by Kenya Wright
After a month, no channel had said anything about the Vatican City or the missing school kids. Even crazier, no one ever wondered about those children. It was old news. Now a celebrity had been caught getting a blow job on camera by an underaged youth on a Paris elevator. Everyone turned to that.
By the second month, Emi had quit her job. I’d bought a house on the beach with an excellent view. We didn’t say the words, but I knew we’d officially moved in together. Like I told her before, she didn’t have any other options. I’d killed evil men to save her. I would kill to keep her at my side.
No other man could have her. She had to be mine.
By the third month, Emi had missed a period and I couldn’t wipe away the smile that spread across my face. So far it seemed like we had avoided our deaths and may have a life together. No one had come after us.
The only down side was that no one wanted me to host a party for them either.
No one had charged me for the crime, but the elite of the world knew that I’d been in charge of that party. Everyone kept their distance. Apparently, when one killed their last clients, others didn’t really want to do business with them. In fact, everybody was goddamned scared of me, and I couldn’t lie, I was pretty happy about that.
I just wanted to be left alone anyway. I was done with the parties and glamour life for a while. The beach and Emi called to me more than money and fame. Instead of imagining how I would design an event space, I wondered what the baby’s room would look like and what magic I would bring to his little life.
By the fourth month, Emi got scared and tried to walk away, but I begged her to not be afraid and we made love so much, that I bet even the little fetus rocked asleep in her womb.
By the fifth month, I used my manicured hands to build her a writing space. It looked a bit shabby and unskilled, but she loved it anyway. Some of our friends even cracked jokes, but it didn’t matter. Every day, she wrote in that room and every day, it filled me with pride.
By the sixth month, I dropped to my knees and asked her to marry me.
By the seventh month, she had my last name.
By the end of the year, I couldn’t remember ever being without her or my son, Roman Jr., who my sweet Emi had nicknamed, Butter.
