Scorpion

There are many ways to identify a counterfeit banknote.

The weight. The embedded security thread. Color. Paper texture. Ink. Watermarks.

This particular Franklin has all of those down pat, and more specifically, microprints. The small characters printed on banknotes that can only be seen beneath a magnifying glass.

I hold the note up to the fluorescent light.

Art. That’s the only way to describe this masterpiece. It’s beautiful. Truly.

The equipment needed to pull this off would have cost a fortune and several counts of armed robbery.

“I suggest you start singing, Mr. Ofsoski,” I chime.

It’s rather disappointing, needing to look away from the note to the buzzcut lumberjack-wannabe strapped to a chair in the middle of the soundproof room. Crimson beads along his full beard and drips down to his bare chest, and blotches of black and blue color his tattooed torso like watercolor. He’s a subjectively bad piece of art.

I glance back at the note to get one last fill before placing it on the table, between the saw and mallet.

He throws his head to the side and spits on the shoes of my resident butcher, and the slightest cling against the leg of the desk makes me tip my head to the side.

A tooth. How lovely.

Here I was thinking we had pulled them all out already.

I sigh, clasping my hands in front of me, then pause right before I lean against the table. Internally rolling my eyes, I step closer toward the goon, changing my mind about soiling my clothes. Perhaps my cashmere coat wasn’t the most ideal choice of clothing today. It’d be such a waste to taint it with the blood of a vermin.

One nod at Greg, and my butcher stalks forward to do whatever it is he’s decided to do to Ofsoski. The asshole cries out, thrashing and cursing while Greg does something to his hands.

That reminds me, actually. I haven’t thanked his wife, Linda, for the begonias she left for me last week. She’s a delightful woman. I just don’t trust her cooking. Nothing personal, but I don’t have much confidence biting into minced meat when I know the Butcher. I’m not sure how the rest of my men can stomach going to his place for a barbeque.

I peer at the pliers in Greg’s hand when he steps back. Oh, he took Ofsoski’s nails. No wonder the man is slumped over like Satan’s paid him a visit.

Sometimes nothing beats the basics.

I still remember the first time I liberated someone of their fingernails. There’s a real technique involved when they have short nails. I, for one, don’t particularly like it. The whole ordeal is far too messy.

“My patience is wearing thin.” I check my watch and purse my lips at the time. We’ll have to wrap this up if I want to make it home in time for dinner. “Tell me where you’re producing the counterfeits, and I’ll let you go.”

“No,” Ofsoski grunts, blood pouring from his gums.

“Now, now. No need to play hardball.” I grin. “I just want to have a chat with your boss.”

And take over Goldchild’s business.

And make him regret not killing himself when he had the chance.

All those things are ironic since he’s been trying to kill me and take over my business since my father killed one of his sons. Eye for an eye, and all that. Except I don’t even know the name of his offspring.

For the past century, my family has taken care of the fake green that comes in and out of the state—a treasury, if you will. It’s how we earned our place among the Exodus, the secret society I’ve lived and breathed since the second I was born.

Since my parents died, that job has fallen into my capable hands. Well, the society would argue that I’ve been doing an absolutely horrific job at it since Goldchild has been a pain in my ass since the day I took over. The man is what would happen if a cockroach morphed with a leech.

I’d prefer if Goldchild moves shops and annoys the secret society in the East Coast instead. Or better yet, has a heart attack and takes his operation down with him—he’ll leave his factory to me, of course. I wouldn’t want such machinery to go to waste.

It’d put the Halenbeeks back in the Exodus’s good graces. And I’d preferably like all of that to happen before the day of the Reckoning. It’d be rather unfortunate if I waste such a depraved night on politics.

“Fuck you. I ain’t sayin’ shit.” He spits.

Again.

Men these days are disgusting.

