It's Irresistible

“Where are you going?” Victor can feel a muscle ticking in his jaw as he spins on his heel to greet the first voice he’s heard today.

“Just going out for some fresh air.” He says it with a smile as he lightly pulls on the lapels of his jacket, and he can feel his entire body thrumming with the need to just do something already. It’s been so quiet lately. The green eyes that meet his are cold and suspicious, which is to be expected. It’s not easy sitting at the top.

“We have a job to do tonight.” The words pluck at something, but he keeps still. In those first few days, he got to help clean house. But that was ages ago.

“I’ll be back before then. If I may.” His arm is held out while he bends at the waist, just enough to show a little respect, and his new boss gives a quick dip of his chin. Victor is standing and leaving the large house before the other man can change his mind, and he takes in a slow breath once he’s standing outside.

The text message came from an untraceable number and only contained coordinates, and there’s only one person that would contact him that way. He knows where to go and knows that it’ll take a few hours, but it’s not a summons that he wants to ignore. No, he needs to know what he wants. He left, and the terms were clear. Victor is Cobblepot’s enforcer now, but he can’t just erase nearly twelve years of loyalty.

A few hours later, his boots disturb the dust clinging to the front steps of a condemned house set out in the middle of nowhere. Everything around him is quiet and undisturbed, but he knows that appearances mean nothing. The boards creak as he makes his way through the house, and Victor finds him sitting in the kitchen. There are two stools in front of the chipped bar, and the man sitting down with his drink looks different than the last time Victor saw him.

“You have a tan.” He stops in the doorway and keeps his face neutral, because he doesn’t know why he’s here. Why either of them is here.

“Retirement suits me,” Carmine Falcone says with an easy smile.

“Does that mean you’re not coming back?” Falcone shakes his head before taking another sip, and Victor can feel the back of his neck tightening. They’re not alone. “Then why am I here?”

“How’s Oswald doing?” Victor has worked for Falcone for years; he has stood by the man’s side and did whatever was asked of him. They understood each other. Falcone was the boss. Victor was the enforcer. The world made sense. Then everything seemed to fall apart at the same time, but Victor hasn’t changed. The tenses have just changed, that’s all. Cobblepot is the boss. Victor is…Victor is the hired help. He belonged to Falcone, as strange as it sounds, but he merely works for Cobblepot.

“He’s too young to handle the whole city on his own. Vulnerable. He’s not you. He’s not Maroni. He’s not Mooney.” Cobblepot is a whole other kind of fish, and Victor isn’t really sure where any of them stand. Not anymore.

“Are you loyal to him, Victor?” Loyalty…he’s not even sure what that means on most days. He was loyal to Falcone, but now? Now he is afloat and doing his best to find his place in this new world. In Cobblepot’s world.

“For now.” Falcone’s lips pull in tight, like the answer displeases him, and he releases a low whistle.

“I’m not a dog, ya know.” The voice drifts in from over his left shoulder right before a figure slips past him, and he never even heard her coming. She walks over to Falcone, does a quick twirl and jump, and lands on the empty stool. Her feet knock together on the top rung as her knees spread, and her elbows rest across her thighs so that her hands can dangle in the open space.

“Victor, I would like you to meet Bexley Barba.” Falcone says the name easily, like he’s said it a thousand times, and the surname echoes somewhere in a forgotten memory.

“Call me Bex.” Her eyes raise to meet his, and they’re just brown. Normal. Average. There’s something hiding behind the flat color, something that he can’t seem to put his finger on. Her hair is brown as well and twisted up on top of her head, but there’s a multitude of colors mixed in with the color there. Is he projecting?

“Why am I here?” he asks again. He doesn’t care about this girl, and he’s not here to play some game.

“I am not returning to Gotham, but I am concerned about Oswald. Bex has agreed to be my eyes and ears, just until Oswald gets on his feet. Isn’t that right, Bex?” The girl has been looking directly at him, and Victor doesn’t like the way her eyes feel on him. Something about her eyes isn’t right. The color is too normal, neither light nor dark. Just brown.

“Yep! Go to Gotham. Help Oswald. Report. Are you going to help me, Victor?” This girl doesn’t know him and has no right to use his given name.

“What?” The question is directed at Falcone, but it’s the girl that moves. Slips off the stool and steps closer. She’s shorter than he originally thought; she has to raise her chin and bare her throat to meet his eyes. She’s maybe a couple of inches over five feet, which puts her well below his own six feet. Still, she stands in front of him with her shoulders held back and a smile on her face.

