Page 4 of Velvet Deception

I’m definitely not in the right place now.

Sticking with my goal to look unhurried and unassuming, though, I didn’t retreat and back up. I strolled slowly, but with a loose aura of purpose. Through these halls, I spotted mothers in wheelchairs, their faces strained as they readied to pop out a baby. Others were on the other side of the fence, walking in gowns and pushing carts with sleeping babies in them.

For a moment, I couldn’t make myself hurry away. I wasn’t losing sight of my mission. I would never give up on a task Stefan had asked of me, but as I walked along the squeaky-clean floors that seemed to stretch endlessly, I sighed and took in the different atmosphere of this ward.

It wasn’t the first time that I’d wondered how—or if—I would ever incorporate a family into my life. Stefan had taken me in when he realized I was an orphan. The Cartel had become my family from that fateful day, my fifteenth birthday. Since then, the boss stepped in as the closest thing to a fatherly figure. My brothers in arms became the varied system of siblings I lacked. Wewerefamily, even if the association that bound us was an organized crime family.

They were all I’d ever known, but an inner sense of wanting to belong was never completely sated.

My career wasn’t a traditional one. My calling wasn’t conventional. I was thirty-five already, sacrificing two decades to the Cartel. Married to my work. That was how I lived. Yet, I never gave up on the ember of hope that one day, that would change.

Stefan had already been hinting that I didn’t have to dedicate myself to the family like this, as a skilled soldier, spy, and killer. Over all the years I’d served him, I thought of no other goals, no other plans. According to him, though, if I wanted to, I could look forward to retiring and moving elsewhere. I would have the option of taking another role that would require less of me so I could marry.

I would be honored to have a wife to call my own. I would be thrilled to welcome a child to this world, proud to know that they would always be protected. Not only by my hands, but under the umbrella of security Stefan offered.

But how?

When?

Many of my brothers in the Cartel had settled to marry and start families. More often than not, they acquired their women in the spoils of the business—kidnapped girls, purchased whores, or sex slaves.

I grimaced slightly as I got onto another elevator, leaving the maternity floor.

No thanks to that.

If and when I’d find the motivation to finally seek out a wife and start a family, I’d do so with someone who wanted me. Mutual desire simply made sense. I didn’t want athingbeholden topleasuring me. I would prefer a partner, a challenge to keep me fighting for more passion.

Finding a woman to grow old with still felt like too far-off of a fantasy. I had more years to give to Stefan. I wasn’t done with this lifestyle of stealth and violence. After all, this was what I knew.

The elevator rose and rose, making my stomach dip with the change of floors.

All I knew was how to kill. How to attack. How to defend Stefan as he did his role in the organization.

My “schedule” didn’t allow for standard work hours, where I could walk into a bar and pick up a potential date. My personality wasn’t “normal” like other men, so that I could soften and not frighten a woman off.

I’d only ever been trained and taught to kill and assume everyone was an enemy. That mentality wouldn’t help in any effort to findThe One. And the alternative of the boss arranging a marriage for me—something he’d mentioned before—didn’t appeal either. That was no better than some of the assholes in the Cartel stealing and buying women.

No. Not like that.

It would have to just… happen.

“Aha,” I whispered, finally happening upon an area of the hospital where I’d likely have more luck in finding Rodriguez. Focusing on my purpose to sneak around here again, I shoved all thoughts of women and babies to the back of my mind.

This was game time.

I’d stumbled upon the intensive care unit, and I let myself get my hopes up high.

I strode down the hall, avoiding making eye contact with anyone, at least not direct eye contact. The more I looked like I had something important to hurry toward, the less likely I was to be bothered or questioned.

Pausing at the nurses’ station, I scanned the dry erase board while I picked up a chart lying on the counter. A prop would help.

“Excuse me.”

This time, I turned at the interruption with a stern look. “I’m busy,” I told the young technician.

She blushed. “Yes. Sorry. Sorry, Doctor.” She spun and hustled off.

There you are.

---