Chapter Eleven

Justine

I DON’T SLEEP so much as drift from dream to dream, chasing snatches of memory while being hunted by nightmares in turn. The worst among them holds a room full of mirrors, half the reflections showing bruises and tears, the rest highlighting every disguise I created in the days to follow—flawless makeup, colorful dresses to draw everyone’s attention away from my face, and a waxen smile in case of emergency. A decade’s worth of doppelgangers, reminding me what happens when I dare to say no, or want anything for myself.

Then Campbell appears behind me like a phantom, and I snap awake.

It takes a second for the world to come together as more than streaks of panicked color, but once the gray of early morning reconciles with the harsh red numbers of the bedside clock, I realize I’m alone. The pillow beside me is flat and smooth, and the snarl of mussed sheets is entirely the product of my tossing and turning—they never came to bed last night. Rubbing the last of the fatigue from my eyes, I slip out of bed to find something light to wear.

A camisole from my suitcase does the trick. Keeping my steps light, I make my way into the living room, unsure of what I’ll find.

Half an answer lays on the desk at the far side of the living room, which was spotless last night. Now, all those photos of Campbell are pinned above honeycomb-patterned glass, a laptop sits open but snoozing on its lock screen, and a full legal pad of paper is littered with notes. Most seem to be addresses and names—a makeshift family tree with the fruit of La Rosa and Galici—but the rest is written in a spiky shorthand I can’t translate.

The slow rise of breath startles me before I trace the source to the couch. Campbell is stretched out on marengo cushions and fast asleep, still in yesterday’s clothes. One arm is tucked up under their ribs, where the line of their holster is an inch out of sight. Another legal pad is on the low table next to them, equally riddled by black ink.

I’m loath to wake Campbell up, but I would rather they sleep in a real bed rather than curled up around their gun. Approaching with care, I put a hand on their arm and lean down to kiss the smooth line of their brow, whispering their name like a summons.

They blink twice, but their eyes settle on staying shut. “Dare I ask what time it is?”

“Just after seven,” I say. “This can’t be comfortable.”

“I didn’t want to come in late and wake you,” Campbell murmurs. “But I should get up anyway. Scouting out La Rosa’s place is my top priority.”

I’m sure they’re used to going without sleep, but maybe I can make it a little less miserable. “Let me make you some coffee.”

Campbell sighs. “I shouldn’t.”

“Are you going to be executing someone in the next twelve hours?”

A heavy beat of silence breaks against their small but genuine smile. “I suppose not. Coffee would be wonderful.”

They rise as I pull away, then disappear into the bedroom without another word. I orient myself in the kitchen the old-fashioned way—opening every cabinet to see what’s inside—and find the essentials, including an unopened bag of roasted coffee from Surin. My surprise at the raw expense fades when I find a small note tucked against its golden seal: Try to enjoy the sunrise more often, Campbell. —Ulysse.

That’s sweet of him. I doubt I can ever pay Ulysse back for what he gave us in Montfort l’Amaury, although I’ve certainly done my best. Before Campbell and I returned to the States, he teased me about stabbing Victor Marchand in the back, saying a woman like myself deserved a proper stiletto. When I insisted I had no plans to stab anyone else, he replied that a lady of means should be prepared for anything.

Which, considering the violent context of my life, is probably true.

I’ve just set the kettle to boil when Campbell comes back into the room. They’re being loud enough for me to hear, which my blood pressure certainly appreciates, but I forget about everything else when I turn around and realize they are entirely, gloriously naked.

“I have no idea where Sofia put my robe,” Campbell mutters, pushing back sleep-tousled hair from their temple. “Maybe she didn’t like the fabric?”

Even if they weren’t six solid feet of practical, visceral athleticism, Campbell is straight out of a sculptor’s wet dream. My thumbs fit in the full dip of their collarbones like I was meant to grab them by the shoulders, which taper down in a thousand subtle sinews to those impossibly lovely hands, each one bearing a forked river of veins in bas-relief. And if I dare to look at their hands, then I’m drawn to the torso between them, where a deep triangle of muscle is flanked by subtle grooves leading to a field of fine, dark hair.