“Are. You. Going. To. Help. Me.” Her head tilts with each word, back and forth, but her eyes stay locked on his. She takes another step closer, so close that he can smell the dirt clinging to her clothes and skin. “It’s a simple question, really. I’m going to need help and someone that I can trust. I need someone on my side. Will you be my person, Victor?”

There’s a smudge of dirt clinging to her cheek, like she’s been digging with her bare hands. Her eyes are unwavering, and her gaze is too direct to be considered comfortable. The clothes she’s wearing are dirty and wrinkled, and she can’t be any older than twenty. Falcone wants to send a twenty year old girl to keep Oswald in check? Retirement must have made him delusional and soft. She’s still looking at him and waiting for an answer, and she still has dirt on her face.

“I don’t think—” His hand had raised without conscious thought, to get rid of the smudge, but a thin point of pain stops his thumb from touching her skin. She’d moved without him noticing, and there is now a small blade separating his thumb from her skin.

“No one touches any part of me without my permission. Sorry,” she shrugs. The knife isn’t lowered until he pulls his hand away and is quickly stored back under her clothes. The cut barely separated the skin, more of a papercut than anything else, and she’s still looking up at him. “Well? I kinda need an answer.”

“What, exactly, do you want me to do?” Her smile is wide and dimples her cheeks, and something in her eyes shifts.

“Stay with Cobblepot, do as he says, and report back to me. Keep me updated on everything in Gotham. Oh, and don’t forget that you’re with me. Mine. Not his. For the time being.” She shrugs again but keeps her smile, and Victor thinks the words over. Really thinks them over.

“You don’t want to get rid of Cobblepot?” She leans up on her toes so that they are even closer and looks at him like she could dig down deep to read his every thought.

“I want to help him. To help Gotham. Isn’t that what you want?” She sounds so sincere and honest; Gotham will eat her alive.

“Not exactly.” Her eyes flicker downwards to watch his smile, the quick flash of teeth, before returning her gaze to his.

“But you’re going to help me, right? I promise to be a good boss. A fair one.” It’s said with a little head nod as she rocks back onto her heels, and Victor raises his brows at the statement.

“I’ve been changing bosses a lot lately, and I’m getting a little tired of being moved around.” The girl looks upset at his statement, if the downward tilt of her lips is anything to go by. She looks conflicted for just a moment and then her expression evens out. Her hands raise slowly until they are hovering in the air above his shoulders.

“May I touch you?” So polite. He nods, more out of curiosity than anything, and is surprised when her palms raise to cup his face. Her palms barely cover his cheeks and her fingers brush by his ears, and she leans up on her toes so much that her nose nearly brushes his chin.

“I’m willing to commit to this fully, Victor. I’ll be your boss until you want to leave. I want to help Oswald, but it’ll be just you and me. You will work for me, and I will take care of you.” That look is back in her eyes, the one that he doesn’t understand and scratches under his skin. This girl thinks that she can take care of him? Like he’s some stray that wandered in off the street? “I think we’ll be able to do great things together, Victor, but it has to be together. I can’t do this on my own.”

“I’ll help you.” Her fingers spread apart the tiniest bit when she smiles, and she releases him as she steps back away from him.

“I knew you two would get along.” Falcone is standing now with a smile on his face, and the girl has twirled around so that she’s facing the older man. The back of her white sweatshirt is covered in grass stains.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re always right. Ready to go home, Victor?” She’s looking at him again, with an easy smile and dirt under her nails. Nothing about this girl makes sense, but he’ll figure her out.

“After you.” He sweeps an arm as he bows at the waist, but he keeps his eyes on her. “Bex.”


They’ve been in her car, which has a few bags and other things in the backseat, for all of five minutes when she first speaks. She’d insisted that he drive since he knew the way, and she didn’t like driving anyway apparently. That was all said before getting inside the car. Afterwards, she looked out the window as they drove down the driveway and headed towards Gotham. Five whole minutes of silence. He should have known it wouldn’t last.

“We’re partners now, right?” The car has a bench seat, so there’s nothing separating them. It also makes it easy for her to twist sideways in the seat and face him.

“Is it a partnership if you’re the boss?” He glances over in time to see her bite her bottom lip as she thinks it over, and her fingers tap out a rhythm against her knees.

“Fair point, but we need each other. The relationship is mutual. So, partners?” He can admit that it’s a strange situation, even for him. He’s given his allegiance to a girl that he doesn’t know because the thought of Cobblepot as his boss…chafes.

