Page 122 of Mercenary
“Down.”
The dog actually listens to Declan.
Smart dog.
“While you were asleep, I went out for groceries . . .”
“And came back with a dog?”
Declan looks sheepish. God, why did I ever think his heart was cut from stone? “I thought you’d want company. Someone to watch over you until I returned. You like dogs, right?”
I laugh and, scooping up one of many bones, toys, and chewies littering the yard, I send it spiraling through the air.
The black lab takes off running.
“That’s a good boy. Why don’t we call him Pudding?”
Declan shakes his head. “I beat you to it. And he’s a she.”
“Good girl,” I say to the dog, patting my legs and grinning like a fool. Oh my God. The Dalai Lama says a true hero is one who conquers his own anger and hatred. I always believed that there’s goodness in everyone. That if you open yourself up to people, a power greater than any worldly experience can be found. Still, it’s hard to fathom, after what I’ve been through, that I’d be standing in the backyard of this beautiful house, playing with a cute-as-a-baby-elephant dog, weak-kneed from our lovemaking, my hero, my fantasy, my true love . . . laughing, and me being happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.
Declan shakes his head once again.
“Killer.” He tells me. “Her name’s Killer.”
Epilogue
Madelyn
“Are you brave enough to stick your hand inside?” Luciana murmurs.
Brave enough? After what I’ve been through?
But instead of turning back down that twisted, winding path that only ends one way—with Declan’s departure—I focus on the present.
We’re in Rome, destination number two on our bucket list, and are standing before a manlike face carved into marble called La Bocca Della Verita, or in English, the Mouth of Truth. Challenging each other to discover if an ancient myth really will come true, that if you stick your hand inside the creature’s mouth and he bites it off, you’ve lied. Yeah, leave it to the Italians to use a medieval statue as a lie detector.
Still, Luciana and I have yet to place our hands inside.
“How about an espresso?”
I grin, tucking my hand inside my jacket pocket. “Perfect.”
Arm and arm we walk the cobblestone streets of Rome, a trail of men falling into place behind us. My best friend being the woman-with-game, sex-bomb version of the Pied Piper.
Scars and all.
Earlier, inside our swank Gran Meliá hotel room, she’d shown me the two scars on her lower abdomen, shaped in the perfect X. A reminder of our shared past. Our shared pain.
“Nothing a bikini can’t hide,” she shrugged it off.
I’d chuckled. “I’ve worn one of your bathing suits. Nothing is left to the imagination, my friend.”
We laughed a lot today. Maybe it’s the food or the caffeine buzz of a good espresso. Or maybe it’s that I’ve come to terms with what’s happened. Accepted the life my sister has chosen. Luciana’s brother has chosen. Declan has chosen.
He’s gone back to TORC. For how long, I don’t know.
“Will you ever tell me about him?” Luciana murmurs, as we slide on our party dresses and slip on our heels. She’s wearing red, in a tight number that’s so short, if she bends forward even the tiniest bit, everyone will get a nice peekaboo of her tight bottom. As for myself, I’m in a dress that quite possibly has every color imaginable threaded into the soft, silky material. After all this time blanketed by shades of gray, I can’t seem to get enough color in my life.
