Page 4 of Assistant to the Assassin

“His body is deteriorating as we speak, so I should only be another twenty minutes and then I’ll head out. Same airport as usual?” he asks.

“Yep. And before you ask, yes, I took care of the latest acid order. It will be here Thursday, on the condition you take care of one of Ricky’s business rivals.”

He grunts at that, clearly annoyed. “We shouldn’t have to do him a favor when we already paid for those chemicals. It’s bullshit.”

I twist my palms up, shaking my head. “He’s the best out there.”

“No, he just has his competition eliminated and we’re about to help him do it.” He sighs, and I can just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose and furrowing his brows. “Have Ricky send me the asshole’s info and I’ll have him taken care of in the week.”

“Roger that. Go call the client and then get your ass on the plane.”

He chuckles, and as always, the sound sets a flutter through my heart. “That headset has made you bossy.”

“I’ve always been bossy, and you know it,” I tease.

He grunts in acknowledgment. “We still on for dinner?”

“I already ordered the usual from Angelo’s.”

“I don’t pay you enough.”

Ha. He probably pays me way too much. “You can contemplate giving me a raise on the way home. Stay safe, H.”

“You too, B.”

I started working for the CIA as an analyst when I was twenty-two. It was the same year Henry Cai left the Navy SEALS and started working as a field agent. His methods were often times illegal and or unethical, but he never got in trouble for it because everyone knew he was the best. His skills, intelligence, and determination were unmatched by any other agent, so he could take whatever liberties he wanted.

We had interacted in passing a few times, but a year into my job, he approached me about the crime families in Italy, knowing I had been collecting data on the various weapon and human trafficking syndicates they ran. I was a little apprehensive about working with him, but after only a few days, I could read him like a book. On the surface, he’s this heartless monster with no morals, but I have always been able to see the vulnerability in his gaze that’s lost to everyone else. I could see how much his duties weighed on him, how lonely he was, and most of all, how deeply he felt his emotions. Henry doesn’t do or feel by halves; everything he does is with his whole soul.

This ability to read him made our working relationship as easy as breathing.

Unfortunately, Henry was forcefully retired after he used my data to go rogue, and since I helped him, I was let go too. Whether from guilt or knowledge of our impeccable working relationship, Henry asked if I would come be his assistant. He said he was “going into business for himself,” which means “I’m going to kill people for a living” in our line of work. I agreed on the condition he would provide health insurance.

That was the first time I ever saw him smile. The dimples appeared when I accepted his offer, and I’ve been in love with him ever since. It was as simple as that.

We have an office inside a corporate complex in northern Virginia, in a city called Fairfax. On our door, there’s a sign claiming we’re a tree trimming company, but it’s all a front. We never advertise our business, but on the occasion someone calls, I inform them we’re booked for the foreseeable future. This part of Virginia is basically all forest, so the idea of a tree trimming business being all booked up isn’t all that farfetched. Inside our office is only my desk, our computer system, a fridge, and a room dedicated to storing Henry’s “tools.” Any item we get from our dealers is marked as a hardware item meant for trees, like axes and chainsaws. When Ricky finally gives us our order of acid, it will arrive in a box for metal polish.

Hopefully the secretary from the dentist’s office upstairs doesn’t snoop in our mail again. Last time it took hours to convince her that our order of mercury was for the wooden thermometers Henry was trying to make out of spare wood. I had to make her nephew one in order to keep up the façade. I had to fucking whittle.

Three years into the job, I don’t have a single regret about leaving the CIA. This job pays better and has better insurance—which is important for a type one diabetic. I also get to be in charge of a lot more, which I love. I’m the one working behind the scenes, making all that Henry does possible. He couldn’t do his job without me, nor could I without him. He may be my boss, technically, but he’s always acknowledged me as his equal. His partner.

His friend.

“No one makes pasta like Angelo’s.” Henry groans, taking his first bite of lasagna. His eyes practically roll up into his head, and he licks his lips to gather every atom of the food.

I try not to stare too hard at that swiping tongue, but I’m only human. It’s impossible to not ogle at someone who looks like Henry. His mother was Chinese, and his father was Italian, and from what I’ve seen from the single photo Henry owns, he is a spitting image of his mom. The only difference is their eyes. Henry’s are a mahogany brown like his dad’s. Other than that, Henry has the same oval face, square jaw, tan skin, small eyes, plump nose, and full lips of his mom. The picture of his parents—it’s of them on their wedding day—sits in a frame above Henry’s living room TV. It’s the only decoration in his entire apartment. His mom must be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, and his dad wasn’t too bad on the eyes either.

It’s no wonder they made Henry, who missed out on being Hollywood’s next heartthrob, which only makes my unrequited love for him all the more torturous.

I tear my attention from Henry’s mouth and refocus on my insulin pump, which I have in hand so I can calculate how much insulin I need for my chicken parmesan. It’s about forty carbs, but since pasta is starchy, I direct my pump to give me twenty units. I’m supposed to have a carb ratio I use to calculate how much insulin I use, but after being a diabetic for well over a decade, I just go by instinct, much to the chagrin of my doctor. But fuck him. He doesn’t understand that my body couldn’t give a shit about a math equation.

With that taken care of, I dive right in with a hungry growl. Angelo’s food is godlike in quality and has become a staple of the friendship I have with Henry. Getting the man to open up is like trying to pry open a metal safe with a toothpick, but in three years I was able to wear him down with Italian food and Netflix, of all things. I had told him a while back he needed to find a hobby to rewind after work, and this led to us binge watching shows together.

We’ve already burned through all of Game of Thrones, Outlander, and Bridgerton. Lately we’ve been watching Downton Abbey, which I think is my favorite so far. We’re currently on season five, and we’ve just gotten to the part of the season where Lady Edith has run off with her secret daughter, Marigold. Edith is Henry’s favorite character, so he’s watching the screen with apt attention.

“I still can’t believe Michael Gregson died,” H grumbles around another bite. “Edith can’t catch a fucking break.”

“I’m sure it will work out for her.”

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