chosen that route.
But tonight? Easiest fucking decision of my life.
You are my priceless art. I would choose jail or dying or you being pissed at me over losing you any fucking day, so what does that mean? ”
She’s silent for the longest time, but I afford her the space to collect her thoughts while we close in on our destination. And as we barrel into the airfield, her chest rumbles against my back with her decision.
“I know this is my mess, so thank you for cleaning it up. I would’ve been killed.
I’m grateful you were there tonight. And I’ve loved our time together, but I …
” She stalls when I shut off the bike, only managing to finish once she notices I’m not removing my helmet.
“I don’t think I can be part of … this.”
Even though I was bracing for it, the wind is knocked from my lungs. I remove my helmet, get off the bike, and help her do the same, clutching her chin between my thumb and index finger.
“You already are, Sylvie. If you’d taken that Van Gogh, what would you have done with it?”
Her breath hitches the second she understands. “I’d have kept it.”
“Exactly.”