Page 58 of Pretty Plaything

“My father.”

“Oh. I didn’t know your father was abusive. I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“He wasn’t.” I turn to face her. “It was all just a part of my training. He taught me how to survive. He taught me that one mistake could cost me my life. I’m the man who I am today thanks to him. I have the skills most people can only dream about.”

“How old were you then?” She cocks her head at me.

“Seventeen.”

“And you really think that helped you become better at what you do?”

“I do.”

“Well, that’s messed up. How old were you when you started training?”

She doesn’t understand. And how can she? She was raised to be a mafia princess, not a killer.

“I don’t know. Five, maybe.”

She gapes at me. “That’s insane.”

“No, it’s not. You have to start early if you want results.”

“Is that what your father said?”

“Maybe. What does it matter?”

She’s getting to me.

I don’t like it. I don’t like what she’s saying or what she’s implying.

She wrong.

I know she is.

“What about your first kill? Do you even remember it?” Her gaze is hard on mine.

“I do. I was seven. My father wanted me to take care of a mole. It was quick and easy. Just one shot to the head.”

Her mouth falls open, and she rubs the back of her neck.

“Don’t look so shocked,” I say. “It’s not like you didn’t know who I was before.”

“I did, but I never thought... I never thought your training started so early and that it was so...” She runs her tongue over her lower lip. “Intense.”

“Well, now you know.”

“But if you got punished when you failed, what happened when you succeeded? What was your reward?”

I crease my brow. “Reward? Knowing that I did the job right.”

Sadness fills her eyes.

Sadness that I don’t understand at all.

“So you risked your life and went through all that pain and torture for a sliver of your father’s affection.”

It’s not a question.