Page 23

“And what about the girl?” he asks.

My spine stiffens. I keep my expression ambiguous, eyes cold. “She’s still alive for now.”

“She’s still breathing? Why?!”

“Her mother is visiting from America.”

He scoffs, then leans back in his chair, the cigar smoke clouding around him. “So?”

“It complicates the situation. They spend all their time together. If I kill one, I would have to kill the other. It would increase our chances that someone might come looking for them.”

“Handle the girl,” he says stubbornly. “And the mother.”

I bite down hard on my jaw, offering no reply.

“You hesitate again,” he slurs, leaning forward and resting his elbow on his knee. He points at me with the fingers holding his cigar, his eyes blearier than ever. “I’ll find someone who won’t, Jin-tae. Seung-min would have it done in a few hours.”

The words land with a weight of finality.

Jae-hyun may be drunk and foolish, but he’s serious at this moment.

I give a small nod and then see myself out of his office.

It’s the only reaction I can give that doesn’t result in me unleashing what I truly want to do. It would be deeply satisfying to run him through with my blade and watch the drunken cockiness drain from his face.

Remind him that he forgets who I am. I’m no errand boy to be threatened and intimidated.

I climbed to the rank of Ho-gwi by being ruthless and fearsome. I always finish what I start, and I always win in the end.

If Jae-hyun wants Monroe dead, then I’ll kill her.

But not because I respect him. Because it’s the way of the Baekho Pa.

Monroe and her mother start the week at Gukje Market.

It’s Monday afternoon when I pick them out of the crowd. The stalls are packed with tourists and ajummas alike, bartering for sandals, knockoff purses and perfumes, and cheap produce.

Everywhere you go, you pick up on smells like fried batter and exhaust from the delivery trucks.

Monroe walks with her arm linked with her mother’s. She points out things of interest to her, the two chatty and jovial.

Her curls look like miniature springs, worn in not one afro puff today but two. One on each side of her head.

Normally I would think this style is childish, like a woman wearing pigtails.

Yet somehow Monroe makes it work. She gives effortless and happy energy in her sundress and big sunglasses.

Her mother can’t stop laughing at the quips she makes. They share a similar laugh.

It’s admittedly an infectious sound, like birdsong that grows on you against your will.

At one stall, she holds up a polka dot suit jacket with wide eyes and a dramatic face. Her mother doubles over with laughter, wheezing in a napkin she’d been using for some Dalgona honeycomb candy.

It’s a stupid joke between them. Something about an uncle of hers with flashy, gaudy style.

But as the women bask in their amusement, I can’t help noticing how it’s yet another sign of their bond. The kind of mother/daughter relationship many would pine for.

I also notice, not for the first time, that Monroe Ross is probably a woman many men go to great lengths to make laugh.