"I assumed you were a smart woman," I snap harshly.
Her eyes flash to my face. "W-what?"
"A smart woman would pretend that there's nothing to see."
She takes a shuddering breath. "A smart woman would never have come aboard this yacht."
I smile. "Perhaps not."
She draws in another labored inhale, then asks, "So it's true? You're a… you're a Bratva don?"
"The kitchen staff talks," I mutter. "Far too much."
Jessa gnaws at the inside of her cheek. "That was all they told me."
"Somehow, I doubt that."
She nods fervently. "It's true. I pieced the rest together myself."
"Was that before or after you came for me?"
Her breathing is getting heavier. Her fingers keep twitching every few seconds but I doubt she even notices.
"My friend knows where I am," she blurts out. "I told him I took a job on a boat called The Medusa. I told him I'd call him right after. If anything happens to me, he'll know where to send the police."
I raise my eyebrows. "Was that your first time threatening someone?"
"I'd call it more of a warning."
"Not much difference, when it comes down to it."
She glances towards the dead body again. She mumbles something under her breath that I don't manage to catch.
"What was that?" I press, inching closer to her.
"'The maker of sad stories,'" she repeats, louder this time. "That's what you told me you were, back on the beach."
"I don't lie."
"You're honest, but murder is okay?"
"Every man has his principles."
"Then yours need some serious work," she spits. "Who was the boy?"
I arch an eyebrow. "You're really asking for more information?"
"He was the man's son, wasn't he?" She pushes on as though I haven't spoken. "You killed the man in front of his own kid."
"The boy needed a reality check. He will thank me one day."
She shakes her head in disbelief, in amazement. "How could you be so cruel?"
"There's no room for kindness in my world."
"You could make room," she insists. "It seems like you run this world, anyway."
I smile. "I'm glad you noticed."
"I'm not impressed, you know."
It's amusing watching the evolution of emotions on her face. She wears it all so clearly, so obviously. Fear and shock give way to anger and indignation.
The woman is certainly not a coward; I have to give her that. She's standing opposite me and holding her own despite what she's just seen. Despite the fact that the gun I used to kill a man is still warm on the table.
"You were impressed earlier in the evening," I remind her with a chuckle. "When you were screaming your pleasure at the sky."
Her anger gets more pronounced. "I didn't realize what you were."
"Which is what, exactly?" I ask.
"A cold-blooded murderer."
"You have an odd way of bargaining for your life," I say with amusement.
"Is that what I'm supposed to do now?" she asks. "Beg?"
I shrug. "It couldn't hurt."
She looks lost for a moment, caught between her pride and her desire to live. I give her the space to think, because she'll only get one chance at this.
As her gears whirl, I find myself contemplating the two alternatives at my disposal. The first is easy—slice her throat and dump her body into the ocean. No fuss, no clean-up necessary. The second is far messier. Letting her live but making sure she keeps her mouth shut.
One gives me peace of mind
The other gives me homework.
The decision should be easy. God knows I've made the same kind of choice again and again in the past, and I've always chosen the route of cleansing violence. And yet I find myself reluctant now to do what must be done, and I don't have a fucking clue why.
Strange.
"I won't go to the cops," she whispers. "I swear."
I laugh. "What assurance do I have of that?"
"Why would I get involved in this?" she asks. "All I want to do is go back home and pretend this day never happened."
"I'd rather you not pretend. I'd rather you just forget."
"Don't you think I'm going to be working towards that the moment I get off this godforsaken boat?" she demands. "Do you think I want to have nightmares for the rest of my life?"
Her eyes glance towards the body on the floor again. It's the most human reaction there is. The need to look at something that horrifies you. The need to try and make sense of something you don't quite understand.
"Please," she whimpers. "Just let me off this boat."
I sigh and reach forward to pluck the gun from the table. "I wish it were that simple, Jessa. But unfortunately, I'm not in the habit of losing sight of my wild cards."
"I'm not a wild card, I swear!" she protests. "I'm just… I'm just… average. Normal. I just want to pay my rent and go to work and keep my head down. I don't want this drama. God knows I have enough in my own life."
I take a step closer to her. "You can see how that would be difficult for me to believe?"
"Oh, right," she seethes, nostrils flaring. "I forgot. Your motto in life is 'don't trust anybody.' And given what I've seen here today, I'm starting to understand why."
She had a moment of shock, but she is recovering remarkably fast.
"What are you smirking about?" she snaps.
"I'm not."