Chapter Nine

Justine

CAMPBELL IS NEVER late.

I’m not the kind of person who panics if someone doesn’t instantly respond to a text, but twenty sluggish minutes later, worry starts to get the better of me. Dinner will be ready in less than an hour, and I planned to make proper introductions before all of us were around a table together. Astoria isn’t very far away, and surely if they’re stuck in traffic, there’s time to send a message—

A vibration jolts me out of that particular mental spiral. Campbell’s reply is a truncated text across the screen: Car trouble. Be there soon.

Of all times for a rental to have a problem. Knowing is much better than being left on read, so I drift back into the kitchen to help my parents cook. Everything already smells incredible; cold, potent vinegar soaks into fresh ginger and chili paste, thick enough for red to verge into shining black. Baba measures out Sichuan peppercorns, face set tight with concentration, while my mother heaps bean thread noodles into boiling water, watching for them to become perfectly clear.

“Campbell’s on the way,” I say. “What’s left to do?”

“The pork,” my mother gestures over her shoulder to the opposite counter. “Get it cut and in the marinade.”

Her knives are sharp as ever, making it easy to break down the pale loin into lean strips of meat, which I shred even further. Freed blocks of fat go to the side, ready to gird the wok, and I move on to the garlic, crushing full cloves under the blade before chopping them thin as my fingers will allow.

I missed how meditative this is, listening to my parents making gentle jokes with each other while swapping places around the kitchen. It was the first thing I’d do after coming home from school, leaving my backpack by the stairs as a reminder to do my homework after. Food came first, especially when someone needed to mind the stove for hours at a time. I read my first books on Gentileschi and Ruysch while stirring with the other hand.

The doorbell rings as I sweep the garlic into a bath of white sugar and soy. I go rigid, then force the breath back out of my lungs. “Let me get that.”

Only a narrow divide separates the kitchen and the front door, but I might as well be walking through a hall of mirrors. Everything is too close and yet too far away before I seize the doorknob and twist it open.

Campbell is in completely different clothes than they were a few hours ago, dressed down in black slacks and a sky-blue button-up I’ve never seen before, collar splayed wide. They’re not usually one for a tie, but the prior outfit had a tight and defined aesthetic, coming off as formal and fashion-forward. This looks like they just changed in the car.

Which might be true because the car on the sidewalk behind them is completely different too. The white sedan is gone, replaced by a pitch-black Rolls-Royce, a dark column of luxury next to my father’s practical four-door.

“Campbell, what—”

“I need a room with privacy and a mirror.” Their voice is too low to carry into the other room, but the sharp command in Campbell’s tone puts me on edge. “Come in with me.”

The first place I think of is the bathroom, up the stairs and out of the way. Campbell slips off their shoes next to mine and follows in unerring silence, ducking inside the moment I cross the threshold. Once the door is closed, they put a black bag I’ve never seen before next to the sink before unzipping it, then pull out an unlabeled white bottle.

“What is that?” I ask.

“Part of my crash kit.” Campbell leans into their reflection. Both pupils are blown wide, strain threaded in red around gray irises. The bottle goes up, tilted to put a few drops in each eye. “Someone hit my car.”

“Oh my God.” I thought they’d gotten a flat tire or something. “Campbell, you should have told me. You didn’t have to rush here.”

“I didn’t,” they reply, putting the bottle away before focusing on restyling their hair. Blood, dry as rust, is under the shadow of Campbell’s jaw. They notice and grimace before turning on the water to scrub it away. “They hit me on purpose. They took Sofia. And now I have a contract with a whole lot of strings attached.”

Trying to parse all of that at once makes my head spin. “Who…who would do that to you? To her? She’s…”

“Family,” they say, looking me in the eye. “The family of Mickey Galici. It took them a few years, but they put the pieces together and found me. Which is my fault, really. I didn’t take as many precautions with him as I do with everyone else. First times are always a learning experience.”

“But you—” God, this is insane. “Why didn’t they kill you?”

“Because there’s someone else they want dead more.” Campbell finishes washing their face, then checks their nails for anything underneath. “We’ll talk about it later. I’m sorry for being late. It wasn’t intentional.”

