“Cocoa sounds good, thank you.” Bradley’s blue eyes hold mine for a few beats before he tilts his chin toward my dining room table. “Want to sit there, or on the sofa?”
This feels like a test, one I’m probably doomed to fail. “Sofa,” I decide. “It’s easier. More casual.”
Two things I fear this conversation won’t be. Bradley must have the same sense because he nods stiffly and makes his way to the couch. I’m still holding Kevin’s leash, so I lead him into the kitchen and get down the bowl I found at the feed store. I wanted to be prepared, so I already bought a bag of special pig chow. Also, fresh diced mango, since I read that’s a special treat for pigs. Tropical fruits interact poorly with the immunosuppressant drugs I’m required to take, so I’m delighted someone in this house can enjoy it on my behalf. I drop some diced bits into Kevin’s bowl, keeping the portion small so I don’t spoil his appetite for dinner. Then I wash my hands and get to work making the cocoa.
I consider informing Bradley about the low sugar content of my cocoa mix. Another gift from my chef brother, it’s made with my dietary precautions in mind. For some reason, I want Bradley to know I’m a model transplant recipient. That I can do this one thing right, at least.
When I glance up, I see he’s not sitting. He’s back at the cluster of photos, studying one near the back.
“This is him, right?” He turns, holding the image from my mother’s sixtieth birthday party. “The bald guy, Dan. I thought I recognized him in this photo.”
Dammit to hell. I should have known better than to put that in a frame. But how was I supposed to know Dante would show up here?
Instead of answering, I finish mixing the cocoa and drop in the marshmallows. I’ll answer the question, but not until we’re properly seated. Kevin’s done eating and has wandered over to the pet bed I bought just for him. As he flops onto the overstuffed surface and gives a grunt of satisfaction, I have the joy of knowing one thing has turned out the way I hoped it would.
When I look back at Bradley, he’s still holding the photo. I sigh, square my shoulders, and stride toward him. “Yes,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll explain.”
“All right.” He sets down the photo and ambles to the couch. His posture seems overly rigid, and I wonder what he thinks I’m going to tell him as I hand him a mug, then sit down next to him and take a deep breath.
“Dante is a hitman.”
Bradley blinks. “What?”
I frown and flip through my mental Dovlanese to English dictionary. “Maybe that’s not the right word. He protects my family from those who might harm us.” It sounds simple when I phrase it that way, so I cross my legs and continue. “Occasionally, if someone does something very bad, that person might just…disappear.” I hesitate. “It’s sort of understood Dante’s the one who makes them disappear, though my family never actually speaks of it. Perhaps hitman isn’t the right term for that?”
Bradley stares at me. “Uh, yeah. Hitman would be the word you want.”
I gesture to the bowl of marshmallows resting on the tray. “If you’d like more—”
“Wait, no.” He shakes his head and sets his mug down on the coffee table. “I’m sorry, but I have questions.”
“I thought you might.” And here’s where I’ll have to tread very carefully with answers.
“This is…legal in your country?”
I glance down into my mug and choose my words with care. “Self-defense is certainly legal. Beyond that…” I trail off, deciding how to phrase it as I meet his eyes again. “Well, are there things in America that aren’t precisely legal, but for those who hold a high political office, perhaps the rules are…well…different?”
Bradley stares at me. “I want to say no, of course not, but—” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Okay, yeah, I get your point.”
“And it’s not like I have absolute confirmation that Dante performs any duties beyond basic protection.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “But you have a good reason to suspect?”
Lifting my mug, I avert my eyes from his. “There was an occasion the Duke’s political rival was found to be conducting himself inappropriately with underage girls. One victim was a cousin of mine.”
I still recall the fury in my mother’s eyes when she learned about it. Heaven help any man who assaults a woman in my family, but especially a thirteen-year-old child. “The man, my father’s rival—he avoided prison time because of money and political power. After the trial, he attempted to resume contact with one of the young girls.”
My blood starts boiling as I speak of this. I’m so tired of men who think they can lay claim to anything they want because of money or power or both.
“Yeah, that sort of thing happens in America, too.” The anger in Bradley’s eyes reminds me this is a man who went to great lengths to protect his sister. I shouldn’t find that attractive, but I do.
“So, what happened?” he prompts.
“Well, I overheard part of a conversation between Dante and the Duke. A private conversation.”
Bradley arches one dark brow. “What did they say?”
“I didn’t actually hear everything.” Enough. I heard enough to have suspicions. “Anyway, two days later, the brakes failed in the man’s sports car. It could have been a coincidence, I suppose.”
“But it wasn’t.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t bother pretending it is. I look down into my cocoa mug and choose my words with caution. “The Duke was always careful to shield me from details. If it helps, I believe Dante’s skills were only deployed in situations where the justice system failed. Where someone was being hurt or mistreated or abused by people or systems the Duke found…disagreeable.”
“So you’re saying what?” Bradley frowns. “He’s a hitman with a heart of gold?”
The idea of Dante having a heart of any kind is enough to make me laugh. Since laughter isn’t the right response in this situation, I settle for sipping my cocoa. “I don’t fear him, if that’s a concern.” Maybe I should, but I don’t. Not the way Bradley’s thinking, anyway. “I don’t believe Dante—Dan—would harm me.”
He studies my face a moment. “That doesn’t sound entirely convincing.”
“It’s the truth.” Not all of it, but some.
Naturally, Bradley has more questions. “Why is he here?”
“I don’t honestly know.” Another kernel of truth, thank heavens. “The Duke is very protective. Perhaps he’s worried about me?”
It’s possible Bradley hears the dubious note in my voice. “A father who’s worried about his adult daughter comes to visit,” he says slowly. “He doesn’t send a killer to follow her around like a rabid puppy.”
Heat fills my cheeks as I look down into my mug. “I told you last year the Duke isn’t able to get a visa. And my mother—”
“Iz, that’s not what I meant.” The gentleness in his voice makes me look up, and the pity in his eyes makes my eyes well. “I know they had legitimate reasons they couldn’t visit when you had your transplant. All I meant is that it seems a little odd they’d send an armed thug to watch over you.”