Page 208 of House of Cards

“Didn’t do it for her.”

Troy goes on like I didn’t even speak. “We all tried to warn you.”

“Yet here we are. You done lecturing me?”

He isn’t.

“You’ve got to send her away. Give her a fighting chance at a normal life. The kind of woman that would stick around after what she saw. Is that really the kind of woman you want at your side?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Not just because he’s right, but because I’ve known it all along.

We stop at the junction of a hallway.

I press my back to the wall, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand, and failing dismally. Troy is pissing me off with his unerring pragmatism. But I wouldn’t consider him a friend if he just told me what I wanted to hear, either.

“So I can never be happy?” I hiss.

Troy was about to peek around the corner, but he flattens against the wall again, his face softening slightly. For all his coldness, all his efficiency, he’s still more human than I am. Always has been.

“Sure, but it’ll cost you. You willing to trade her happiness for yours?”

I think about Zoey. Stubborn, kind, beautiful Zoey. The way she risked her life to save me, even after the deal I tried to make with Elonzo.

She deserves better than any life I could ever provide.

She doesn’t deserve to love a monster.

“No,” I mutter.

Troy nods like he knew it all along. “There’s your answer. Now, we done here?”

I give him a grim nod.

We peek out to check if the hallway is clear in both directions—him checking the left, me the right. The villa’s library is down there. Where I told Zoey all about Michelle, and then basically told her to fuck off out of my life. I spot the doorway, then the body sprawled outside.

“Fuck,” I grate out, flattening against the wall again. “We’ve got a casualty.”

“Friendly?” Troy asks, frowning.

I shake my head.

We rush quietly up to the closed door, Troy keeping watch as I crouch beside the figure. Definitely cartel. Definitely dead.

I push him onto his side, searching for an entry or exit wound.

But there isn’t one.

No blood, either.

His face is bruised, and his shoulder shifts unnaturally in its socket when I release him and he slumps down to the ground again.

I stand and press my back to the wall beside the door. Troy takes position on the other side of the door, each centering ourselves before we rush inside.

Another man dead, and all I feel is relief that it’s not one of our own.

How fucked is that?

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