I grab their wrist, forcing them to look at me. “You just told me Sofia was kidnapped, but you came back here for dinner?”

“She’s safe for now. I made sure of that.” Campbell shifts close, and the color bleeds from their eyes, chemicals washing out stress and the pulse of adrenaline. “What you need to make sure of is that your parents think I’m a nice, normal person. Because once I start this contract, that’s the last thing I’m going to be. So we’re going to go downstairs and have dinner, and I’ll find some way to apologize for this later.”

My first instinct is to laugh. Countless absurd scenarios haunted me with anxiety when Campbell and I planned this trip, but not a one involved them being dragged into a Mafia deathtrap. Now I have to look my parents in the eye, introduce Campbell, and pretend they’re not the one who made me a widow, all while knowing Sofia is locked up somewhere.

Jesus Christ.

“You look fine,” I mutter when Campbell checks the mirror again. “They’re really looking forward to meeting you.”

This is so bizarre panic starts to loop over itself in my mind, a double negative trip into apathy. Why should I be worried about what my parents think, in the scheme of things? A few emotional scratches barely compare to a kidnapping. I lead Campbell down the stairs and into the kitchen, dragging up my oldest Stepford habits and fixing together a smile.

“Campbell finally made it.” I catch a note of surprise in my father’s eyes when he sees them, but shock is a lot better than the alternative. “There was some trouble with the car.”

“I’m sorry for being late,” they say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Zhang.”

My mother’s expression is reserved, but I expected that. “You as well. It means quite a lot for our daughter to bring someone home.”

A cordial smile rises to Campbell’s lips. “I know. Which is why I wanted to show my gratitude.”

They unzip their bag again and pull out two small black boxes. I mentioned a few weeks ago that bringing a gift would be several points in their favor, but in the back of my mind, I assumed Campbell wouldn’t bother. Richard didn’t—I bought something last minute and shoved it into his hands, terrified my parents would read his lack of forethought as disrespectful. Rightfully so, I realize now.

Campbell offers the first box to my father. “This is for you, sir.”

I know they’re ex-military, but hearing sir out of their mouth is still surreal. Campbell is polite, but deference isn’t in their nature. They always have control over a situation, and surrendering it to someone else is unthinkable.

My father raises a brow but takes the box and opens it nonetheless. A heavy chronograph watch rests on a bed of velvet inside, its dark mechanical face set against an inlay of mother-of-pearl. After my conversation with Danny, I don’t have to hazard a guess at the price, but my stomach pirouettes into a tight knot.

“This is very kind,” my father begins, “but I couldn’t possibly accept.”

“Please,” Campbell protests, “it’s humble in comparison to what Justine has given me. But I thought it would suit your work. Salt, water, sun—nothing can stop a watch like this from keeping time once it’s set.”

Which is perfect for the endless hours he spends on the docks. I know Campbell is capable of being thoughtful—and I assumed they would apply the way they treat me to my family—but they could have settled on something far less personal.

I wager my father feels much the same, considering the curious look I get before he smiles wide. “Thirty-seven years since I’ve had a new watch. I suppose it is long past needing a replacement.”

He hands the watch to my mother, then pushes up his sleeve and undoes the worn brass buckle keeping a thin leather strap tight to his wrist before putting on Campbell’s gift. The heavy steel-and-pearl structure is well suited to the wiry strength of my father’s arm. He’s been in charge of the imports warehouse for years, but that’s never stopped him from hauling crates with everyone and showing them how it’s done.

Campbell presents the second box to my mother. “And for you, Mrs. Zhang.”

Her face turns shrewd, and I bite my tongue. Buying gifts for her is notoriously difficult; her sole hobby is old films, on a level that an amateur could never hope to reference. A lost reel from the Golden Age would sell my mother in a heartbeat, but it couldn’t fit in something a package this size.

Yet her eyes snap wide when she opens the box. A single ticket sits on top next to a slender keychain inscribed with the flair of the Art Theatre of Long Island. It’s the only independent movie theater left in the whole area, sticking it out since 1925—but more importantly, my mother has been going there every Friday for decades. I mentioned it to Campbell once, weeks ago.

