Page 8 of The Hitman
“Let him have some fun, warden.” Callie’s voice startles me from my thoughts.
Her teasing is harmless, but it only highlights that I’m not the fatherly type.
It never even crossed my mind that the well-planned and organized schedule I’d made for him didn’t include fun.
She resumes tapping her feet together, tugging my stare to her bubblegum-pink-painted toenails barely visible through her stockings. “Is there… something else, sir?”
I blink, my neck burning like a boy with a crush, and not the cold-blooded killer I am.
“Right. I’ll leave you to it.” I spin for the door, but not before catching her brilliant smile. “I’ll send someone with you to help you gather your things.”
“Thank you,” she says sincerely.
“You’re welcome.” I stop just before I exit. “Oh, and I’d like you to email Kyle’s contact information to me as soon as possible.”
Her tapping feet halt. “Why?”
Truthfully, I don’t have an explanation. But maybe it’s because Callie did the right thing. And that shouldn’t come at such a high price.
“No sense in letting the kid struggle when I’ve got more than enough resources to help,” I say instead.
The awe on her face makes my black heart thump.
“I appreciate that, Mr. Knight.”
I nod, making sure I’m well out of earshot when I mutter, “Jaxon. Call me Jaxon.”
Chapter Three
Callie
Ismooth my damp palms down the front of my skirt as I make my way through my boss’s high-rise fortress.
My modest heels snick against the dark marble, the sound echoing like a metronome in the eerie silence. Everything around me gleams from the high ceilings trimmed in matte gold, archways sculpted with sharp, almost ancient elegance, and furnishings so decadent, they look stolen from a royal estate.
Each room is more breathtaking than the last, but there’s something about this place I can’t quite get a read on. It’s too quiet, too perfect. Like a rich man’s panic room dressed up like a palace or a museum curated by someone with more money than emotional warmth.
Glass windows surround the main living area, a stunning indoor koi pond, and the kitchen. The windows facing the city below stretch from floor to ceiling like an open invitation to the world, and the glass is thicker than usual, with fancy panels that shift depending on the time of day.
We’re suspended miles above Chicago, with a single guard and a handful of maids for human interaction, yet there’s a camera in almost every corner of the house.
Jaxon says he’s a day trader, but with a security system worthy of a presidential bunker and fingerprint scanners on every lock, there’s got to be more to my boss than he’s letting on.
“Just eat the damn oatmeal, Leo.”
Jaxon’s gruff voice guides me to the main kitchen, where he and Leo are locked in a standoff.
“I’m not hungry.” Leo shoves his bowl away.
“You’re acting like a baby.”
“I’mnota baby. Which is exactly why I don’t need a nanny.”
Jaxon slides the bowl back in front of him. “Don’t think of her as a babysitter. She’s here to help you finish school so you don’t fall behind.”
“But it’s not fair. I want to go tomyschool. I miss my friends.”
“This isn’t about being fair,” Jaxon tries to reason with him. “It’s about keeping you safe.”
