Page 95 of Last Hand

Maria steps carefully down the stairs, eyes darting nervously when she peers in with a tray in her hands. She moves straight to Fallon, sets the tray down on the table, and takes baby Luca in her arms, pressing a soft kiss to his head, and rocking him gently. The tension in my body instantly leaves once he is out of the room.

Stepping back a little, I watch as she pulls over a small table on wheels, setting up a breakfast that looks like it belongs in a palace, not a prison cell.

Bacon. Sausage. Hash browns. Scrambled eggs. Toast stacked high. Coffee still steaming in the porcelain mug.

Igor looks at it like it might disappear.

For the first time, he scoots forward. Slowly. Willingly. No screaming. No fight. He lets the chain rattle behind him and lowers himself into the chair.

Fallon doesn’t even blink.

She drags her usual metal chair across the floor and takes her seat in front of him.

He watches her for a long moment, then finally he speaks.

In English.

“Last meal?” he asks, voice cracked and heavy. Milo and I glance at each other, we weren’t even sure he spoke English. I suppose we now have our answer.

Fallon smiles.

“You’ve only been waiting months,” she says, and scoops a bite of eggs onto a spoon. She feeds him. One bite. Then another.

He eats like a starving man. Like a man who’s finally accepted that his time’s up. Milo fidgets near the wall, hand already brushing the butt of his pistol.

But Fallon’s not done.

She lets him eat every bite. Sits in silence while he finishes. Then Igor leans back and sighs like he’s satisfied. “Cigarette?” he asks.

She stands without a word and walks toward me. My jacket buttons undone, she helps herself and rifles through my pockets and finds my cigarettes.

Igor watches her like a man hoping for mercy.

She lights one. Walks back to him. Places it between his lips. He inhales.

Then coughs violently.

She plucks it out of his mouth, waits for him to recover, and gives it back.

He smokes it all the way down to the filter. When he’s finished, he closes his eyes. “Please,” he breathes. “You’ve proven your point. Just kill me already.”

Fallon doesn’t blink.

She turns to me.

And reaches for my suit, I grip her wrist. The look she gives me makes me let her go.

Her hand slides the knife free from where I always keep it sheathed at my side. My pulse slows.

“Fallon,” I say sharply, I was expecting her to go for my gun, not my knife. A bullet is quick, instant. A knife, she has to get close. My hand closes around hers over the handle, wanting to take it from her.

She keeps her grip tight.

Milo is already moving toward her. “What are you doing?”

Fallon’s eyes harden, she says nothing.

Milo grabs her wrist. “You don’t have to do this. Let me?—”

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