He had the physique of the kind of men I paid for whenever I had the urge. Yet he was so different. His blue eyes gleamed with intelligence, and the way he carried himself radiated sophistication.
I tugged the photo from the frame and slipped it into my pocket, telling myself it was a test to see how observant he was. Would he realize it was gone and figure out someone had been inside his home?
Focus, Sergei. You’re not here to admire a widower’s bone structure.
His office sat at the rear of the house, the door half open. I slipped inside and, fucking hell, had an honest-to-goodness erection at how exact everything was. Shelves were aligned in perfect symmetry. Medical texts tabbed, with their edges flush with precision. Framed certifications were leveled exactly on the wall with no tilt or dust. The surface of the desk was immaculate. Even the pens were parallel and facing the same direction.
I knew he was meticulous, but I hadn’t known he was this deliberate about it. This wasn’t casual neatness but an architecture of thought. A mind that required structure the way others required air. It was discipline bordering on obsession, and I found myself wanting to understand the mind that required this much order to function.
I set my tool bag beside the desk and took in the diplomas lining the wall to the right. Medical school from a top-tier institution, residency completed with honors, and a fellowship in cardiothoracic surgery. Dates were paced evenly across the years with no gaps. There were also certificates in advanced surgical techniques and robotics training. Continuing education credits were renewed like clockwork.
He hadn’t plateaued. Every few years, he’d gone back to sharpen his mind.
Fuck, I couldn’t help being impressed.
His shelves were full of science texts, medical journals stacked chronologically, and encyclopedias on anatomy and surgical innovation. They weren’t just for decoration either. The spines were creased and flagged.
I moved to an adjacent bookshelf, which seemed more personal. Biographies dominated the top two shelves—scientists, physicists, and pioneers in medicine. People who pushed boundaries and endured isolation for their work. A few volumes were on leadership, one on decision-making under pressure, and two on meditation and cognitive discipline. They showed more order again.
My gaze snagged on something mid-shelf, slightly recessed as if it had been pushed back unconsciously. It didn’t fit the image of Leo, the man who was anal about his life. The title was about rebuilding intimacy and repairing connection in a marriage.
Had the doctor and his husband been having problems?
I’d learned that they’d had somewhat of an open marriage. The arrangement itself didn’t bother me, but it didn’t seem to click with the doctor’s persona. Or maybe I’d built up an image of him too soon. Everyone had vices, and I hadn’t discovered the doctor’s yet.
The sound of an engine cut through the stillness, and I cocked my head. It was closer than it should have been. I shoved my bag beneath the desk and moved into the hall. Through the glass panel beside the front door, I saw Leo’s BMW roll into the driveway.
Fuck.
I scanned around for the best solution to avoid getting caught. The distance to the back exit was too far. The window in the dining room was possible, but it would expose me to the neighbor with the hydrangeas.
Leo stepped out of the car quickly, his sunglasses gone, his face pale, and his jaw tight. He ran straight toward the front door. I withdrew the gun tucked into my waistband. If he walked in and saw me, I would have no choice but to send him to join his husband.
I backed up into the living room, flattening myself againstthe wall beyond the sightline of the entrance. From here, I could intercept him if necessary. Close range. Clean shot. The suppressor would muffle it enough that neighbors might dismiss the sound.
The front door unlocked.
Opened.
Closed.
Footsteps fast, uneven, almost stumbling, rushed inside. Leo dashed past the entrance without looking left or right. He barreled straight into the half bath across from the foyer. A beat passed, then the sound of violent retching.
I lowered the muzzle a fraction, controlling my breathing as my pulse fluttered in my neck. The retching went on longer than I would have hoped before tapering off into silence broken by the rush of water. The faucet ran for a few seconds before shutting off.
I waited for the familiar reset, the careful reconstruction of composure I had come to expect from him. Instead, a fractured inhale slipped through the open door. It caught halfway, as if his lungs refused to cooperate. Another followed, sharper this time, developing into uncontrollable sobs. The sound seemed to be dragged from somewhere deep inside his chest, as if finally free after being suppressed for so long.
My grip on the gun tightened, reflexively anchoring myself in something cold and familiar. Steel made sense. Someone else’s grief did not, and I didn’t know how to react to it. It left an uncomfortable sensation in my chest.
He tried to stifle the sound of his crying, but it didn’t work. The next sob broke through unbridled. He was alone in there, and that fact pressed against me with unease. He had no family present to comfort him. No friend to murmur reassurance. No coworker to remind him to breathe. Just tile, plumbing, and the echo of his own grief bouncing back at him.
Maxim had tasked me with determining whether Leo posed a threat. I had studied his routines, tracked his movements, and mapped his habits, but threats didn’t unravel like this. The man was shattered because we’d killed his husband, and he had to live with the lie that the man he loved died by suicide after being rejected by someone else.
I could have moved then, while he was distracted, vulnerable, and unaware of my presence. A single step forward, a suppressed shot, and the assessment would have ended permanently. We wouldn’t have to guess anymore what he was capable of.
Instead, I remained where I was, listening to him break apart and despising the uncertainty buried inside my chest.
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