by Elise Noble
“Fine.” I folded my arms. “Go to your grandma’s.”
It turned out Nana da Silva lived in a palatial house on the edge of the Riverley estate. Rafael called it a cottage, but it was more like a mini-mansion, albeit laid out over one sprawling storey. The yard was still dotted with the telltale signs of building work—a stack of bricks, a dumpster, a pile of sand.
“Did she move in recently?” I asked, breaking my silence.
“Right before you arrived.”
“Renovations?”
“New build. Bradley organised it. I’ve never seen a house go up so fast.”
Rafael parked the Navigator haphazardly next to the front porch, then hopped out. Once or twice, he’d tried to open my car door for me, but that felt awkward so I’d told him I was perfectly capable of doing it myself. Now he left me to it.
I jogged to the porch and sheltered undercover while Rafael knocked on the front door.
“Does she live alone?” I whispered.
“No, with her boyfriend. That’s why I always knock.”
I gave an involuntary snort right before the door opened and I got my hundredth shock of the day. Given that this was Rafael’s grandma and presumably Black’s mother, and both men stood six and a half feet at least, I’d been expecting a tall Colombian lady because as Rafael had pointed out, genetics was a thing. I hadn’t been prepared for the dark-haired woman staring up at me from a wheelchair. Fuck. She didn’t even look Colombian.
Grandma gave Rafael a passing glance, and then her gaze locked onto me. Talk about intense.
“Who are you?”
Guess I knew now where Rafael’s bluntness came from.
“Uh, I’m Sky.”
Her expression softened. “Sky, sí. Rafael has told me about you.” He had? “Forgive me if I don’t get up.”
“Sky, meet Marisol.”
“Come in, come in. I’ve been baking achiras.”
“A-whats?” I whispered to Rafael as Marisol spun her chair around and set off along the hallway.
“Cheesy biscuits.”
The kitchen was quite spectacular. Bright, spacious, and clearly designed for Marisol because all the counters were at the perfect height. She picked up a saucepan, filled it with milk, and set it to boil on the stove.
“You like hot chocolate?” she asked me. Marisol spoke with a strange accent—mostly Spanish but with a hint of English underneath. “I can make something else if you’d prefer.”
“I love hot chocolate.”
“Bueno. Not so many people drink it here, at least, not the proper kind. But it’s very popular in Colombia.” Marisol wheeled herself to the table. “Sit, sit. So, you work with Rafael?”
“Yeah. Like, he helps me in the gym and stuff,” I added, just in case she wasn’t aware of her grandson’s extracurricular activities. I mean, she was related to two assassins, but apart from that weird moment at the start, she seemed incredibly sweet. Maybe they kept her in the dark?
“He always did enjoy that sort of thing. I hear you’re from London?”
“That’s right.”
“My parents were born in Salisbury. Do you know it?”
Marisol was English? Wow. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there.”
“Neither have I, but maybe I’ll visit someday.”
“Black would take you tomorrow if you wanted to go,” Rafael told her.
“Perhaps not tomorrow,” I blurted, and they both stared at me.
Shit. Think first, speak later, Sky.
“Uh, Emmy said they were going for a romantic break.”
“Excelente. He works too hard. And I want to get the house finished before I go anywhere. Bradley’s been maravilloso, but if I leave him alone, he can be a little…”
“Insane?” Rafael suggested. “Pig-headed?”
“A little renegade, but his heart’s in the right place. You’re here to help Vicente to move the wardrobe?”
“Sí.”
“He’s just taking a shower.”
“We’ll wait.”
The milk boiled, and Marisol made four mugs of hot chocolate with actual squares of chocolate and a whisk. Now that I’d tasted it, I’d never drink that overly sweet powdered stuff again. I also scoffed half a dozen achiras, and if I’d had a clue how to bake, I might have asked for the recipe. And also ended up really fat. Marisol asked me about life in London, and I tried not to make it sound too miserable.