“Surely you knew this was bound to happen eventually.” I shoot his kneecap and he screams. “You and your merry band of idiots come to my territory.” Other kneecap. More screaming. “Interfere with my business.” Left ankle. “Kill my men.” Right. “And you thought I would just let you do it?”

He wails. They always do. The sound is getting quite boring, honestly. Sometimes they have a higher cadence that tickles my eardrums unpleasantly. I prefer it when we can slap some duct tape over their mouths.

“All counterfeits are to be printed and approved by me, and any person wanting to try their hand at the craft asks for my permission, then gives me a cut. It’s simple, really.” I place my hand over my chest. “I like to think of myself as rather approachable. So you can imagine how offended I was when your boss decided to set up shop without consultation.”

Ofsoski stares at me, breathing hard, hatred burning from each of his pores. The muscles are always harder to break.

“It seems my question is too difficult to answer. Then tell me this; does Goldchild have anything up his sleeves for our meeting tomorrow?” I give him an innocent smile. “I’ll make your death quick,” I promise.

Silence.

“Nothing?” I cock my brow. “Pity. I thought we were getting somewhere.” Sighing, I fix my coat and leather gloves, then do a quick once-over making sure that there’s no red on the gray material.

With a quick flick of my wrist, I grab my gun and fire a bullet into his shoulder. The resulting splatter—and ear-piercing cry—leaves a droplet of blood on the sleeve of my cashmere coat.

Even though he’s probably in a little too much pain to pay attention to me, I point to my sleeve so he can see the damage he’s done. “I just dry-cleaned this.” I frown. “And it’s a limited edition.” Shaking my head, I turn to Greg. “Keep him alive for a week, would you?”

Greg grins. “Aye, sir.”

I don’t need to look at Ofsoski to know that he’s paled ten shades. He’s got an exciting seven days planned for him.

“Good man.” I clap Greg on the shoulder.

A chorus of Ofsoski’s grunts and cries follows me out the door as the Butcher has his way with him. I wouldn’t normally prolong the inevitable, but I’m… irritated.

The word isn’t nearly strong enough to describe how I feel about all my men who have died over the past twelve months. However, I have my own piece of art waiting for me at home. She’s priceless and doesn’t need anything more to be perfect. And I can have one night where everything around me isn’t going to shit.

Bringing Zalak into this war isn’t exactly ideal, but I’d be a liar if I said I’m not excited about the fact that my girl will be giving me her undivided attention for eight hours a day.

There was no way I could bring her into my fold without incentive, and I’m done waiting for the right moment to claim her. She needs a job, and I had an opening. Although, Robert—may he rest in peace—had the skill set of a toddler when it came to operating a sniper. Zalak makes for a phenomenal step up.

I check my watch, and the tension in my shoulders bleeds away ever so slightly knowing that I have ample time to get ready.

The ride home seems to take longer than necessary, and responding to emails is more tedious than usual. With every second that passes, my pulse beats harder against my skin. Excitement thrums through my veins, setting every cell on fire as I keep shifting in my seat and looking up from my phone to see if we’re any closer. The last time I felt this way was when I was a kid waiting to see if Santa left me any presents.

I had moved out of our family home to go to college for a bit. I had every intention of forging my own way through the world and waiting until the mantel was passed to me. I thought I’d have at least another twenty years of freedom before the crown was placed on my head.

So I never had any intention of living in this house. I thought I’d live in my own house closer to the city and patiently waited until I made a name for myself.

Then Dad got badly injured and I moved back in to help Mom take care of him, and ease the workload off his back so he could rest. Then he died, and before I knew it, Mom’s broken heart gave out from the stress. Then I was alone. No family. No friends. No Zalak.

Thursday night family dinners were gone. Sunday brunch with Mom stopped. It was just me, Sergei, and a big empty house.

I’ve done everything I possibly could to make the stone walls feel like a home again; I’ve added animals, doubled the number of plants inside, hired more staff and even let some of their children move in.

