I haven’t yet gotten used to saying the name out loud, but it dances on my tongue, waiting to be spoken.
When my father had first mentioned the name during our final briefing in his office a week ago, it held no meaning beyond the facts of who she was.
“The daughter of Joaquin Moreno?” I asked.
“The same,” Stanislav replied. “She is your next mission.”
Something in his tone stuck out to me. Extra gravity in my father’s voice. Extra importance attached to this mission.
I frowned. “You want me to kill some innocent girl?”
“Kill her? No, Artem, I don’t want you to kill her.”
He’d paused just then and looked at me over the tops of the glasses he’d refused to wear for the longest time.
Whatever somberness was in his voice was in his eyes, too. They flashed—dark like mine, and just as co