“Partners.” He hears her hum in approval, and the car becomes quiet once again. He’s seen stranger partnerships, but he doesn’t know how this is going to work out. She seems almost too innocent for Gotham.

“Victor?” He looks over at her but doesn’t say anything, and her head tilts as she looks back at him. “May I touch you?”

“Are you always this polite?” He can hear the denim of her jeans shuffling across the leather of the seat, but she keeps just enough distance so that they don’t touch. Not even accidentally.

“There’s no rule against being polite, and consent is important. Especially between partners.” There’s that little head nod again. Is this girl even real? Or is this all some kind of act?

“You may touch me.” She moves like lightning and strikes before he can assess the oncoming damage. One moment she is sitting next to him, the next she has her head pillowed on his thigh and her feet hanging out the open window. He doesn’t even remember seeing her take her shoes off. “Comfortable?”

“Mmm, yeah. You don’t care if I nap, right? It’s been a long couple of days, and I’m gonna need some extra beauty sleep before taking on Gotham.” Her fingers are laced so that her hands are resting against her stomach, and the back of her head is pushing against the top of his thigh. She looks perfectly content with her eyes closed and the sun streaking across her soft features.

“Never lie to me.” She may be the boss, but she also said that she wants them to be partners. Partners don’t lie to each other.

“Never.” Eyes remain closed, but he believes her. There’s something honest about her tone, and he prides himself on being able to tell a lie.

“Why are you covered in dirt?” She stretches enough to arch her back and then crosses her ankles, and she reaches up with one hand to scratch at her cheek. The one smudged with dirt.

“Carmine still isn’t well liked, and some idiots thought they could take him out. Just like that. Carmine’s been good to me, so I took care of them. I’d just finished burying them when you got there.” Shrugging while lying down in a car can’t be comfortable, but it doesn’t stop the small movement of her shoulders. Maybe there’s more to her than he thought.

“You can nap. I’ll wake you up when we reach Gotham.” That makes her smile, and her eyes flutter open for a moment.

“You’re the best, Victor, you know that? The absolute best.” Her eyes close, and she seems to drop straight into sleep. Her body relaxes fully against the leather seat, and her head turns just enough so that she can nuzzle her cheek against his thigh. Such a strange girl.


What little bit of sun there is in Gotham is starting to go down when they roll into town, and the girl immediately moves into a sitting position when he taps the center of her forehead. The ball she’d had her hair pinned up in has come loose so that a few chunks brush her cheeks and the back of her neck, and a strand of dark pink hair clings to his shoulder when she twists around to get her first look at the city. What does Gotham look like to outsiders? To Victor, it’s home. The dark streets and the filth are just as familiar to him as his childhood bedroom.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. Beautiful? That’s a first. The streets are dirty and the people are even dirtier.

“Do you have a place?” She turns in the seat so that she can look at him, he can feel her looking even if he doesn’t turn to meet her eyes, but she’s not touching him anymore.

“Of course I have a place. I’m not gonna sleep in my car. It’d probably get stolen with me fast asleep in the backseat. I have a place, but I’m gonna have to furnish it. Ugh, I hate buying furniture.” He listens to the leather creak as she leans back against the seat, but she doesn’t pout for long. “I’ve got the address. Just a second.”

She has to lean up because she’s sitting on the bottom of her overly large sweatshirt, and a piece of paper is pulled out of the front pocket of her jeans. He takes it without comment, reads the curling script, and makes a right turn. The address is for a warehouse, converted into some business or another, in a somewhat decent part of town. As decent as Gotham gets anyway. Once they reach the place, he helps her move her bags to the top floor. The bottom floor of the warehouse has been turned into a café, but there is a back entrance that leads to the top floor.

“I’ve got the penthouse!” She does a few twirls in the center of what looks like a kitchen, up on her toes with the other foot pointing outwards. For a warehouse, the space doesn’t look horrible. Combined kitchen and living room. A hallway that probably leads to the bedroom and bathroom. It’s clean. And bare.

“I have to go.” He drops her bags in the middle of the floor, and she stops spinning so that she could look at him. Nearly all of her hair has fallen down now, and he watches as her smile slowly fades away.

“Go?” She looks so…young. He’s supposed to believe that she killed and buried two people today?

