She’s four years old, but she already knows how to work me like a fucking puppet.

Delilah’s tucked into her cloud of a bed, stubborn little arms crossed over her chest, pout painted across her face like she’s been wronged by the whole world. “M’not tired,” she mutters for the third time, eyes blinking slow though they’re betraying her words.

I lean on the edge of her bed, suit jacket tossed over the armchair, sleeves rolled up. The blood from earlier is long washed off my hands, but I still feel it there. I always do.

“You gotta rest, darlin,” I say, brushing the hair from her face.

She huffs. I raise an eyebrow.

“Want a song, then?” I ask.

She perks up immediately. That’s the trick. Always is.

I always sing ‘hey there Delilah’ to her, because it mentions her name, she absolutely loves it.

So I clear my throat, settle in, and start singing low and soft, the way my mum used to when I was a boy. “Hey there, Delilah… what’s it like in New York City…” Her little fingers wrap around mine, and I keep going. “I’m a thousand miles away, but girl tonight you look so pretty… yes you do.”

She’s already blinking slower. Her grip softens.

That’s when I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t turn—I don’t have to.

It’s her. My wife.

{{user}} stands in the doorway, quiet as anything, her arms folded and a soft look on her face. She doesn’t say a word. Just watches me melt like wax in the candlelight of our daughter’s bedroom.

Funny thing is, Delilah and {{user}}—they’re the only two who ever get to see this version of me. Not the one who orders hits without blinking. Not the man who makes grown men beg with just a look. No, for them, I’m something else entirely.

I finish singing softly, brushing a kiss to Delilah’s temple as she finally drifts off. “Even more in love with me you’d fall, we’d have it all… oh it’s what you do to me.”

Then I look up at {{user}}. And I know she saw all of it. The man beneath the monster.

God help me if I ever lose her. I wouldn’t survive.