It doesn’t matter what I do, or how much money I throw to give the ground life, nothing makes me want to go home. Halenbeek Manor is just an overpriced haunted house where I go to rest my head at night.

But that’s changed.

The familiar feeling in my chest is what I have been yearning for since I lost my parents. It’s been twelve days since I’ve been back, and I never thought I’d be so excited for my trip to end. So I can go home. To Zalak.

When the manor comes into view, a cold sweat works down my spine. The excitement turns to anxious anticipation. Everything has to be right.

I nod at the staff as I pass and ignore one of my advisors when he rings. The kitchen is empty when I reach it, and everything I might need is already laid out for me. I knew I shouldn’t have told the head chef that I was planning on cooking. Even though she thinks my skills are slightly above average, she lays out all the ingredients and utensils like always.

This particular dish, however, I’ve perfected. I could make it with my eyes closed. I’ve been practicing for years, and when it comes to this, failure isn’t in my dictionary.

An hour later, food is packed into plastic containers. Just like the last time I came to the pool house two weeks ago, I have to wipe my clammy hands on my pants as I make it up the first step.

My breathing feels harder than normal, and the cocktail of nerves and anticipation is making me heady. The lights from the TV flashes from behind the curtains. Ten years and she’s back. Finally.

Since I was a kid, I’ve been dreaming about the day we would live together. Albeit this is entirely different from what I had imagined, but I’ll take it. I’ll do whatever is necessary as long as I can sleep knowing that she’s within walking distance from me, safe, alive, and home.

I inhale deeply before knocking on the door, then step back, momentarily unsure about what to do or where to put my hands. Before I can decide whether to pull out my phone or nonchalantly stare into the distance, the door creaks open just enough to see half of Zalak’s body.

Every time I see her, she disarms me. The word breathtaking was made for her.

Her hair is disheveled in her French braids, poking up from different angles. The look pairs appropriately with her worn T-shirt and sweats. Slight bruising still circles her eye and climbs up her jaw and forehead, but like every time I see her, I keep thinking that she could never be more stunning than she is in that moment. Whether she’s in the middle of the ring, knocking some guy’s lights out, or hobbling away with her loss, she’s still otherworldly.

I just want to lean over and kiss her. I think that would fix every bad thing that’s happened these last ten years.

“Mathijs.” My name escapes her lips on a breath, the lips I’ve been yearning for since I was old enough to know what I want. “You’re home.”

Home.

I want to tell her that the main building isn’t my home; it’s wherever she’s stationed herself. If she wants to be in the barn with the animals, I’ll get my bag and we’ll make it a permanent sleepover.

Zalak’s face falls when she spots the takeout bag in my hand. “Mathijs…”

“Would you rather I throw it away?”

Her eyes widen like I’ve committed blasphemy of the worst degree, and it only makes my smile widen. It’s the same trick I’ve been using to get Zalak to eat since we started dating in our teens. If there’s one thing she hates, it’s wasting food. It’s probably the only good quality her mother had.

Huffing, Zal reluctantly holds her hands out, and my chest expands with triumph. I reach out to give the bag to her and snatch it back before she can get her hands on it.

“Do you mind if I join you for dinner?”

“Are you asking me if you can, or are you telling me that you will?” she asks flatly.

“Both will ultimately result in me joining you for dinner.”

Choice is merely an illusion. Or at least that’s the saying. With the power of delusion and misplaced confidence, I can get anything I want.

Anything except my parents, and, for the past ten years, the girl who ran away from me.

The Zalak from back then would roll her eyes or make a comment about my arrogance. Then she’d look away to hide her blush.

She used to smile all the time. She’d laugh, and my world would stop to hear the sound. She’d always direct her smile at me, and I’d remind myself that nothing else matters but her. Keeping that smile. Making her laugh. Helping her become the woman she’d be proud of.

And I lost all of that.