“Cobblepot has a job for me tonight.” Her eyebrows draw together as she bites the inside of her lip, and then she gives a quick nod of her head and starts walking towards him. Why can’t she just dismiss him so that he can go on his way? She doesn’t stop until she’s standing right in front of him, and she even has a little bit of dirt and grass in her hair.

“May I?” Her hands are raised, and Victor has to resist the urge to shout. Polite girls don’t live for long in Gotham.

“You don’t have to keep asking. You always have my permission.” That earns him a head tilt, and he feels like screaming in frustration.

“Really? You trust me that much already?” He doesn’t really see it as a form of trust. If she does something that he doesn’t like, he’ll be sure to alert her. Possibly with violence if this trend continues. She believes it’s trust though, and who is he to shatter her beliefs?

“I do.” She whoops and then jumps, and he has to react quickly to keep them from falling over. Her arms are secured around his neck so that her feet are lifted off the floor, and he keeps his grip around her back tight to keep her from falling. She pulls back enough to meet his eyes, and her wide smile looks almost comical.

“You’ll come back after the job?” Her eyes are lighter up close, and her fingers are gently pressed against the back of his skull.

“I’ll come back.” She uses the hold she has on him to press her forehead against his, just for a moment, and then wiggles out of his hold. She skips, literally skips, a few steps back and makes her face neutral.

“Be careful. I’ll wait up for you.” It’s his turn to nod, quickly, and then he turns on his heel. He pauses after closing the door behind him and takes in a deep breath. That girl is going to be the death of him; he can feel it. What has he gotten himself into this time?


His blood is still screaming in his veins as he walks around the back of the warehouse, and he keeps his head ducked down so that the few people leaving the café won’t see his smile. He keeps trying to push it down, but it has been a very good night. The clothes he changed into before slipping out of Cobblepot’s are simple and make sure he doesn’t stand out, but he doesn’t want to take chances. A lot of people know what he looks like, so he’s wearing a gray hoodie over a black shirt with the hood up. No one pays him any attention as he opens the door at the back of the warehouse, and he can hear music playing before he even reaches the door at the top of the stairs.

“Well I’m five seconds closer to living six feet deep.”

There’s a radio perched on the bar in the kitchen, and the music is turned up as loud as it can go. She’s standing out in the open space between the living room and the kitchen, with her back to him. She’s showered and changed since the last time he was here, and all of the extra color is gone from her hair. It’s just a plain dark brown now, nearly black because it’s still a little damp, and swinging halfway down her back.

“There’s seven steps to Heaven, but that stairway’s just too steep.”

The shorts are of a modest length, which is a rarity here in Gotham, and are a dark purple. Like a bruise that has fully settled. Her shirt is white and the sleeves have been ripped off.

“Oh, my, my everybody dies. But you know that I don’t want to.”

Her arms are waving in the air and she’s on her toes, dancing off-beat and singing along in a slightly deeper voice than her speaking voice. Because of her childish ways, he’d expected her to look more childish. Her curves are soft and subtle, but there’s no mistaking that she’s a woman.

“You get eight long lives, boy, you gonna cry when the ninth one creeps up on ya.”

Something is…off. Every inch of skin that he can see on her arms is covered with either dark ink or scar tissue. Her hands appear to be unharmed, but her legs haven’t been spared. He can see a scar running down the back of her left thigh and a dark mark against the back of her right thigh…are there more?

“Victor!” She’s facing him now and smiling, with the song still blasting throughout the empty space, and his eyes sweep downwards. Thick scar tissue covers the front of her left thigh, and there’s a dark tattoo that wraps completely around her right thigh. Lace and a bow. How cute. “Oh, yeah, I guess I’m a little mangled. I tried to pretty it up a little though. What do you think?”

“Accident?” She’s close to him now, but he doesn’t mind the closeness now that she’s clean. No more dirt. He can see her arms better now too. Thick jagged lines, no discernible pattern. Some from knives. A few from bullets. Fire? Weaved around the scars are dark tattoos of flowers and birds.

“Hazards of the job, you know? I had to teach myself how to be a good killer, and I can admit that I made a few mistakes along the way. Well, maybe more than a few.” She pokes one of the burns on her left bicep and then shrugs. “Enough about me. How’d it go tonight?”

“Is there anywhere to sit?” Her face lights up at the question, and she reaches out to grab his hand. Her left hand is warm and the palm is rough, possibly scarred like other areas of her body. She pulls him down the short hallway and into the bedroom, which is empty except for a bare mattress and the bags he brought in. The window in the room is large and cracked open, and that’s where she drags him.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” It’s almost like a balcony, but it’s made of twisting iron and creaks. There are two cushions on the thing, old and slightly molded, but she doesn’t hesitate before sitting down. Since she’s still gripping his hand, he gets pulled along. “Now, let’s hear all about it.”