“They told me the ticket is just symbolic,” Campbell says, “but the keychain is a lifetime membership. As many showings you like, any day of the year. Just show them that and pick whatever seat you like.”

It’s second nature to refuse something so generous, but my mother heroically swallows the urge and lets out a soft laugh. “You’re clever. I see why Justine likes you.”

“Come help me set this,” my father says to Campbell, holding up his new watch and gesturing to theirs. “The old one was off by seven seconds.”

They step aside with him into the kitchen, but I know a diversion when I see one. My mother immediately drops her voice to a whisper. “Was this you?”

“I told Campbell bringing gifts was appropriate,” I insist. “That’s it. They’re very observant.”

Her brow furrows. “And a bit young for you, no?”

Heat surges up the back of my neck, but a touch of embarrassment barely registers next to the flood of relief that comes in its wake. If my mother’s strongest critique of our relationship is a seven-year age difference, I’ve escaped essentially unscathed. “It hasn’t been an issue so far.”

“You’re blushing,” my mother notes under her breath. “And smiling. I haven’t seen you do either in a very long time.”

“I’ve never been happier.” Despite the bomb of anxiety presently threatening to go off in my brain, that much remains true. “After everything that happened with Richard, I feel alive again.”

“Were you military?” I hear my father ask from the other room. “You have that look.”

“Army, sir. I did one tour,” Campbell says.

He grunts in acknowledgement and leans out of the kitchen to look at us. “Mama, the tree will die without you.”

My mother responds to his joke about the food with an amused hum, ducking past him to save the noodles from soaking for too long. I follow to get the dishware and chopsticks together, pressing in next to Campbell.

“How much did everything cost?” I murmur under my breath.

“A fair amount,” they admit softly, “but it doesn’t matter. I wanted to prove to them that I can take care of you.”

For a second, Campbell’s mask drops. Just long enough for me to see the earnest devotion underneath, a striking sincerity no one else can claim.

If I could kiss them right now, I would. The fact that they’re here instead of hunting down a kidnapper is a wild gift in and of itself.

Campbell follows my lead in setting the table, which is so frankly domestic I can’t help but smile to myself. Our time in Paris was intimate in every way possible, but there’s a difference between shacking up in a million-dollar vacation home and the simple act of putting a meal together piece by piece.

Is settling down something they want? We’ve never discussed the topic, mostly because their work has taken us back and forth across the ocean, but even our quiet lull in Chicago didn’t give me a clue one way or another. Technically, they could move in without any fuss, but it’s hard to picture Campbell vanishing for weeks at a time, then showing up at the front door to kiss me and wash the blood off their hands.

I like traveling with them, but I still have the gallery to look after. Dalia has been doing the lion’s share of the work recently, sending over new layouts and purchases for second-round approval, but that can’t last forever. Our local artists know her well enough, but most of our international clients expect to speak to me and me alone. Eventually, I’ll have to be back behind a desk, or at least on the phone most mornings.

“Justine.”

Campbell’s voice drags me back to the present. My parents are standing there with the food, and I still have custody of everyone’s chopsticks. With a muttered apology, I set everything in its place and go to get cups for tea. My mother has the kettle ready on the stove, and my father’s choice for tea sits right alongside it. They’ve been drinking the exact same blends since I was a child. The excess from the warehouse needs a good home, and Baba would never let so much go to waste.

Everyone’s sitting down by the time I come back. I fold myself into a chair once the tea is ready, tapping into the light conversation between Campbell and my father. He’s questioning them at length about the mechanical details of the watch, which wouldn’t be notable except for the fact that he can’t stand idle conversation with strangers. If he’s talking, it’s because he cares, and that kind of honest interest is hard to come by.

In so many ways, this is exactly what I wanted it to be. The food is delicious, I’m back in my parent’s house for the first time in ten years, and they’re welcoming the person I love with open arms. Yet I can’t shake off what Campbell told me about Sofia earlier, or the fact that my mother and father are talking to an assassin without the first clue in the world. Their façade is flawless, but for a moment, I’m far too aware of the veil Campbell uses to conceal their true nature from the world.

What does our future look like?