Page 142 of This Life of Mine

My breath catches. “He didn’t authorize it?”

“No,” Alex says. “Reese compared the signatures. They’re close—good enough to fool banks at a glance. But not good enough to fool someone searching for patterns. The differences are subtle, but they’re there.”

Forgery. Premeditation.

Suddenly, the room feels frigid.

“So what happens next?” I ask.

Alex meets my gaze. “We keep digging.”

I nod. “Tomorrow’s Monday. The shop’s closed.” I draw breath. “Whatever I need to do…I’ll do it.”

Alex studies me like he’s measuring the impact of that promise. Then I ask what’s been sitting on my chest since we left the shop.

“Where is he?” I ask.

The intruder. The hitman.

Alex’s jaw tightens before he shakes his head. “He’s been taken care of,” he says.

I don’t push. I don’t want the details. I understand there are parts of this world that aren’t meant for me, even if I’m standing close to it now.

“Okay,” I say.

It’s all too much—layers of betrayal, danger, money, secrets—but I do what I’ve always done. I tuck it into mental boxes. Label them. Stack them neatly and I move forward.

We sit there for a moment, the house quiet around us.

Then I ask the question that actually scares the fuck out of me.

“What are we, Alex? Where do we go from here?” Alex looks up.

I swallow, forcing myself to keep going. “I know there’s an endgame here. You live in Queens. You’re not here permanently.” I twist my fingers together. “I’d rather not do this if it’s temporary. I can handle danger and chaos.” I watch him closely now. “I prefer not to be heartbroken.”

The words hang between us, leaving me unexpectedly exposed.

“I’ve already survived enough,” I add softly. “I’m not interested in pretending this is something real if it’s not.”

A quiet lull hangs between us.

This isn’t about contracts, threats, or money. It’s about us. I’m not asking to be protected. I’m asking to be chosen.

He gently pulls me close, as if he’s deliberately giving me the opportunity to back away. I don’t.

“Do you want this to be something?” he asks, surveying my face.

The question isn’t casual. It’s careful. Earnest. It lands right in the center of my chest.

“Can you trust me?” he continues. “Can you live with who I am…and what I do?”

I don’t answer right away. I want to be honest with myself before I’m honest with him.

I think about what he’s really asking of me.

I know he’s my protector. The man who stood in the dark and watched over me. The one who didn’t flinch when he told me who he really was, and didn’t soften the truth to make it easier to swallow. And trust isn’t blind for me anymore. It’s earned.

“You didn’t lie to make me feel safe when I asked you to be honest,” I say. “You told me the truth when it mattered. Even when it cost you.”