I spent years wondering if I did enough. Maybe it’s my fault she didn’t know I’d do anything for her. Maybe I didn’t communicate it well enough. Maybe I should have tried harder to convince her to stay. Maybe I should never have left when she told me. Because now she’s a specter clinging to her flesh, and I won’t survive losing her a second time.

Wordlessly, she backs away from the door to let me inside. I leave my shoes on the rack next to the entrance, then help myself to her cupboards.

She’s barely made a dent on the groceries I bought her, but I bite my tongue and keep the comment to myself. We’ve both done things to survive, and things to make us take comfort in meeting our graves.

Zalak switches on the light and the mini chandelier above the table illuminates the area. We navigate the kitchen to set up the circular dining table in the middle of the room. She pauses as soon as she sees me remove the dal tadka out of the bag, and I have to pretend like I didn’t catch the pained expression across her face.

She isn’t walking as stiffly as she usually does, and there isn’t as much of a lean to the way she stands. Getting a physiotherapist to see her three times a week is clearly working.

And they say money can’t buy everything.

I can feel her piercing glare on me as I plate up her food, piling on more than she could possibly eat, and it takes more effort than necessary to suppress my grin. What other choice do I have?

Zal grumbles something underneath her breath that sounds eerily similar to fucking prick, and I bite down my chuckle. I settle the plate in front of her and give myself a slightly larger proportion so she has no reason to complain or attempt to push her food to me.

“Thanks,” she says, sounding less than grateful. Always so difficult, that one.

I pick up my naan and pretend not to watch her eat the dal. I think my heart stops beating as she chews, and I’m back to being a kid who’s running home to show Mom the pasta necklace I made at school.

Zalak reveals nothing about her opinion on what used to be her favorite dish. When we were together, she was extremely vocal about her hatred for cooking. She loved dal tadka but her mother refused to make it because it was her brother’s least favorite food. The one time I attempted to make it, we both decided it would be better to throw it out and stick to getting takeout.

I lick my lips and summon the courage to ask, “Do you like it?”

Her eyes snap up to mine like she forgot I was here, and I swear the corners of her lips twitch like she secretly wants to smile. “It’s the best I’ve had in years. Where’d you get it?”

“I stopped by a place on the way here.”

It’s a struggle not to gloat or smile like I just got my first puppy. My heart doubles in size and I have to remind myself to eat as slow as humanly possible to stay in her company for longer. But as the silence stretches, the same trepidation I felt on my walk here, slowly crawls back in.

I’m used to the silence. It’s all I’ve known since my parents died six years ago. The only time I’ve had company over dinner was with business acquaintances or while being surrounded by strangers at a restaurant. This? It feels like we’re strangers.

We used to know each other like the back of our hands, and sitting here, watching her eat like the mere act of it seems foreign to her, it feels like I’m back to knowing nothing but arm’s-length relationships and hollow conversations.

I want to know everything there is about her. Is green her favorite color? Does she still like to play sad music while she showers? Is she still taking her coffee with milk, or has life made her take it black? Does she still want to get into journalism? Is she still a fire hazard who butters her bread before putting it in a toaster?

I take a sip of water to dislodge the discomfort in my throat. “Why did you choose to enlist?”

Zalak pauses, naan halfway to her mouth. My gaze drops to the scorpion tattoo on her hand, and I’m struck with the sudden urge to inspect it more closely. Slowly, she sets it down on the table and leans back in her chair, brows furrowed as if it’s been so long she forgot what the answer is.

“After that… night—” She clears her throat and sits straighter in her chair, finally looking up at me. “There was nothing appealing about going to school to study journalism or politics or anything really.” Her shoulders raise in a half-hearted shrug. “I had enough cash to get me by for a couple months, but then I had nothing left. I was struggling to get a full-time job, so I worked retail casually for a little while. Working in an office sounded like a nightmare. Then I saw an ad about enlisting. Food, shelter, pay, and a place that’s completely unlike the life I grew up in—it was everything I needed at the time.”

