His expression loses some of its soft warmth and goes back to its harsher, set-in-stone look.
“Shooting? Since I was a boy, when my father taught me to handle an old service rifle,” he explains to me, ever patient with me, even if he is the merciless angel of death to others. “If you mean life as a criminal, longer still.”
He hands me a clip and teaches me how to unload and load the gun.
“Did you have a hard life then?” I ask, even if part of me says it’s probably not a thing to talk about.
“My father was a criminal piece of shit from the day I was born. He only looked after me because of the benefits from the state it earned him. And then when the old government fell, he kept me around to help him rob homes, stores, and even graves,” he says, an obvious lack of love for his father in his words.
“You robbed graves?” I say, my nose crinkling at the thought. As if that’s the worst thing I know him to have done.
“Da,” he says, then instructs me to try my shooting again.
“They were ugly times. Honest working people found themselves struggling to survive for the first time in generations,” he explains to me before getting me to go through the practice routine once more. “But my father was made for such times. He had never lasted a full day in a factory or office. He knew how to make a living from chaos and despair.”
I frown a little at that thought. Making a living from chaos and despair?
“So he’s what got you into organized crime?” I ask.
“Not entirely. Now again,” he says, and I shoot once more, three more shots as I advance on the target. “I left home to get away from my father as soon as I could. Joined the army. Fought Chechens in a bombed out hole that was once their home. Saw war and ugliness that even my father couldn’t fathom,” he says, and I can see the darkness in his eyes, like tunnels into his soul gouged out by a hard life of pain. Received and given.
It all kind of falls into place. I understand, now, how he can do what he does. Why he must. I lived a pretty cushy life, all told. Sure, I struggled and felt loss. I mourned for a long time when Dad died, and then I had to start caring for Mom, and I know I’ve complained about that to anyone who’d listen. My studies in college to become a doctor, or at least a pharmacist or chemist, were hampered by my need to look after my mom and pay the bills.
But his life is like something I couldn’t even consider, and I have a newfound respect for how he did what he had to. He’s been so cold and hard throughout his entire life, betrayed by the people who were supposed to have his back.
And then I waltzed into his life; maybe that can help him?
Maybe, after all this settles down, and if we survive the next few days, I could really be a person that he can come to count on and respect.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
And I did it. I managed to hit the target twice as I advanced on it, leaving the long fence with a few less picket tips.
“I-” but before I can declare my victory, he claims me in an embrace again, holding me in his arms, kissing me. He takes his time, his strong hands rubbing at my shoulders and spine until finally I melt. And only then does he relent.
“When this is done, and your life is safe from Gregorovich,” he says, peering into my eyes with those two dark tunnels into his soul, “I will marry you. And we will live in a beautiful home, with the sound of many little feet running about us. And your mother will stay in a guest suite. I will make a life with you, like I had no inkling of knowing I needed all these years.”
I can feel a sob threatening me, happy tears springing to my eyes before I blink them away. I didn’t even know I wanted a life like that, a life with a killer, a life with him.
But when he says it, I know it’s all I’ve ever wanted and never knew I did. Someone I can be totally honest with, someone who can share in all the pain and joy of life and never abandon me. Someone who can protect me and love me, no matter what happens.
And if we could survive the last couple weeks together, we can survive anything that comes our way.
His mouth presses in against mine, tender and soft, filled with such affection, and my tongue meets his in kind.
When he breaks the kiss again, his words coming out gravelly and low, I’m stunned by what he has to say.
“Man of power or simple means, I love you, will love you for all time, and I will protect you, Alicia.”
There’s no way I can hold back the tears now, so I quickly swipe under my eyes as my lips tremble. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
This murderer is in love with me.
“I’m in love with you, too,” I say back, before I can even think about it.
His chiseled face breaks with a genuine smile, unlike any I’d ever seen him bear. But the touching moment is all too short, as the sound of crunching gravel and the lights of an approaching vehicle light up the unpaved back road, and I raise my gun with a newly blossomed instinct for survival.