Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Ntandoyenkosi Zulu

Last night I gave Hlelo all of me. I didn't hold back—not because I was fearless, but because tonight could be the last night I get to be soft. We've danced around confession and promises, but there's a line I can't cross with words. Actions do the talking for me, and tonight the job talks louder than anything else.

I woke before dawn. The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your chest and makes your lungs work harder. I showered quick—water slapping my skin like a warning—and when I stepped out she was there, eyes puffy but warm. She stepped into the shower with me without a word. The steam wrapped around us like something halfway between comfort and suffocation.

I washed her back because it felt like the only honest thing I knew how to do. My hands moved on muscle and memory, slow and sure. She leaned into the touch, tiredness heavy behind her eyes. For a moment the world narrowed to the press of skin against skin, the rise and fall of breath. I wanted to hold her there forever. But there are things you can't keep forever.

A cold thread of dread ran through me—tonight could go wrong. We'd planned too well for the nerve to leave room for doubt. A CIT hit is a different breed of job; everything had to be tight. There was no turning back now.

Halfway through rubbing the soap between my palms, I asked the stupidest, most honest question I could think of. "Hlelo—if I died, would you be okay?"

She clicked her tongue like I'd interrupted her mid-thought and pulled away, irritation sharp and quick. "Ntando, ungani nyanyisi — why would you die?" Her voice sounded annoyed, the way it always did when she wanted to push fear away with strength. Then she walked out, hair damp, shoulders squared as if showing me she could carry what life threw at her.

After the shower she ate a little, but she looked worn. Sleep called to her like a medicine, and she went to lie down. I watched her go and felt the weight of all the promises I'd made—some mine, some my brother's—settle in my chest.

I dressed in black—tracksuit, hoodie, boots—clothes that let you move without asking questions. I went to my office, the room that smelled faintly of old paper and plans. I opened the closet and took out the bag we always used for these things. I checked the weapons like a man checking his luck; no details, no fuss, just a quick look to be sure the tools of the trade were where they needed to be. My hands were steady, but my mind wasn't.

I sat down and took a pen and a piece of paper, because some part of me wanted an apology to live on if my own story ended tonight. I couldn't say the things out loud. I couldn't look her in the eye and tell her I was going. I'd learned to keep some truths in the dark.

Dear Hlelo lwami,
By the time you read this, I might be gone. I couldn't stand to look you in the eye and say I was leaving for a job. I know you'll be angry—hell, you'll be furious—and you have every right to be. This is who I am. I am sorry for the fear I bring into your life and for the nights I steal from you. Take care of yourself. Finish school. Don't let my choices ruin what I didn't build for you.

If I don't come back, know that I loved you. I meant it, every small, rough thing of it. Forgive me where I have failed.

— Ntando

I folded the note and tucked it into my pocket, the paper warm against my thigh. My thumb rubbed the creased edge like a man trying to feel for a heartbeat.

I kissed the corner of the note the way I might have kissed her forehead if she were awake. I left the apartment quiet, careful not to wake the house. The city hadn't yet come alive; the streets were a dark ribbon of possibilities and threats. I climbed into my car, the engine sounding too loud in the empty morning, and felt the old weight tighten around my shoulders.

We had plans to make, roles to play, exits to remember. I took one last breath and thought of the gentle curve of her smile, the way she laughed when she'd told me I was selfish. I drove toward the day, toward what we'd prepared for, and for the first time in a long time I felt both fear and something like peace.

Let's go do this, I told myself—not a boast, but a promise.