Page 13 of Stalk (Assassin’s Kiss Duet #1)

Mattia

I can’t explain why exactly, but I really , really want to bash his face into the wall.

When I finally got a good look at him in the kitchen with my hand wrapped around his slim throat, he looked up at me with terrified eyes that threatened to bug out from his eye sockets.

The phrase that Americans use comes to mind…

like a deer in the headlights. At first, I couldn't tell if he was a man or a woman. There’s this…

androgino look to him. After I first looked him up and down, I thought he looked more feminine.

Confused as I was, I don’t really care about appearances.

What I do care about is that he acts as though he is too stunned to do his job, and that is fucking odd for an assassin.

As we make our cautious escape from Helena’s apartment, down the hall and down the stairs, I keep stealing glances at him.

Not only is he quite feminine, but there is an admittedly appealing multi-ethnic look to him.

I don’t want to stare, despite not being able to help my annoying, wayward glances.

My annoyance overpowers whatever curiosities I may have.

He was not supposed to be there tonight.

Even more aggravating, though, he put up no fight when I trapped him.

He didn’t even ask to kill Helena. All the assassins I know would have fought for the pleasure of taking a life.

I know I would have if he’d argued. Paranoia tingles in the center of my chest. Perhaps I was too trusting of this stranger?

Maybe he isn’t an assassin. Maybe he’s been playing me the whole time.

The paranoia grows and ignites anger inside of me.

The second we make it to the ground floor and are about to exit, I grab him harshly by the wrist.

“What now?” he seethes, grinding his teeth together.

It takes a lot of self-control not to bitch slap him. Instead, I force in a ragged breath. “We need to talk. Somewhere public.”

“Um.” His brow furrows. “No.”

I can’t help the broad grin that stretches across my face. “I was not asking. Take us to a restaurant. I don’t care where. Otherwise, I will follow you all the way home and you will be my second soul to take tonight.”

He audibly gulps, and a couple of thin veins bulge in his neck. “Fine.”

Without elaboration, he leads us out of the apartment, back onto the city streets. The sky is almost dark now, with a vague hue of daylight still lingering like an afterthought.

As I follow the stranger in front of me, weaving in between friends and lovers walking to dinner and swerving around trash in the street, it occurs to me that Marco is more than likely tracking my location.

He’ll either show up before we get to wherever we’re going, or he’ll give me the benefit of the doubt and wait for me to contact him.

All I know is I can’t send a simple text message to him now, not with my trying to follow whatever his name is who’s walking like he’s being stalked by a serial killer or some shit.

Well, I suppose that’s not too far-fetched, really.

Finally, after racing around for six blocks, he comes to an abrupt stop outside of a tiny Mexican restaurant. The aroma of fresh salsa and gooey cheese leaks out from the open door to the sidewalk, and my mouth waters despite knowing I’m not here for pleasure.

Without sparing me a backwards glance, he walks into the restaurant with me on his heels. He may be shit at the whole killing thing, but he’s fast, I’ll at least give him that.

Before I know it, we’re being guided to a small, rickety wooden table in one corner of the restaurant. As soon as we’re seated, my knee bumps the table and it shakes. I exhale a sigh of relief, happy to finally be still for a minute.

The host passes us a couple of greasy menus, then takes his leave.

When the host is gone, I send a quick text off to Marco, roll my shoulders back and stretch my arms above my head.

When I come back to reality, pensive green eyes stare back at me.

He crosses his arms and his nostrils flare.

He’s pissed and doesn’t want to be here.

I couldn’t care less.

“Are the margaritas good here?” I ask, curious to see if my casual demeanor will push his buttons even more.

The nostrils flare again, and I bite down on my lower lip to keep my smile at bay. He makes it so easy to fuck with him. Almost like he’s asking for it.

“I’ve only been once, so I don’t know,” he bites out.

I nod and scan the menu. Eventually, a waitress comes over to us with two glasses of water, a basket of chips, and a small cup of salsa.

“What can I get you all started with?” she asks.

“Two margaritas, per favor. On the rocks. With salt.”

She nods and walks away, her long ponytail swaying behind her.

“You don’t even know if I drink.”

This time, I do smile. “If you don’t drink it, I will.” I dunk a warm chip into the salsa and pop it in my mouth. This apparently sets him off more than my baiting him.

“How can you do that after what we just did?” he grumbles lowly.

My eyebrows raise. “Do what? ”

“Eat!” he hisses.

I stare at him, utterly confused. “It’s dinnertime.”

His face falls to his hands as he shakes his head.

His silky black hair shines in the overhead light, almost looking blue.

I’m at a loss. Supposedly, this person does the same thing I do for a living.

If I hadn’t killed Helena, he would have.

What’s the big deal? Honestly, his hissy fit is annoying the hell out of me.

Sure, purposely annoying him was more than fun, but I didn’t expect…

this. Then again, everything about tonight has not gone according to plan.

“You take souls for a living. Yes or no?” I ask quietly after he doesn’t lift his face back up for too long.

Finally, I receive a nod.

“Then why are you acting like you just ran over my puppy?”

That makes his head snap back up. Anger lies beneath his bright irises. Too bad this guy doesn’t scare me for shit. He may think he’s being intimidating, but his attempt just amuses me.

“How can you talk about it so—so lightly?”

