If he stretched up a bit, he could see Hugo on the other side of the straggly hedge, playing football with the neighbor’s kids, grassy knees and flushed cheeks. And through the kitchen window he could just make out the outlines of a curly head, Rasmus playing with his action figures at the kitchen table.

Piet Hoffmann took a deep breath of the warm and humid air.

Of course he had his doubts now and then.

He’d slammed the door to another life.

Sometimes he wanted to open it up again.

Feel. How he used to feel. Adrenaline rushing through him, impossible to turn it off, his heart pounding with aggression.

Now and then the past sought him out and tempted him with its rewards. Sometimes after the boys went to bed, he’d sit on the sofa with Zofia and admit just how much he longed for one more round. Just once more. Not for the cash. For the adrenaline, the high. To feel a little more, live a little more. An intermediary, that’s what they wanted when his past came looking for him. A guarantor for two parties. Most recently, brokering a deal between an amphetamine manufacturer in southern Slovenia and a major criminal network in central Sweden. His sole task would have been to vouch for both sides, be there during the agreement, and act as a bodyguard during the first trip. It was difficult to make Zofia understand how frustrating it was to see these jobs go to small-time dealers who weren’t nearly as good as he was, see them rake in the easy money for simple jobs.

But every time he got home, like now, right before he had to look Hugo and Rasmus in the eye, he knew for certain that he’d made the right choice.

And Luiza. Her eyes were just as steady and intense.

Luiza, who would soon have to prove that she could both babble and find a toy.

Besides, he knew if they ever caught him breaking the law again, they’d throw the book at him. He’d have to watch his sons and his daughter grow up from behind bars.

No missions, no weapons, no deaths.

Only this.

A house, a home, a family.

This was his life now.

“Hello?”

Piet Hoffmann shouted as he opened the front door. A few years ago, Rasmus would have come running with arms open wide. Now his youngest son was so immersed in his game that he didn’t even answer.

“Rasmus buddy? Hello? I’m home.”

“In the kitchen, Dad.”