“I recognize that I’m distracting you.” Campbell steps behind the kitchen counter, hiding the lower half of their body. Which helps—a little. “But I wanted to apologize for something I said last night.”

That shatters my flustered stupor like a carbide chisel. “Last night wasn’t your fault.”

“Not completely. But I still shouldn’t have accused you of being interested in my work for some cheap thrill. It was unjustified and inappropriate.” They frown. “Because what I’m really worried about is that I tempt you to do things you never would otherwise. That since I’m the one asking, you’ll cross a lot of lines that you shouldn’t. You’ll end up in places that can tear you apart.”

The adrenaline comment definitely stung, but my reaction to the rest is far more complicated. “Of course you tempt me, Campbell. From the very moment we met. But I’m the one that made that call. I’m the one that gave you fifty thousand dollars and said I wanted a man dead. You didn’t have to talk me into it.”

“Dealing with Richard is different than focusing your entire life around killing people,” they protest. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Making it look so easy you might give up any chance of freedom when you’ve just gotten out of a cage.”

They were worried about the same thing in France, but after what happened with Marchand, it’s not a mere hypothetical. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t hate you if it happened.”

Campbell’s shoulders tense. “Justine.”

“You’re still worth it. I mean that in every sense,” I insist, looking them in the eyes so there can be no doubt. “And I want to apologize for last night too. I’m so used to waiting for the moment when an argument draws blood that fear takes over everything I mean to say. I want a future with you, Campbell. Just because I don’t know what that looks like yet doesn’t mean we don’t have one, and I’m upset at myself for implying otherwise.”

“Don’t be,” they say gently. “I want a future with you, too, and not knowing the shape of it is…unprecedented. I wish we could settle the details now, but—”

“Sofia comes first.” No matter what I’m wrestling with, forcing Campbell to put this conversation over the risk to her life is unthinkable. “You should go shower. I can handle breakfast.”

They step around the counter and lay their hands on either side of my body, boxing me in against a plane of cool marble. As entrapment goes, it’s probably one of my favorite methods. “What if I want you in there with me?”

I smile, tilting my head to meet the challenge in Campbell’s gaze. “I just finished heating up the water for coffee.”

“You can heat it up again,” they whisper and lean down to kiss me.

It starts out warm and sweet, nothing but Campbell’s mouth on mine and the faint hint of citrus from their toothpaste. They work so hard to be gentle with me—unless I ask for the opposite. When I reach to drape my arms around their neck, their hands find my hips and lift. I’m suddenly up on the counter, breath catching against their lips, and let out a soft laugh when the simple gravity of Campbell’s body pushes my knees apart and brings us together. The thin silk of my camisole stops us from being skin-to-skin, but the subtle friction is more of a distraction than anything else.

“I love you very much,” I mumble, “but on principle alone, I refuse to have sex in the middle of the kitchen.”

“No sex,” Campbell says, one palm offering a smooth caress up the small of my back. I shiver. “Just this.”

Just this happens to encompass kissing me until I’m dizzy and their hands winding a slow path over my body in dedicated worship. Campbell never wanders below the waist, seemingly content to learn the frame of my ribs and the line of tension between my shoulder blades, working out the latter with a slow, deep massage. I stroke along the back of their neck, teasing the finely buzzed hair there, and unravel against the yearning pressure of Campbell’s mouth, opening up to them.

How could I not be tempted?

When they finally withdraw, leaving me trying to catch up with the tripled beat of my heart, Campbell has a smug and utterly shameless smile on their face. “I’m awake now. But I’ll take the coffee after we wash up anyway.”

They counter my playful shove by picking me up off the counter. I wrap my legs around their hips, tightening my hold on Campbell’s shoulders, but it’s reflex more than anything else. Campbell carries me into the bedroom without a hint of effort, not setting me down until we reach the cold tile just outside the shower.

