Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
When she finishes the seal, she holds it up to the light, examining it with a critical eye. Only when she's satisfied does she place it on a cooling rack with others of its kind.
The shop bell chimes, startling her slightly. A middle-aged woman enters, smiling broadly.
"Kleah, darling! I was hoping you'd still be open. I need to add another dozen to that order for Melissa's wedding. The guest list keeps expanding, you know how these things go."
I fade further into the background, watching as Kleah transforms—her professional persona taking over, all warm smiles and focused attention. She remembers details about the client's daughter, asks thoughtful questions about the wedding preparations, offers suggestions about color variations that might complement the expanded order.
To all appearances, she's simply a shopkeeper having a normal interaction. Nothing in her demeanor betrays the fact that less than an hour ago, her entire understanding of her identity was shattered.
The customer notices me eventually, curiosity evident in her expression. Before she can ask, Kleah smoothly introduces me as a business consultant exploring expansion opportunities for her custom seal work. I offer a bland smile and a firm handshake, playing the role of corporate interest with just enough charm to be believable.
When the woman leaves, clutching her receipt and promising to return next week, Kleah's professional mask slips. She leans against the counter, exhaling slowly.
"That was harder than it should have been."
"You performed admirably." I mean it as simple fact, but she glances up in surprise, as if unused to direct praise.
"Thanks." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Two more appointments this afternoon, then we're done."
"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
She studies me for a moment, as if trying to reconcile the man who brings news of danger and death with the patient observer willing to wait through her workday.
"You're not what I expected," she says finally.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone..." She gestures vaguely. "Scarier, I guess. More obviously dangerous."
"The most dangerous people rarely look it," I tell her. "That's why they survive."
Something in my tone must reveal more than intended, because her expression shifts to one of curiosity. "How long have you been... whatever you are?"
"A lifetime." I leave it at that.
She accepts the non-answer with a small nod, turning back to her workbench to prepare for her next appointment. The rhythm of her afternoon continues—clients arriving, discussing custom orders, leaving with carefully packaged items or promises of future work.
Throughout it all, I maintain my vigilance, watching the street, scanning each person who enters for potential threats. My phone buzzes periodically with updates from my security team—surveillance patterns on her shop, background checks on her regular clients, preparations for tomorrow's extraction.
By closing time, the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows through the shop windows. Kleah moves methodically through her closing routine—banking the heating elements, securing her tools, counting the day's receipts.
"You've been standing all day," she observes as she locks the register. "You can sit, you know. I do have chairs."
"I prefer to stand."
She rolls her eyes. "Of course you do."
The casual exchange, so normal amid the abnormal circumstances, catches me off guard. There's a directness to her, an unvarnished honesty that's rare in my world of calculated words and veiled meanings.
As she reaches up to draw the blinds, the setting sun illuminates her profile—the graceful line of her neck, the gentle curve of her cheek, the way her hair catches the light like burnished copper. For a moment, she's framed in gold, a tableau of quiet beauty performing a simple, everyday task.
Something shifts in my chest—a recognition of innocence that hasn't been part of my existence for decades. This woman, with her careful hands and her shop full of beautiful, useless things, represents a world I glimpse only from its edges.
And I've come to shatter it.
She finishes closing up, gathering her bag and a light jacket. "I usually walk home. It's only a few blocks."
"We'll walk," I agree, scanning the street through the blinds one final time. "But we won't go to your apartment."
She frowns. "Why not?"
"First place they'll look. We'll go somewhere unexpected for tonight."
Worry creases her brow. "My things—"
"Can be replaced. Your life cannot."
She falls silent, the reality of her situation visibly sinking in once more. Then she squares her shoulders, that quiet resilience asserting itself again.
"Lead the way, then."
We exit through the back door, taking an indirect route through side streets and alleyways. She follows without question, matching her pace to mine, occasionally glancing over her shoulder as if expecting to see pursuit.
"Where are we going?" she asks finally.
"Hotel on the edge of town. Reservation isn't in either of our names."
She absorbs this, walking in silence for several minutes before speaking again. "You knew my brother."
"Yes."
"What was he like?"
"Complicated." A complex question with no simple answer. "But famiglia mattered to him, and you are that to Biancardi."