Page 55 of Drawn to Death
“You took out two of my best operatives,” he says finally, voice clipped and cold.
I don’t answer. Just watch the shadows stretch across the sand. He hasn’t asked a question, so I don’t owe him a reply.
“Quell’s been quiet,” Vincenzo goes on. “You’ve kept him handled.”
He lets that hang. There’s something else in his voice, something I can’t quite pin down. Approval, maybe. Or a warning. With Vincenzo, it’s usually both.
“Turns out those two dead assets were dirty. Costing me more than I knew. I’m saving money without all three of you.” A pause. His tone goes soft, like he’s just a guy talking business. “So you’re done. Out. Free. The bounty’s been transferred. Consider your debt cleared.”
My grip tightens on the phone. Bounty? I haven’t asked for payment. I hadn’t expected it. I thought we’d paid our way out in blood and clean breaks. In silence and distance.
“You did more than kill for me, Talon. You buried a liability. And made two dirty assets disappear.” The voice on the line sounds tired, like someone letting out a long, slow breath. Then something shifts, softens, becomes almost gentle. “I hope you stay gone. Both of you. No one’s looking. No one’s watching. Not anymore.”
That’s it. The line goes dead. No threats, no warnings, no clever little hints at what comes next. Just a ledger closed, a job done, a debt paid.
I stand there with the phone pressed to my ear, waiting. For what, I’m not sure, a punchline, a catch, the part where it all makes sense. Vincenzo doesn’t let people go. He erases them, wipes the slate, makes sure there’s nothing left but a memory and a stain. He doesn’t pay debts to ghosts. He doesn’t just… let people walk.
“He didn’t threaten me,” I say out loud, to nobody. “That’s how I know it’s real.”
I stare at the phone in my hand. Just a phone. Small, black, cheap plastic. The last little piece of my old life, the part that still stinks of blood and concrete and bodies left where no one will ever find them. I let it drop to the porch boards and bringmy boot down on it. The plastic splits, then caves with a final crunch. Done.
I just stand there for a while, breathing. The weight between my shoulders, the thing that’s camped there for weeks, years, always ready, always tense, always expecting the next shot, it doesn’t vanish. But it eases. Like taking off a pack that’s become part of you, only now you notice how heavy it’s been.
I look out at the beach. Quell’s still talking to the tourist, waving one paint-stained hand at the horizon, probably explaining his process. The golden light catches his glasses, making them flash like two little suns. His hands move when he talks, drawing shapes in the air.
Free. The word doesn’t fit. It feels strange and sharp, like a new shirt that still has the tags on. Not a clean slate, not for me, not ever. Just a choice. A life I can actually step into, eyes open, knowing exactly what I am.
I leave the broken phone where it is and head down the steps to the sand. It’s warm on top, cool underneath, and I can feel it shift around my toes. The tide is coming in, the waves reaching higher with every sweep. I check the beach one more time, a habit too deep to shake, then let myself look at Quell.
He sees me coming and grins, a real smile, the one that wrinkles the corners of his eyes behind his glasses. My chest does something tight and stupid. He looks at me as if I’m the only thing worth seeing.
“Hey,” he calls, waving me over. The tourist is gone; it’s just Quell, his easel, and the sea. “Everything okay?”
I nod, stepping up beside him. The sand moves under my feet, restless.
“Was that who I think it was?” he asks, voice quiet, just for me. “You were talking on the phone, I mean… has he found us?”
Another nod. “He says we’re free.”
Something flickers on Quell’s face, surprise, maybe doubt, maybe the same disbelief I feel. He searches my face, waiting for the catch.
“It’s done,” I say. “The bounty’s cleared. No one’s looking.”
“Bounty?” His eyebrows draw together.
“I didn’t ask for it,” I say. “But it’s there. Enough to keep us comfortable for a long time.”
Quell stares at me, something shifting in his eyes. He steps in close, arms around my waist, pressing his face to my chest. His breath comes through my shirt, warm and steady. He smells of paint, salt air, and something else that’s just him. The kind of smell that means home, in a way nothing ever has.
I hold him back, tighter than usual. My hand slides up, cupping the back of his head. His hair is soft, tangled from the wind. The sun sinks lower, painting us both in red-gold. Around us, tourists pack up their beach gear, heading off to rentals and hotels. Normal people living normal lives, moving around us like water around rocks.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs into my shirt.
I think about it. Really think. The years of following orders. Blood on my hands. The way Vincenzo’s voice sounded at the end, almost human. How long it’s been since I breathed easy.
“Yeah,” I say after a second. “I think I am.”
Quell pulls back just a little, so he can see my face. His eyes are wide, clear in the golden light. “What happens now?”