I try not to wince at that. She was constantly trying to prove herself to her mother, and it took me a while to realize that she ran away to prove her own worth to herself.

“And you chose to be a sniper? Why do I have a feeling shooting pegs at the vineyard inspired the career choice.”

“Don’t let it get to your head. You and I were only using farming rifles.”

“Too late. I take full credit for introducing you to the world of guns.” I smirk, then whistle as I lean back in my chair and appraise her. “From shooting bottles and washing pegs, to setting the record for getting a confirmed kill at thirteen hundred meters. The sky’s the limit for you.”

The red creeping into her cheeks only bolsters my confidence that I’ll get my girl back. “The conditions were just right.”

“Don’t downplay your achievements.”

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t have been able to pull it off if there were more of a breeze or a change in humidity.”

“You set the record, Zal,” I say softly.

“For women,” she corrects. “There are men with double those stats. Allegedly.”

Her answer makes me smile. Mainly because it means I can start sprouting statistics and swoon her with random facts. “Women make up eighteen percent of the army, and only two percent of snipers are female.”

Just as I thought, her eyes widen a fraction. I did my research and she knows it. The brownie points are in my bag tonight.

“The record holder for the greatest distance is a fifty-eight-year-old Ukrainian man. If you pull up a list of the top twenty longest recorded kills, not a single woman is on that list, and every man on there is either gray or their hairline has receded past the point of no return. In fact, you’d be on that list if that information became public. And you’d probably be the youngest.”

Something heavy settles on my chest when she takes a staggering breath.

“Fifteen hundred meters.”

I blink. “What?”

“That was my goal the second I specialized,” she explains, pushing around the food on her plate. “A man in the 1800s has a confirmed kill from fourteen hundred meters. No scope, no spotter, nothing. Just an ordinary rifle. If he could do it, then so could I… at least that’s what I told myself.”

“You got close.”

“Two hundred meters off isn’t close.” I grin at how defensive she gets, but I have to force it away when her voice makes a somber turn. “My mother died wanting another son. She finally got her wish.”

“No, she got something better than that. A survivor.”

My words hang in the air between us and I wish I could take them back so she would keep talking. So I can hear her voice and be reminded that all of this is real. I’m not dreaming of her return.

I can still remember the look she gave me before I thought I lost her for good. The sheer vehemence in her voice when she told me to leave. Why did I listen? Why didn’t I insist on sticking around in case she needed me? I could have waited for her at the end of the driveway, or tried to sneak in through her window at midnight.

Maybe if I never left, both of our families would still be alive. Maybe she’d be a journalist, and Dad wouldn’t have gotten sick, and Mom wouldn’t have followed down the same path shortly after him.

I’ve been clinging to the hope that everything would go back to the way it was as soon as she returned. But that was a deluded wish that only naïve kids have. Still, I want to hold on to it because back then things weren’t so empty.

I down my glass of water, then nod to the shirt she got on a school camp trip to the beach. “Remember when you got locked in the bathroom for two hours and you came back to the group bawling your eyes out?”

Zalak stiffens.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I can’t think straight with her. Nothing I do is good enough when it comes to her. I should have settled for the silence. Hell, bringing up the weather would have been better than reminding her that I’m the lovesick puppy who has done nothing but wait around for her. I kept her clothes in my own damn room, for crying out loud.

When her eyes meet mine, it’s an effort not to pull her into my arms. Because when she speaks, her voice breaks, and it feels like a hundred knives pierces my chest. “You kept my clothes.”

“I did.”

“For ten years.”

“I would have held on to them for a lifetime.”

Her eyes mist over. “You didn’t know if I’d come back.”

“I knew we’d reunite eventually. In this life or the next.”

She doesn’t respond to that. She doesn’t do anything but help me wash the dishes and whisper thanks when she escorts me to the door.

Little by little, I’ll get her back. Not the old Zalak, but the one who survived.