Then Vicente appeared, and it was clear from his familiarity with Rafael that they were close. How long had he been dating Marisol? What had happened to Rafael’s grandfather? Those questions would have to wait, because I was soon holding doors open while the two men hefted a giant Victorian-style armoire through the house. For an old guy, Vicente was surprisingly strong. Fifteen minutes later, the antique monstrosity was safely installed in one of the spare bedrooms, and that meant it was time to leave. In all honesty, I’d rather have stayed. Chatting with Marisol and drinking cocoa beat standing on a shooting range, and there was still some residual awkwardness between me and Rafael.
But alas, it wasn’t to be. Rafael put our mugs into the dishwasher, and then he bent to kiss his grandma on the cheek.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You have plans this afternoon?”
“I’m going shooting with Sky.”
“Close-range? Long-range?”
“Close-range.”
“What gun do you usually shoot at twenty yards, Sky?” Marisol asked.
“Uh, a Walther P22.”
“Borrowed from Emmy? She seems to favour Walthers.”
Well, this was a strange turn for the conversation to be taking.
“Yeah, but I don’t have it with me today, so I’m going to borrow one of Rafael’s.”
Marisol reached under her seat, and my eyes bugged out of my head when she retrieved a suppressed .22 and held it out to me, grip first.
“Try this instead. It’s a Smith & Wesson M&P22 Compact. With your smaller hands, you might find it more comfortable.”
“Uh…” Holy fuck. She even had a laser mounted on the rail underneath the barrel. Was she planning to shoot in the dark? “Uh…thanks?”
“Look at the time—I’d better start dinner. Cora’s coming over with Leander. Have a good afternoon.”
I was left holding the gun limply in one hand as she turned away. Bloody hell. Who exactly was Marisol da Silva?
“Don’t act so shocked, Sunshine,” Rafael whispered.
“You and me, we need to have a serious talk about your communication skills.”
“Later.”
When I didn’t move, his hand went to the nape of my neck again, and this time, I had so many thoughts churning through my mind that I barely flinched as he steered me out of the house.
CHAPTER 8 - SKY
“YOU DIDN’T THINK it might be a good idea to mention that your grandma’s also an assassin?” I asked as Rafael drove. Not very far, as it turned out. He lived right next door to her.
“She’s retired now, and it was up to Marisol whether she told you about her former profession.” He turned and gifted me a half-smile. “She likes you.”
“Really?”
“She wouldn’t have given you her gun otherwise.”
“Yeah, I was kind of surprised about that. I mean, what if she needs to shoot someone this afternoon?”
“She has plenty more guns.”
Of course she did.
Rafael’s house definitely wasn’t a new build. It looked like an old farmhouse, complete with scattered outbuildings and paddocks all around. The grass was long. No livestock lived there. He seemed to be renovating, though, judging by the pile of lumber sticking out from under a tarpaulin and the cement mixer beside the double garage.
“It’s a work in progress,” he explained. “We’ve got it structurally sound, but the inside still needs a lot done.”
“Where’s the shooting range?”
“In a barn out the back.
”
I expected that we’d walk around the side of the house, but Rafael unlocked the front door, then held it open for me with his foot while he disarmed the security system. Yup, definitely a work in progress. The hall had been stripped back to plaster walls and plain floorboards, and the stairs had been sanded to bare wood as well. The windows didn’t have any curtains, and a single bare bulb hung overhead.
“Is any of it finished?”
“The kitchen’s mostly done, and the living room’s getting there. Plus there’s one habitable bedroom and a bathroom upstairs.”
“You’re doing it by yourself?”
“Vicente’s helping. Cora too.”
“What about Emmy’s team? Bradley’s super efficient.”
“Yes, I know. He was involved to start with, but let’s just say we had some creative differences. You want coffee before we start?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
The kitchen… Well, it was stunning. Not as big as the one at Riverley, but still bigger than most of the flats I’d lived in back in London. Three months ago, I’d been squatting in a former pub with Lenny and a bunch of losers, and now I got to hang out in places like this. Somebody pinch me.
