“You’re not having me watched anymore?”
“I am, but they keep their distance—and I won’t.” He cuts into a piece of bacon, then looks up. “It’s for your safety, ptichka.”
His voice is soft but firm, utterly inflexible. He’s not going to compromise on this, and for some reason, I’m okay with that. Instead of making me feel restrained and controlled, his pathological need to protect me fills me with a kind of bubbly warmth. I’ll never forget how it felt when the two methheads tried to rob me by the clinic, and as traumatic as it was when Peter killed them, in hindsight, I’m grateful he was there. Besides—
“Are you expecting any trouble?” I ask as the thought pops into my head. “I mean, you must have quite a few enemies, with your former profession and all…”
He puts down his fork and meets my gaze. “It’s always a possibility, ptichka, I can’t lie. That’s why I’m not going to take the security team off you—and why I created a new identity before coming here. I didn’t want anyone in my former life to connect Peter Garin in the suburbs of Chicago with Peter Sokolov the assassin. In fact, part of the deal I made with the authorities is that Peter Sokolov no longer exists. He’s listed as deceased in FBI, CIA, and Interpol records, as are Yan and Ilya Ivanov and Anton Rezov. The amnesty deal itself is highly classified, with only a few high-ranking individuals in the FBI and CIA privy to all the terms. The rest, like Agent Ryson, were told to just back off and keep their mouths shut. Of course, Esguerra and Kent know who I am, and there’s always a chance I’ll be spotted and identified by a former client or some such. However, unlike my name, my face wasn’t widely known, and in any case, the chance of a random encounter with someone from my former life is small—especially in this part of the world.”
“Oh. Wow.” Until this moment, I didn’t realize the full scope of the impossible deal he made. “How did you get them to agree to all this? I mean, I know you said this Esguerra has leverage, but…” I trail off as Peter’s expression noticeably darkens.
“Your government had conditions of their own for me,” he says tightly. “But it’s nothing that needs to concern you, ptichka. Suffice it to say, the US military is one of Esguerra’s biggest clients, and they want to maintain that amicable relationship, both because they want the weapons he produces and because they want to keep those weapons out of others’ hands.”
“By buying them up themselves?”
Peter nods and resumes eating. “Exactly.”
There’s a grim edge to his expression, and as much as I want to pry further, I know I need to back off. Watching him finish his food, I have the unsettling sensation that a wild animal has invaded my cramped kitchen, a predator who belongs out in the jungle. I’ve seen him in domestic settings before, of course, but it feels different this time, knowing that he’s here for good, that this big, lethal man is going to be part of my regular life… part of my family.
My mind starts to spin again, and I push my nearly empty plate away. “Peter… How is this going to work?” At his questioning look, I clarify, “What am I going to tell my parents? The FBI probably showed them your picture at some point. Even if I introduce you as Peter Garin, they’re bound to suspect who you really are—especially since I kept insisting that you’ll be back when the misunderstanding with the FBI is resolved.”
The grim look leaves his face, replaced by one of dark amusement. “Well, that’s just perfect then, isn’t it?” Reaching across the table, he covers my hand with his palm. “You’ll just tell them that the misunderstanding finally got resolved—and that I got a new last name in the process.”
“Uh-huh. And what about their friends, who’ve heard a version of that same story, and what about my friends, who were told a completely different version—one in which you’re nothing more than my kidnapper? What are they all going to think when I show up with this”—I lift my left hand, displaying my ring—“out of the blue, and introduce a Russian fiancé named Peter who looks suspiciously like a picture FBI agents might’ve been passing around when I disappeared?”
He squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry about them, ptichka. Their opinions don’t matter. Just tell them I’m someone you’ve been secretly dating for a few months, and let them draw their own conclusions.”
“What conclusions? That I’m fucked in the head? Or that I have a fetish for Russian men who share the same darkly handsome looks and happen to be named Peter?”
He grins and gets up, picking up his plate and mine. “Either way works. Just don’t confirm anything. Let them think I’m in some kind of witness protection program, and you can’t really talk about it.”