He tells her everything. Talks about Detective Gordon coming to Cobblepot for help, to get reinstated. He’s still a little surprised that Gordon collected a debt for Cobblepot and even killed a man to complete the task. He didn’t think the detective had it in him. In return, he accompanied Cobblepot to Commissioner Loeb’s house and persuaded him into resigning. It was a fun night for him.

“So, Gordon is a detective again and Sarah Essen will be running things. That’s good,” the girl says with a slow hum. At some point during his speech, she’d plastered herself to his side and curled up to get comfortable. Gotham gets cold at night. He can feel the heat of her along his ribcage since his arms are crossed over his chest, and sometimes she rubs her cheek against his arm.

“How is that good? Gordon,” he pauses for a minute because he doesn’t like the taste of the man’s name before continuing, “doesn’t like us. Us being criminals, that is.”

“Gotham needs good men and women. There’s no fun in being bad if there’s no balance of good.” He makes a noise of disagreement in the back of his throat but doesn’t argue with her. What’s the point?

“What do we do now?” He can feel her looking up at him, can feel the way her cheek moves against the jacket he’s wearing, and he tilts his head just enough to look down at her.

“We watch, I guess. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing concrete.” Cobblepot had told him that he’d call if he needed Victor’s help with anything else, which means that Victor is free for the next few days at least.

“Wanna help me buy furniture? And plates. And bowls. Maybe a shower curtain. Oh! And one of those little cups that hold toothbrushes.” Her eyes are bright as she looks up at him, and it’s unsettling. He’s not used to being around people this…bubbly.

“You want me to go shopping with you?” He can honestly say that no one has ever asked him to go shopping before.

“Shopping alone is no fun, and this is your home too. Can we get bunk beds?”

“Absolutely not.” Her face falls at his quick answer, and she drops her cheek back to his arm. She’s looking down now and avoiding his eyes, but she hasn’t moved away. If anything, she moves even closer when she huffs in annoyance.

“Victor!” She moves too fast, it’s abnormal. Right after yelling his name, she’s straddling him and holding his left arm up. His legs have been stretched out in front of him since sitting down, and her knees are on either side of his thighs. “You didn’t tell me you got hurt.”

“Because I didn’t.” She holds his arm up higher, to his eye-level, so he can see the dark stains spreading across the gray material. This is why he prefers black. She lets go when he reaches up, and he tugs the sleeve up past his elbow. The earliest marks are nearly pink and further up his arm; the ones from Cobblepot’s takeover are scabbed over now; the ones from tonight have yet to clot properly, and all six are bleeding sluggishly.

“Oh. Oh.” He can see the shift in her eyes when understanding dawns, and her fingers are steady when they reach up to touch one of the older marks. “Mister Carmine said you had a quirk, but I didn’t know he meant this. Can I count them?”

“Go ahead.” She counts out loud, under her breath, and taps each grouping of tallies. She stops at the ones that are still bleeding but keeps counting, and she smiles across at him when she’s done.

“Forty-four. And you make a mark for each kill?” He nods his answer and watches the way that she bites the inside of her lip. “I’ll be right back!”

The music still playing in the kitchen drifts out of the window when she slips back inside, and Victor leans his head back against the wall. She’s strange, and he never really knows what to expect with her. He’s known her for less than a day, but she keeps treating him as if they’ve known each other for years. The music swells and fades as she comes back outside, and she settles herself across his thighs again. No one else dares to get close to him, but he can feel her knees pressing against the outside of his thighs and there’s no hesitation when she grabs his hand.

“What are you doing?” There’s a small plastic box next to them, white with a red cross on it, and she pops the lid.

“You don’t want these to get infected, do ya? It’d be all gross. So hold still and let me clean you up.” She uses alcohol pads to clean the blood away before smearing antibiotic cream across the newest cuts, and he watches her hands as she tends to him. Once she’s satisfied with that, she pulls out a large band aid to go over the four tallies over his wrist. It’s white with rainbow colored peace signs. The next band aid, a little smaller for the two marks higher up his forearm, is bright yellow with smiley faces. “There! All better.”