Shiny grey tiles on the floor, white cabinets with granite counters, stainless-steel fittings… A centre island held an extra sink and a breakfast bar with four grey leather stools lined up underneath. And Rafael’s coffee machine rivalled Emmy’s for complexity. Better still, he knew how to use it.
“What do you want? Espresso? Americano? Cappuccino?”
“Americano.” I stepped forward and took a closer look at the bottles lined up on the counter. “Is that syrup?”
“Yes, and if you tell anyone I take my coffee like a girl, I’ll push you out of the plane without a parachute next time.”
That afternoon, I saw a different side of Rafael. He wasn’t chilled, far from it, but he was definitely less uptight than his usual swallow-coal-shit-diamonds. And I got yet another surprise when he led me out to his shooting barn. From the outside, it looked like one of those red-and-white Midwestern stereotypes with a high roof that sloped gently at the top and steeply at the sides. But inside…
“What the actual fuck?”
It wasn’t a shooting range. It was a bowling alley. A four-lane freaking bowling alley with pin-setters, horseshoe seating at the top of each lane, even a handful of arcade games. Plus a scoreboard in case Rafael wanted to start his own league. And a rack of bowling shoes.
“Now do you see why I didn’t want Bradley involved in my bathroom remodel? He’d probably put a water slide in the shower.”
Rafael pushed a button, and the barriers between the lanes lowered into the floor, as did the seats. Four shooting booths dropped from the ceiling in front of the pins, and the wall opposite them slid to the side in sections to reveal four rotating targets.
“This is… It’s… Wow.”
“Three days. I went home to Colombia for three days, and he did this.”
“Without asking?”
“He was rambling on about multifunctionality and style versus substance and modular design, but I was trying to focus on the job. So I just told him that as long as I could shoot in here, I didn’t care what it looked like.”
“Big mistake.”
“Huge.”
“It’s a fucking bowling alley.”
“Sí.”
I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. Rafael just stared at me, but honestly, this was too funny. There he was, one of the world’s most feared assassins, and he had to practise his trade next to a claw machine filled with cuddly toys.
“It’s not funny, pequeña perra.”
“It’s hilarious. Hey, at least you can brag that you’ve got the biggest balls.”
I doubled up again, and Rafael only scowled harder.
“I didn’t need this mierda to do that.”
“Can we go bowling?”
“Not today.”
“Hey, is that a popcorn machine?”
“We’re here to shoot.”
“I love popcorn.”
“Load the gun and shoot the targets, Sky.” He handed me a pair of fancy electronic earmuffs.
“Are you always this much fun?”
His gaze flicked to the ceiling. “Give me strength.”
“Can we have popcorn next time?”
“Next time, we’re practising outside at Riverley. I don’t care how wet it is.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll shoot. Fine.”
And I did. I shot, and I shot, and I shot. Standing up, sitting down, lying on my back. Marisol was right—the Smith & Wesson was good fun. Perhaps I even preferred it to the Walther. I practised drawing from my waistband, then Rafael found me a holster and I used that as well. I shot walking, running, and crouching. I hit the edges of the targets, then the outer rings, and finally the bullseyes. And then I caught the holster on one of the knobs on the fucking pinball machine, tripped over my feet, and put a round through the ceiling.
Ah, fuck.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” I stared in horror at the neat little bullet hole above my head.
Rafael merely shrugged. “You won’t make that mistake again.”
“I just shot your ceiling!”
“At least you didn’t shoot me.”
“But what if I did? What if I make another mistake?”
“You didn’t. Shit happens. That’s why it’s called training.”
“But—”
“Number-one rule: don’t dwell on things you can’t change. If you do that in the middle of a job, either you’re in jail or you’re dead.”