I shiver, but the water heats up quickly, welcoming me in a billow of steam once I strip and follow Campbell past the threshold of frosted glass. Much as I’d like to continue our lovely diversion from the kitchen, the swift and mechanical way they start washing their hair convinces me otherwise. We’ll have plenty of time to celebrate once they get Sofia back.

“Are you going to be out the whole day?” I ask as we’re drying off.

“I narrowed down a few important addresses last night, but it’ll probably take me just as long to get a bead on La Rosa himself. Better safe than sorry.” Campbell lets their towel drop and opens the closest suitcase to rifle through the tightly organized layers of their clothes. Everything is aligned by color, then style, letting them put together an appropriate outfit in a matter of seconds. “Once I’m in touch with Enrico, the next step is figuring out what kind of security we’re going to have to get past. La Rosa will have plenty—people try to kill men like him all the time. So, yes, probably.”

After clasping my bra into place, I hunt down the matching underwear. “I might go back down to Flushing and explore. It’s incredible how much has changed.”

I’m half tempted to call Danny to see if he’ll escort me around; looking like a tourist in my own neighborhood sounds nothing short of mortifying. He’s sure to want to know how everything went with my parents, and it would be nice to relay some good news for once.

My phone buzzes on the charger with a text. Any hope of serendipity goes out the window when I see the message is from my mother: Come over today? Just us.

The hour is well after dawn; my father has been at the docks for hours already and will be for hours longer. So, she specifically wants to see me without Campbell, which could be either very good or my worst nightmare.

“Everything okay, Justine?” they ask.

I bite my tongue, then quickly text back that I’ll be there in an hour. “Just my mom. She wants me to come over, so I’m putting a pin in the exploration plans for now.”

“You don’t sound excited about that.” Campbell pulls a worn New York City marathon shirt on over their head; I wonder if they’ve actually run it, or if there’s an entire storage unit somewhere they keep geographically relevant clothes. “Did I misread her reaction at dinner?”

“I don’t think so.” Which is why the message has me on guard. “But I’ll find out what’s going on. You have a mobster to catch.”

Campbell does linger for their cup of coffee, and I indulge in the same, praying the caffeine will fortify me for the day ahead. The one downside of their apartment existing as glorified proof of residency is there isn’t much in the way of food in the fridge, much less anything I’d want to cook with, but I can grab a couple of steamed buns from the main square for my mother and me. Chances are she’s already eaten breakfast, but turning up empty-handed is out of the question, and I don’t want to send her straight to the kitchen for fear I’ll starve.

“If you need anything from me, I’ll have my phone,” Campbell says, looking every inch the casual city runner. “Expect a delay of about an hour though. Depending on where I am, I might not be able to answer.”

I appreciate the warning, especially after last night. Campbell isn’t late without a reason, and I’d rather have an explanation ahead of time. “Okay. Be safe.”

They lean over to kiss me, and my heart does a sharp, contemplative flip in my chest. Can we just be this—seeing each other off in the mornings like any other couple, as if there isn’t a single thing out of the ordinary? Maybe. I wish I could be sure.

But when they step away from me to leave, there’s one question I can’t help but ask.

“Campbell.” They pause in the doorway, looking back at me. “What are you going to do if they hurt Sofia?”

Everything about Campbell shifts. Their expression, their posture—I imagine even the beat of their heart aligns to meet the lethal cadence turning gray eyes hard as stone.

“Honestly? I’m going to slaughter every last one of those Galici bastards.”

I wait to be repulsed or afraid, but the only feeling I can summon is an utter lack of surprise. Campbell can’t exactly report the bona fide Mafia to the police, or slot Sofia’s death into a column for acceptable losses. This is a job for them, but I sense the work has never been more personal. I wonder if the Galici family has the first idea of what they’ve unleashed.

Do I?

Without an answer, I see Campbell off and lock the door behind them.