He brushes the tears away from my cheek and gazes into my eyes awaiting my response.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I whisper.
Daimon takes my hand and we both sit on the edge of the bed. “You don’t have to do this. I can do it alone. It’s the way I’ve always done it.”
“You don’t want me to go with you?”
“I didn’t say that.” He reaches up and turns my face toward his. “I want you to do whatever will give you the most peace. If you think you need to face her, then that is what I want. If this mission makes you nervous; if you think it will transform you into a person you cannot live with, then I don’t want you to go. I just want you to be happy with whatever you choose.”
I gaze into his eyes, looking for a sign of uncertainty, but it’s me who’s having doubts. Not him. “Is there anything in this world that you’re afraid of?”
A shadow passes over his blue eyes as his face hardens. “I’m afraid of losing you.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you.”
This puts a soft smile on his face. “Do you want to forget everything? Just disappear with me?”
He reaches up and delicately pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger as he gazes at my mouth, awaiting my answer.
“No. I can’t let her get away with what she’s done. She discarded me as a newborn, then hired someone to kill me. And in the process, I lost almost everything that has ever mattered to me. I can’t let that go. I’m not that sensible.”
He chuckles at my last proclamation, then he leans in to kiss me. His beard tickles my lips and I smile when I taste the sweet wine on his tongue. I wrap my arms around his sturdy shoulders and kiss him harder. After a moment, I pull away and look him in the eye.
“I love you, mon cheri.”
He laughs softly. “That was very sexy. But I’m going to have to teach you to speak French properly.”
“How long are we staying here with your brother?”
“Two weeks. That should be enough time for you to recover. And that’s when the Grand Prix Gala will take place in Monte Carlo.”
“Two weeks?” I mutter as my mind wanders to thoughts of Daimon and I holed up in this beautiful guest room for fourteen days. I look up at him and smile. “I want you to teach me everything you learned while being a hit man.”
He looks a little befuddled by this request. “Why?”
I gaze into his sparkling blue eyes and smile. “I want to make sure there’s no chance I’ll be holding you back. I want to be your equal.”
“You already are my equal. I told you this. You and I are the same.”
“No, we’re not. You know more about performing hits than I do. Far more. I want to know everything.” I rake my fingers through the soft dark hair on his head. “We’re a team now.”
He closes his eyes, savoring the sensation of my fingers running through his hair. “I’ll teach you everything I know… tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll be spending all night in this bed… worshipping you.” He opens his eyes and grabs my hands to pull them against his chest. “Lie down, chérie. Church is in session.”
After thirteen days of being Daimon’s student, my body and mind are both exhausted and invigorated. I feel like a new person. A better person.
According to Daimon, my training made me the perfect candidate for a job as an assassin. The only things I need to work on are embracing technology and weapons, and learning some foreign languages. We argued about the effectiveness of weapons for hours before I finally conceded to his point that it is always better to be prepared for anything.
Victor’s wife and three children arrived from their three-week trip to Brazil last night. They were too exhausted to spend time socializing with us, but they’re full of energy this morning as they scurry about the huge kitchen helping themselves to a traditional French breakfast of coffee, fromage blanc with fruit, and sliced baguettes with fresh butter and jam.
The three children, ages eight, eleven, and fifteen, speak in rapid-fire French that sounds almost musical. Eight-year-old Louis sits next to me at the breakfast table as I’m pouring some corn flakes into a bowl.
“You are American?” he asks, then he takes a spoonful of fromage and strawberry preserves into his mouth.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Louis,” snaps fifteen-year-old Victoria. “I’m sorry for my brother,” she continues, taking a seat on my other side.
Daimon sits across from me wearing a slight grin as he drinks his coffee and eats his baguette.
“I am not stupid,” Louis retorts, and Victoria shakes her head in dismay.
“It’s fine. I don’t mind answering. Yes, I’m American. Have you been to America?”
Eleven-year-old Vanessa sits across from Victoria. “We have been to New York and Florida and California.”
I swallow my shame as I realize these children have seen more of America than I have. “Which did you like the best?” I ask as I pour some milk into my bowl of cereal.
“California,” Vanessa replies. “New York was cold and so many people. And Florida was so hot and so many bugs.”
“I like New York,” Victoria says, sipping her café au lait. “I want to live in New York.”
“You can’t live in New York!” Louis shouts in my left ear. “They don’t like ugly people in America.”
“Be quiet. Nobody was talking to you,” Vanessa interjects.
“Shh! All of you be quiet. You are annoying our guests,” Victor’s wife Imane says, taking a seat next to Vanessa.
I look at Daimon and he’s still smiling. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I’m beginning to feel like fate may have intervened at the right moment for us. I am definitely not ready to deal with children at this juncture in my life.
Victor enters the kitchen with his cell phone pressed to his ear and a worried look on his face. He and Daimon lock eyes, then he nods toward the other room. Daimon looks at me and nods for me to join him.
“Bring your food. You need to eat.”
One thing I’ve learned about Daimon these past two weeks, which did not surprise me at all, is how bossy he is. He insists that I eat at least four times a day. When I lived on my own in Los Angeles, I got used to eating twice a day due to my limited budget. But Daimon insists I need to eat more often to maintain a healthy blood sugar level, which he insists is key to staying alert and energetic.
Victor leads us into a study where the walls are lined with bookshelves. I take a seat on a black armchair and Daimon stands next to me.
“What is it?” he asks.
Victor shakes his head in dismay. “It is not good.”
“What is it?” Daimon asks again more forcefully.
“It’s Julien. He is making the drop at midnight.”
The silence that follows this sentence baffles me. “What? What does that mean?” I ask, holding my spoonful of cereal over the bowl.
Daimon runs his fingers through his hair looking very unhappy with this news. “That’s too soon! We need more time. They won’t be in the high-limit room until ten or much later.”
“Daimon? What’s going on?” I plead, but it’s Victor who answers.
“I messed up. Your escape from the club was supposed to happen whenever the job was complete. I thought I had made it clear to your escort, Julien, that he would need to have you out of Monaco by twelve o’clock the following day. Somehow, the message was not received well. You have to get out of Monaco by midnight.”
Daimon shakes his head, still too upset to speak.
“We have less than two hours to complete the whole mission?” I ask. Surely, this must be a miscommunication. There’s no way they can expect us to pull this off in two hours.
“I’m sorry, Daimon,” Victor says, running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. “I know if I were not your brother, I’d be dead right now. Oui?” Daimon glares at him then nods, his jaw still clenched tightly. Victor turns to me. “See? You are changing him.”