Page 50 of Scorpion

“I want you to move into the main house.”

I swallow and glance at all my injuries. “You think I can’t be trusted by myself? I survived this long already.”

“Did you survive? Or did you die that day, and you’ve been walking around without your soul? Or did you lose it years before when you left home carrying nothing but your mother’s words?”

I’m not sure what hurts more; his questions or the fact that I don’t have the answer to them.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Chapter 13

MATHIJS

Iwatch Zalak from my periphery. She’s barely more than a vague lump on the roof. From here, the rifle looks like a stick poking out from the side of the building.

It’s been six months since the incident in the bathroom. Six months since we’ve touched each other beyond a friendly embrace. Six months of watching her get back into routine—this time with fewer hours and weekly therapy sessions. It’s what should have happened to begin with, but I was too optimistic. I wanted too much of her, and I didn’t step back to think it through.

Every night, the last thing I see before I fall asleep is how she looked on the bathroom floor. Broken, battered, and bloody. If I had lost her, I would be done for. The fire she relit inside of me would’ve been permanently snuffed out. I’d continue to breathe, but I’d know the answer if she asked me the same questions—I would be soulless.

Zalak is making improvements, though—even if she often spends more time being frustrated with her so-called helplessness than anything else. She’s voiced her concerns to me numerous times about how she might or might not be suited for certain missions, and that she shouldn’t be kept around just to be a “charity case.” For the most part, I disagreed with her assessment on her suitability for certain jobs. To begin with, at least.

There were tasks she was perfectly equipped for, except she was too caught up in doubting herself to see it. As the months progressed, her assessments became more appropriate, and Sergei was always there to monitor her and ensure that whatever we were getting into would be fine for her.

My theory is to introduce her to trigger situations at a distance so she can slowly gain control over her reactions. I spend every spare moment I have with her. She’s been my plus-one to every event that has required one. A task like today’s is standard, with low risk of outside influence. I wouldn’t normally need a sniper when meeting someone on my payroll. But special circumstances call for special measures.

Plus, she might get to shoot someone. That sometimes puts her in a good mood.

“The new shipment of ten was dropped off to the launder. Fifteen thousand from last month’s batch has been washed already,” Albert says in Dutch.

The trembling fool retucks his hands into his pockets for the fourth time in two minutes. I can’t believe that Goldchild trusted the idiot to play both sides. He couldn’t lie to a child.

“Fifteen?” I cock a brow. “Gwendoline usually returns thirty to me in a month.”

That’s not entirely true. She’s been dropping between one to five thousand every month over the past year. My recent visit to her confirms that she’s still keeping her promise of her “dirty thirties” to me. Then she waved a gun in my face—much to Zalak’s alarm—smiled, and said she can be reached by Skype if I have any follow-up questions.

Gwendoline has been washing our cash since my grandfather’s time. The arrangement is that we are her only clients, and she gets a percentage of the thirty grand she washes. Being the primary cash-handler at the department store she runs has its benefits.

Albert shifts his weight. Sweat beads along his brow line even though it’s meant to be a record cold month. “Changing times,” he explains. “People use cash less, you know? The Feds are cracking down too. She’s just being cautious.”

“Is that so?”

He swallows. “Spoke to her myself. She, uh… she’s thinking about retiring too. Said it’s time to slow down.”

I nod slowly. “She told me a different story.”

“Oh yeah?” His breath audibly hitches.

Did he truly think that he could cut me short and I wouldn’t find out? He’d give Gwendoline twenty thousand of my counterfeits, then throw in ten thousand of Goldchild’s to keep meeting the 30k arrangement.

Not only is Goldchild on my territory, he’s using my resources. I simply cannot stand for that. Picking off my men was bad enough. Using my contractors too?

Drawing a letter from my pocket, I hand it to him and take five steps back to protect my coat. Gingerly, he gives me a sideways glance before opening it. He clears his throat before he unfolds the paper, and there in black, bold letters are three words.

FUCK YOU, CUNT.

He only manages to widen his eyes before he’s ripped off his feet and on his back from the force of the blow. Blood splatters on the tin walls of the warehouse, and a couple droplets make it to the hem of my pants.

I scowl. That was cashmere.

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