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J ohn was stoked. Finally, he was closing in on his prey.

He pulled into a parking place in the shadow of a large tree, not that his quarry could see him, parked around the corner.

That shriveled old fop was probably congratulating himself for being so smart.

Marco Barbieri’s plane from Italy had landed six hours ago, and the old coot had been cruising in big circles around the boroughs of New York City in a taxi ever since he emerged from the airport.

He’d changed cabs several times, but he always carried that traitorous RF trace with him, the one that John had arranged to have planted deep in the wheel mechanism of his trolley.

That trace had led John right to the small upstate town of Hempton, New York.

It was the asshole’s own fucking fault for trusting his domestic staff back at the ancient palazzo in Castiglione Santangelo. All it had taken was some money to get the device planted in Barbieri’s suitcase. And not even that much.

John slunk along the spiked wrought-iron fence that lined the street, staying in the shadows of overhanging shrubs, wary of ubiquitous security cameras. The taxi was pulling away now. Turning the corner.

Barbieri climbed the steps slowly and stood outside the door. His movements seemed nervous and hesitant.

John was flushed with triumph. He’d found the elusive, long-lost Contessa at last. Marco Barbieri’s long-ago runaway bride. Of course, she’d be a shriveled hag now, which was a big shame when one calculated the job’s basic fun factor. But even so, she was still the key to the treasure.

Marco Barbieri himself knew jack-shit about that treasure. Barbieri was all played out. Ripe for the coroner’s slab. But the Contessa was another story.

The Contessa would know what John’s boss needed to know.

Why else would she have run away so far, and stayed away so long?

She’d been gone for more than half a lifetime from Castiglione Santangelo, which was widely considered to be an earthly paradise.

It certainly was compared to a nowhere little town in upstate New York.

Nobody did that without a good reason. His hands twitched with eagerness to pry the knowledge out of her by force. That was his gift. His happy place.

The door opened. He saw a rectangle of light, a tall, narrow female form silhouetted against it. The two figures stared at each other, motionless. John squinted in the dark. It was too far to be sure, but saliva still pumped into his mouth.

They were speaking in low tones. John wished he’d been able to plant a listening device in that suitcase, but chances were good that they were speaking Italian anyhow.

He’d get the Contessa to give him a detailed transcript of their entire conversation in English, word for word.

After a few minutes of John’s special talents, and the old bitch would walk on her hands and bark like a dog if he said so.

He enjoyed that part of his work perhaps a little more than he should, but no one had to know how much he enjoyed himself on the job except for his victims.

God knows, they weren’t telling.

He steeled himself to wait. Killing Barbieri in front of the Contessa would put her in just the right mind-set for his interrogation, but it would make a hell of a mess.

John was capable of patience when the situation warranted it.

Still, his employer had been waiting for decades.

He was cranky and bad-tempered from waiting.

Both of them were eager to pick up the pace.

John drifted like a big ghost up the stairs, pulling on his mask.

It was unnecessary, since the Contessa would not live out the night, but John had found over time that the mask unleashed him, in some obscure and pleasurable way.

While masked, he abandoned his mortal self and became Death itself.

He was the Grim Reaper, in flesh and blood.

It made him buzz with almost sexual anticipation.

He heard voices behind the door and the soft click of locks disengaging. John slunk to put his back to the wall, reining in the blood-drinking beast inside him. No knives or guns tonight. If Barbieri’s blood was spilled here, it would narrow John’s options afterward.

The instant the old man stepped out the door, John seized him. A sharp wrench, a strangled grunt, the wet crunch of a spine snapping—like a neck-wrung chicken.

“Marco!” The old woman sprang out the door. “No!” she shrieked. “Assassino! Aiuto! Help!” She lunged at him, clawing at his face.

He jerked back, startled at her attack, and dropped Barbieri’s limp body. The Contessa’s shrill cry broke off as he batted her back into her house. She lost her balance, fell to the floor, and scrambled back, crablike. She huffed as he landed heavily on top of her, knocking the wind out of her.

