Page 70 of The Hitman

His laughter follows me into the house.

While Zahra is getting ready, I call a local tradesman I know to be discreet. I arrange for him to fix the broken glass in my kitchen, and then I check the train times. If Zahra is ready in the next twenty minutes, she can be on a train within the hour, and back in Milan by late afternoon. If she takes longer, there’s another direct high-speed train in three hours. She should be ready in twenty minutes, but I want the three hours.

“I’m ready,” she says just as I let thoughts of what I could do with that time blossom in my mind.

When I turn to her, she’s standing just inside the kitchen with her bag clutched in both of her hands. She’s looking at her shoes instead of at me.

“Do you have everything? Are you sure?” I want her to say no.

“Yes.”

I swallow the first thing I want to say. “Va bene. Andiamo,” I say instead.

I want her to ask me to slow down, to say the words again so she can hear them. I need her to ask me to whisper them against her lips. She doesn’t. Instead, I watch as she turns and walks stiffly toward the front door. “Let me get your bag,” I call after her.

She ignores me.

The drive to the train station isn’t long, but it feels as if it takes forever because Zahra sits next to me in silence. And I let her.

At the train station, Zahra stands next to me without speaking as I buy her ticket. I waste money on a business-class seat because I want her to be comfortable. And even though I know I should give her the ticket and leave, I don’t.

She reaches for the slips of paper, but I snatch my hands away.

“Come.” I lead her out onto the train platform. The train is due to arrive in five minutes, and I want to wait with her. When she boards the train to Milan, I know I’ll never see her again. And even though the part of me with a conscience knows that’s the way it should be, the part of me that wants her can’t fathom that this is how it all ends.

“You don’t have to wait,” she grinds out.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

“You know why.”

She turns quickly toward me. Her eyes are narrowed in severe slits, and her beautiful skin is flushed red in anger. I realize that I’ve never seen her angry before, and now I wish I hadn’t, because I love it. Even though it doesn’t make any sense and I barely know her, I realize that I love her.

“No, I don’t know why. Tell me.”

I could maneuver my way around this request; correction, command. I could find a way to tell her something rude and terrible. I could say something to break her heart, so she boards this train and never thinks about me again. I could tell her something vague and frustrating that lets the embers of whatever was building between us smolder, something that will make her think of me when she’s on a date with another man and realize that he’s not enough. Maybe if I do that, there’s a chance she’ll come back to Italy one day, and find me, and we can start over. But if that were to ever happen, it would all be for nothing. She could stay away for a few months or years, and when she returned, I’d still be exactly who I am. Or dead.

So, I decide to tell her the truth. “If I asked you to stay with me, would you?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t know that I could feel elated and devastated at the same time.

“That’s the problem. This isn’t some romantic movie; this is real life. And in real life, a woman like you should go back to New York, move out of the house you share with that stronzo, and start over. In real life, a woman like you, elegant and beautiful and smart and brave, should find a man who deserves you. You should marry a man who wears a suit to work, have a few kids with your birthmark, and grow old but still beautiful in a house that doesn’t have to be guarded by armed men. You should die peacefully in bed, surrounded by children and grandchildren. In real life, you should never think about me again.”

As I speak, the train rumbles into the station. The wind whips her beautiful curly dark brown hair around her head. Her cheeks are red and full of life, and so is her mouth. But her eyes start to water.

And my heart constricts painfully.

She wants me to take back everything I said. I can see that in her pleading eyes. And, truthfully, I want to do just that. I want to promise her that I can be the kind of man who wears a suit to work. I want to tell her that I can give her as many children as she wants and a safe, normal life. But if there’s one thing my parents’ relationship taught me, it’s that wanting something doesn’t make it so. My mother died devoting her life to God and me, always hoping that one day my father would change his life and come searching for her. He never did.

Zahra deserves more than what my father could give my mother. She deserves so much more than me.

We stand, staring at one another. I wish we had more time, but I can’t tell her that.

“That’s it?” she asks me. “Those are the last words you’re going to say to me?”

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