Page 17 of The Hitman's Forbidden Obsession

Before I can answer, Victoria steps aside to let us in, plastering on a brittle grin like her world isn’t quietly imploding in front of her eyes.

Avery leads me in, unaware that anything is wrong.

As we move deeper into the house, I take in every detail with a soldier’s eye. Exit points. Sight lines. The weight of Victoria’s stare burning into my back.

She knows she’s not in control anymore. The game has changed, and she doesn’t know the rules.

And I’m going to enjoy every second of watching her squirm.

“Dad!” Avery calls out as we enter the kitchen.

A tall man stands by the stove, stirring something in a pan that smells delicious. He’s got silver hair at the temples and his eyes are warm when they land on Avery. His presence is calm, steady.

“Pumpkin,” he says, smiling widely as he comes to pull his daughter into a hug. “There’s my girl.”

Pumpkin? That’s cute. I make a mental note to tease her about that when we get home.

“This is Dante,” she says, eyes shining.

He turns to him, hand outstretched. “I’m Graham. Avery’s father.”

I take his hand and give it a firm shake. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”

And it is. Because if he raised my angel alone, I’ve got no doubt that he’s a good man. The kind that never deserved to be shackled to a venomous bitch like the one currently standing behind us, clenching her jaw so hard I can hear her teeth grinding.

I smile a little wider.

This dinner is going to be fun.

After a few minutes of idle chatter, we all move to the dining room. Avery takes the seat beside me, while Graham sits theother side of her, at the head of the table. Victoria settles on the other end, like the crownless queen she pretends to be.

Dinner is good.

The atmosphere is not.

The air is thick with a kind of civility that feels like a wire pulled too tight, one sharp tug away from snapping. The clink of cutlery, the soft murmur of conversation, the forced rhythm of shared small talk.

Victoria is porcelain. Polished. Brittle.

She sits at the far end of the table, wine glass in hand, eyes like glass shards every time they flick my way. She hasn’t said much since we sat down, but she doesn’t have to. Her silence is thick enough to choke on.

She watches me like I’m a bomb ticking down in her goddamn dining room.

Good.

Avery’s father is the opposite. Warm, open, the kind of man who fills a room with presence instead of pretense. He asks about my time in the military, jokes about how fast Avery seems to have fallen for me, nudges her ribs when she turns pink and hides behind her water glass.

The love between them is real. It’s obvious he adores her, and that the adoration is returned.

And something bitter twists low in my chest because he’s good. A real father. The kind of man who’d lay down his life for his little girl without blinking, and he has no idea he’s married to a predator who’s trying to have her killed.

I chew, I nod, I smile in all the right places. But every other second, my eyes are drifting back to Avery.

She’s so sweet. So happy. So goddamn trusting.

How the hell am I ever going to tell her the truth?

I don’t get the chance to dwell on that for too long, because the clink of cutlery signals the end of the meal. Victoria stands andbegins gathering plates with a brittle smile stretched too tight across her face.

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