He clapped his hand over her trembling mouth. Feeling her ribcage hitch and jerk, desperate for oxygen. Soft, wrinkled skin beneath his hot, wet palm. He pinned her flailing hands. Her long white hair had come loose. Her frail body vibrated with terror.

He was grinning widely beneath the mask, heart thudding. He couldn’t get enough of it.

“Not as fresh as I like,” he mused aloud.

“You must’ve been good-looking about a century ago, eh?

But I’m a professional. I find my inspiration where I need to.

” He yanked out the first implement that came to hand, a hooked blade, and waved it in front of her eyes.

“So, Contessa. Let’s talk about those sketches. ”

Her eyes widened in horror. “What…what sketches?” She had a faint accent.

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play dumb. You’ll tell, Contessa. You’ll tell.”

Something flashed in her eyes, despite her fear. Something ironic—almost like amusement. She gave him a firm, resigned little head shake. No.

Laughing at him. That uppity dago bitch actually dared to laugh at him. Like she thought she was smarter than him. Better than him.

Killing rage was like rocket fuel. It went beyond inspiration now.

He would carve every last bit of knowledge out of the uppity old whore, piece by piece.

He lunged close, digging the blade into the flesh beneath her eye—and realized that she was no longer looking at him.

She seemed to have forgotten that he existed entirely.

She was staring at the ceiling now, gasping for air. Her lips purple.

He rolled off her, and her hand flew to her chest. Clutching, rubbing. Pounding, weakly against her heart.

Oh, Christ. A fucking heart attack? Now? No fucking way.

He leaned over and slapped her face to get her attention. “You useless, troublesome bitch,” he said.

Her eyes focused on him with some difficulty. His heightened predator senses felt her slipping away to someplace where he could not follow. He sensed rather than saw the hint of triumph in her eyes before they rolled up, went blank and empty. Gone.

She’d croaked, just to spite him. And now old Barbieri was dead, too.

The boss was not going to be happy. He did not feel like the embodiment of Death now. He felt like a dumb, clumsy dickhead who’d been brutally fucked with.

He touched the Contessa’s throat. No pulse. Stone dead.

He suppressed the intense urge to mutilate their corpses. That would be undisciplined. A tantrum. He didn’t allow himself tantrums anymore. Too risky.

He got up, panting, and looked around. He needed a plan of action, another lead.

A swift search of Barbieri’s suitcase and briefcase yielded no insights.

They’d fucked him good. The room was empty but for a writing table, a few carefully lit art pieces, and three envelopes on the table—stamped and ready.

The one he picked up was addressed to Nancy D’Onofrio.

He ripped it open and squinted at the antique cursive script.

My dearest Nancy,

I’m afraid what I have to tell you will come as a shock. I'm sorry to have to tell you in a letter. I wanted to speak to all three of you in person, but after my cardiologist appointment last week, I decided I can’t risk waiting until I have all three of my precious girls together in one room…

Girls? His head lifted like an animal scenting prey. His eyes lit on a shelf crowded with photographs.

He went over to study them more closely. Sure enough. Three young women smiled out of the picture frames. Pretty young women. Too young to be the dead bitch’s daughters. Granddaughters, maybe.

Fresh meat. And their addresses, written right there on the letters. Sweet detail.

He stared at the images. He was breathing hard.

In one photo, a luscious girl with big dark eyes and long, curly dark hair was curled up in a window seat, reading.

Another picture featured a tall, smiling girl with auburn hair who held a calico cat up beneath her chin.

A slim waif with red hair wearing a slinky evening gown gestured proudly toward a huge abstract sculpture that towered behind her.

All three had bright, sparkling eyes, rosy lips, expanses of smooth, unmarked skin. Curves and hollows, for him to pinch and squeeze.

Those girls would walk on their hands and bark like dogs for him, too. He’d find the old man’s long-sought prize, earn his fee, and have a fine, juicy time doing it.

So much saliva exploded into his mouth, he started to dribble. He licked his lips and wiped his chin. He knew better than to leave genetic material for the forensic types to test.

Finally, this job was starting to get interesting.