“You’re insane.” The words just slip out, because she’s not real. Today has been some kind of dream. He didn’t meet with Falcone, he didn’t swear allegiance to a girl with novelty band aids, and he didn’t get to cut off that last guard’s head.

“Right back atcha,” she says with a wide smile. He can hear the click of the first-aid kit and then she’s twisting herself around into a new position. When she finally falls still, she’s nestled in the space between his legs with her head leaned back against his chest. She grabs his arms, the left one a little more carefully, and pulls them around her. Their fingers tangle together, and he realizes that she’s completely cocooned herself in him.

“Who are you?” She stretches her legs out along his and leans into him fully.

“Bexley Barba, but I prefer Bex.” There’s that name again. He knows that name.

“Where do I know that name from? Barba?” He can feel her sigh, her back expands against his stomach, but she doesn’t move in any other way.

“My father was a defense attorney with a gambling problem. When he got in too deep, he went to Mister Carmine. Mister Carmine gave him a loan and plenty of business, but my father just got more and more in debt. Would’ve been impressive if it wasn’t so shameful. Mister Carmine did all he could to help, but everyone has their limits.”

“Don Falcone killed your father.”

“My father didn’t really leave him a choice. My mom was pregnant with me at the time, so Mister Carmine took her in. She was his maid for the next eleven years, until…well, I’m sure you remember. The Hawthorne family tried to take over.” That is something that he does remember. He’d been seventeen and just starting out; his first job for Don Falcone had been killing the man responsible for killing Falcone’s staff. Falcone’s staff and Bex’s mother.

“The men responsible were killed, by you, and the Hawthornes decided to lay low. Since I was only eleven, I went into the system. Bounced from foster home to foster home for five years before running away. Mister Carmine found me living on the streets when I was sixteen. He took me somewhere safe and asked what he could do to help me. There was only one thing that I wanted.”

“You killed the Hawthorne family.” It’s been seven years since the complete massacre of the Hawthorne family, but it’s something that he’ll never forget. The dedication…it takes so much dedication to kill that many people.

“I saved the family for last. I started with known associates. Allies. Estranged family members. Distant family members. Brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, cousins. Grandchildren, children. Wife. I saved Nathan for last. You should have seen his face when he realized that he was being killed by the child of a maid. Screamed something about how her death didn’t matter; it’s easy to replace the help.”

The news ran the story for weeks. It scared people to know that even the rich and powerful could be killed in their homes, but no one really mourned for them. The Hawthornes were rich but unrefined. It makes a little more sense now. Don Falcone hadn’t seemed worried about a rival family dropping like flies, even though Victor had known that it wasn’t Falcone ordering their deaths. Maybe he was wrong about that.

“Falcone never asked you to kill them?”

“No, he told me that I was free to do as I wished. I wanted them dead, so I killed them. I was completely unexperienced back then though, so I’ve got a few mementos.” A shiver rolls through her, and he looks down at her arms. Black ink and scar tissue. She was sixteen when she went after the Hawthornes. Some of them were probably easy to kill, but the guards were at least trained. He’s surprised that she lived long enough to finish her task.

“You’re from Gotham.”

“I left after killing Nathan. I’ve been traveling, doing the odd job here and there. Mister Carmine called and asked for my help, and it has been so long since I’ve seen home. There really is no place like Gotham.” She’s only twenty-three, six years his junior, but her body count is probably higher than his. The family alone is probably nearly even with his current tally count.

“I think I’ve misjudged you.” He’s been looking at her as if she’s a child, young and naïve, but she’s not. Is that what he keeps seeing in her eyes? All the death that she’s spread?

“I’ll forgive you, but you gotta remember that appearances are deceiving. Happy people can be killers too.” She moves so that her cheek brushes his chest and her eyes can meet his, and this time he really looks back. She’s smiling, and there’s something in her eyes. Yes, she’s happy. She’s also killed an entire extended mob family.

“Happy people can be killers too,” he repeats. Her smile widens to dimple her cheeks, and she twists around so that she can lay against him. His arms are still wrapped around her, but she’s curled up between his legs now with her fingers lightly gripping the front of his shirt.

“That’s the spirit,” she whispers. Her eyes are closed, and she looks so content. She’s warm and soft against him, and her breathing is slow and even. It’s like she can fall asleep at any moment. A few moments later, she is asleep. He should wake her up, or at least carry her inside, but he tightens his arms instead. She makes a quiet little sound in the back of her throat and nuzzles against him, and he decides they can stay here a little longer.

“Such a strange girl.”