I blink. “I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

He swallows roughly and looks away. Like divine intervention, our waitress comes back to our table with two very large margaritas right when an awkward silence builds in the space between us.

Thank God.

The waitress asks if we want to order anything else, and I turn her away as politely as possible given my current aggravation.

Despite my current hangryness, it’s apparent that my strange companion has no interest in eating, so I’ll just grab something with Marco after we’re finished here.

Once the waitress walks away, before I can even bring my drink closer to my side of the table, he snatches his glass up and brings the rim to his lips, taking a long pull. Alrighty, then. Someone’s stressed.

“What is your name?” I ask after taking a sip from my own drink.

“Not sure it’s smart to give you that information.”

“Nothing about our situation is smart,” I snap back.

He rolls his eyes and it makes me want to slam his head down into the bowl of chips between us. “My name is Ren.”

I eat another chip before responding. “Mattia.”

Ren takes a couple more sips. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I’m pretty sure it’s not. I’m leaving after I’m done with this drink, so talk.

Ballsy words from someone whose flesh almost met the pointy end of my knife.

I take another sip before responding, because I realize I need to approach this topic carefully.

Something about Ren sets off my alarm bells, but I can’t figure out why, exactly.

And the last thing I need is for him to blow both of our covers or throw another fit.

I decide to give him a little bit of information about me to hopefully build some trust—even if it’s temporary. “I am from Venice. I’m here for a few assignments, though I usually don’t leave Italy. My company has been around for generations.”

Ren’s posture relaxes ever so slightly. “Why would you be sent here when you’re based in Italy?”

I shrug. “Upon occasion, our Italian clients who have moved to the states request our services, and someone is sent over to carry them out.”

“Interesting.”

“So,” I say slowly. “Are you from here? Is your company based in the city?”

Ren stares me down. I soften my features and pray I look trustworthy or at least friendly. “Yes, I am from the city, and my company is based here.”

I try to think about if I know any companies in D.C.

—or in America, for that matter—and come up with absolutely nothing.

I know Papà made alliances with a handful of American companies back when he was alive, but I don’t know if Zìa has kept those alliances intact since she took over.

I don’t see why she wouldn’t have, though.

“This is a stupid question,” I admit, “but, you’re absolutely certain you were assigned to Helena?” I whisper the question, cautious of who could be listening in on our conversation, despite being in a loud restaurant.

I know Ren was assigned to Helena, but I have to ask either way.

Mix-ups like this simply don’t happen in our line of work.

Or at least, they shouldn’t. Something is wrong here, and I want to find out what.

But from what I know about Ren thus far, I’d wager he doesn’t have the slightest clue either.

“Yes,” Ren answers. “I am sure.”

“This does not make any sense,” I admit with a sigh. I take a long pull from my margarita and shake my head as I place it back down.

For the first time since we’ve met, it seems like Ren’s hackles finally fall back.

He leans back in his chair and uncrosses his arms. “I’m glad I’m not the only one thinking that.

” He pauses briefly, as though he’s considering if he should speak his next words aloud or not.

“Why would an Italian… person in our line of work be assigned to come to another country for someone like Helena?”

I mull his words over. I hadn’t thought about it like that yet, and Ren makes a valid point.

“All I can think of is that a member of her family is associated with us and put in the hit themselves, or one of her… dealers knew of us and decided to use our services instead of getting their own hands dirty.”

Ren bites down on his lower lip, deep in thought. When he releases his teeth from the flesh of his lip, I notice just how pink his mouth is. I shake my head and look away, weirded out. I don’t usually notice such things. Not unless I’m with an attractive woman, anyway.

“Then why would you be sent here for that when I’ve already been assigned the job?” Ren asks.

“Well, I am here for more than just tonight’s assignment.”

Ren finishes off his drink. I think he’ll stand up and take his leave, but he stays put. “I wonder if we have been assigned more than just one of the same targets?”

I shake my head. “Impossibile. Why would we be?”

“None of this makes any sense,” Ren says under his breath.

No shit. All of this contemplation hurts my brain and makes me more tired. Yet, thoughts race around in my mind, trying to figure out the answer to our predicament. Finally, I come to the conclusion that I won’t be able to figure this one out. Not tonight, anyway. I need to consult with Zìa.

I reach into the front pocket of my jeans and pull out my wallet.

I can feel Ren’s eyes on me as I open it up and pull out what I call my faux business card.

The card obviously does not have my name or any other identifying factors on it.

Instead, it has the number to my burner phone.

The card is glossy and black with no design.

Just the number typed up in a small font in the middle of the card.

I slide the card across the table to Ren and tap it twice with my pointer finger. “I know you wish to leave. However, if you figure anything out, or if you think it will be beneficial for us to talk again, use this. I will be in the country for a couple weeks.”

Ren raises his brows as he stares at the card—like it’s plagued or something. “Why would we need to speak again? I’m sure after this that you will talk to your boss and I will consult with mine. I’m sure it’s just an error or a strange mix-up.”

I exhale roughly through my nose. “It may not be that simple. I am hoping it is, but you never know.”

Just take the damn card, Ren.

Ren glances up to me, then looks back down at the card. “Fine.” He picks it up and pockets it before standing. “Thanks for the drink. Have a nice stay, or whatever.”

With that, the strangest assassin I’ve ever crossed paths with walks away. I’m left there staring blankly at the empty chair across from me.

Well, at least he took the card.