Logically, I understood that. But there was still a hole in the damn ceiling. How could I forget that? I’d fucked up. If I’d tripped sideways, or if Rafael had been standing somewhere else…
“Sky. Snap out of it.”
When I hesitated, Rafael huffed, then fired seven more shots with his own .22. Pop pop pop pop pop pop pop. I looked up and saw a smiley face staring back at me.
“Now we don’t even know which one was yours. Can we carry on?”
I just stared at him. “You shot your own ceiling?”
“Don’t worry; I’m sure Bradley can fix it. Take a deep breath and reload your gun, Sunshine.”
If there’d been any doubt in my mind as to how crazy Rafael was, it was completely erased after that little stunt. Not only because of the extra bullet holes or the grinning face, but because of how calm he’d been while he did it. And how accurate. I certainly wouldn’t want to face him down a gun barrel.
Hating the tremble in my hands, I reloaded and lined up my sights. It took me half a dozen tries before I hit the bullseye again, but I got there. And sagged in relief.
“Bueno,” Rafael said. “We’ll end today’s lesson there. Now it’s time for scuba diving.”
At that moment, simply drowning seemed like an attractive option. I was so exhausted I could barely lift my arms anymore.
“Hurrah.”
Rafael studied me. “You’re tired.”
“Ten out of ten for observation.”
“I have scuba kit here. We can do a short session and then have dinner.”
“You have a pool?”
“On the other side of the house. I got involved with the plans for that, so Bradley had limited scope to run wild. How do you feel about Colombian food?”
“Are you offering to cook?”
“You wouldn’t thank me for that.”
“So…takeout?”
“Grandma. She always cooks twice as much food as she needs.”
“I’d like to try Colombian food, but there’s one tiny flaw in your plan.”
Rafael raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
“You can use one of my sister’s. Or I can lend you shorts and a T-shirt.”
Despite the fact that I’d spent many, many nights in London wearing a glorified bikini top and a skirt that skimmed my ass, I suddenly felt sel
f-conscious. Somehow, it was easier to deal with being gawped at by strangers than by a man I knew.
“Can I borrow both?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“Okay, then I’ll stay for dinner. Thank you,” I added. Not only for offering to feed me, but also for trusting me with his family secrets. I’d do my best not to let him down.
Thunk.
What the hell just happened? Where was I? Moonlight shone through the curtainless window and glinted off a mirror hanging on the wall opposite. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, and then I realised I was lying on a fluffy rug that still had the new-carpet smell.
Oh, crap.
I’d passed out on Rafael’s sofa. Rather than waking me up and driving me home, he’d put a fleecy blanket over me and left me to sleep, which had worked out okay until I’d rolled over and hit the deck.
I sifted through hazy memories… A brief lesson on the basics of scuba, followed by learning how to put on all the kit and breathing underwater for a few minutes. The pool. The fucking pool. It was a work of art. Not the usual bright blue chlorinated rectangle, but a huge curved pond edged with weathered stone. Water lilies floated beside irises and flowering rushes in the shallow areas, and a pair of wooden steamer chairs sat on a weathered deck that overhung one side.
“This isn’t a swimming pool,” I’d said. “It’s a lake.”
“No, it’s a pool.”
“You designed this?”
He nodded. “A pump under the deck circulates the water, and the plants in the regeneration area clean it, so there’s no need to use chemicals.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Rafael shrugged. “I’m finally building the home I always wanted.” Was it me, or did he give the tiniest smile too? “But enough stalling. Get in the water.”
After scuba diving came a dinner of bandeja paisa—a massive platter of food with beans, rice, pork, chorizo, fried egg, avocado, arepa…the list went on. The whole evening was surprisingly pleasant. Comfortable. Perhaps I’d even been happy. Rafael put on a movie, him stretched out along one sofa and me on the other, and he was content to sit in silence rather than tiring me further with small talk the way some of my old flatmates used to.
