He went so still I thought for a second I’d detonated some unspoken boundary that kept us from tipping all the way into the future. But then he wrapped his arms around me, warm and crushing. I felt him shake, one breath to the next, as though his body was only now recalibrating to the truth of it. He was the father of my child. He was stuck with me, and I was stuck with him, as long as we survived.
“Okay,” he said finally, voice rough and quiet, “but tomorrow you’re learning to shoot.”
I took a deep breath and nodded.
Maybe Dante was right.
Maybe I needed to learn to protect myself...and get used to the idea that he wasn’t always going to be around to protect me.
But nothing scared me more than that.
Chapter 6: Dante
Inever wanted this. Never wanted Jade anywhere near a gun. Never wanted her to have to imagine that kind of violence, let alone press the trigger with our baby riding shotgun. But I’d seen too many good people fail because they thought tough decisions could be delegated, that someone else’s strength—or loyalty, or luck—could stand in for their own.
I stared at the clock on the rental’s microwave. 2:10AM, blue digits doubled in the glass door. I didn’t sleep anymore, not really. I’d drift, ten minutes here or there, then jerk awake at the scrape of a snowplow or Marco’s rattling cough in the next room. The snow was coming down hard, turning the lake outside into a blank sheet that looked like the end of the world.
I kept busy. Checked the locks three times. Shuffled through the burner phones—every color except black. Wiped down the gun with careful, almost reverent hands.
Under the jaundiced bathroom light, I stared at my face in the mirror—eye sockets dark, cheekbones hollow, mouth twisted in the crooked half-line Marco always mocked. I was afraid, sure. But it was the kind of fear you could live on, if you kept it close.
At six sharp, I flicked the kitchen lights on and made coffee. Let the smell flood the house, betting Jade’s nose would drag her out of sleep better than any alarm. It worked. She shimmered in, shuffling and blinking, flannel pajama pants bunched at her ankles, eyes cautious but awake. She poured her coffee, stood in the glow of the fridge for a few seconds, then leaned against the island.
“I had a dream that we made it to Hawaii,” she said. “You ran a surf shop, Marco played ukulele for tourists. I did science. Our son did whatever he wanted.” She smiled into her mug, and I tried to picture it.
“Did you feel safe?”
She shook her head, still smiling. “No. You wore shirts with hibiscus flowers. It was deeply upsetting.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out raw. I took her hand across the counter. “We just need to buy time. Long enough for Caruso to chase his own tail. Or get bored. Or…” I shrugged.
“Or what?” she said.
“Or I come up with a better plan.” She didn’t let go of my hand.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said. “But your plans usually end up with me half-naked and terrified.”
“I think you mean naked and satisfied.”
She rolled her eyes, but the laugh escaped anyway. It was real, too—a sound that tugged at something bright behind my ribs. Still holding her hand, I said, “Maybe that’s part of the plan, too.”
We didn’t talk about the lessons again until mid-afternoon, after Marco woke up and made a show of staggering to the fridge for cold pepperoni and a Gatorade. “You two lovebirds want anything from the outside world?” he called, voice still thick with sleep and the aftertaste of last night’s painkillers.
“Nah,” I called back, watching Jade tap the last dregs of coffee from her mug.
“We’re good.”
“Perfect. No reason for me to leave my nest then,” Marco said. He shuffled into the living room, burrowed under the throw blanket, and resumed his personal war with the couch.
When the entryway slammed against a gust of wind, Jade flinched, but steadied herself—a little more each day, I noticed. God help me, I wanted her safe, but she wasn’t the same fragile academic I’d met at the gala.
Everything about her now had an edge, even the way she drifted from room to room as if measuring each angle for possible retreat. I checked the weather and the traffic cams over the border. Still freezing, still clear. No sign of anyone paying enough attention to us to get creative. It was almost boring, which meant I didn’t trust it.
I told Jade to get dressed, which she did with a little more drama than was strictly necessary—layering up in sweats, then a hoodie, then a parka, as though each step was a physical repudiation of what I was about to teach her. In the garage, I checked the duffel again—ammo, towels, ear protection, standard shit.
I could see Jade watching every move, as if by sheer observation she’d pick up the trick of how not to die. We drove out, a few blocks at a time, checking for tails and doubling back twice for a car I didn’t like the look of—turned out it was just a guy delivering groceries.
Thirty minutes later, we were at the range. Technically private, technically closed, but Canada had as many loopholes as anywhere, and a little Moretti cash had gone a long way with Old Man Henderson, whose shotgun-toting ghost supposedly haunted the place but really just lived above the shop and chain-smoked behind a wall of deer antlers.
