Page 2 of Stalk (Assassin’s Kiss Duet #1)

Mattia

I love the way it feels. Love the way it seeps into every fine line permanently etched into my palms and fingertips.

I revel in the feeling of how… natural it is.

It may not be my own blood covering my forearms all the way down to the pads of my fingers, but the deceased body I left in the alleyway downtown is now part of me.

My blood or not, that’s all it is. Blood.

Once it’s on my hands, my victim becomes closer to me than kin.

I’ve never understood how many can’t stand the sight of it.

It makes me laugh to think that some people actually pass out just from looking at it.

If they all pretended it was fruit punch, would it still bother them—make them ill?

Fuck, no. It’s the meaning behind it that terrifies them, not the actual substance.

Papà always used to say, “Le creature più deboli sono gli umani.” He repeated the words often. Especially after completing a hit, but sometimes under other circumstances as well.

The weakest creatures are humans.

I couldn’t agree more. Right when I think one of my victims will fight back—bear their teeth or claw at me to get away—they falter. Instead, they beg. They whine and scream. Weak. Every last one of them, up until the very end.

It’s not like any of my targets could escape me, anyway. It would take someone skillfully trained or outrageously strong to break away from my grasp. Because once my hands are on you, there’s only one possible ending: morte . It’s not typically an easy one, either.

Take the man I just executed, for example.

Whoever put in the request to assassinate the bastard really wanted him to meet a painful end.

I have no idea what the guy did that led up to the request for assassination.

Sometimes, Zìa, or her assistant, my youngest sister, Giorgia, will fill me in.

Other times, I go in blind. It doesn’t really matter to me.

Unless they tell me whoever’s about to get killed is a rapist or a pedo, that is.

Then, I really have fun. I may be a cold-blooded assassin, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m evil or bad.

There’s a difference in killing for pay and enjoying it and fucking someone against their will to get off.

Both kinds of people are still fucked up, but one is sicker than the other, in my opinion.

Anyway, the poor old fuck I just killed must have messed with the wrong people. Zìa didn’t give me the details. Instead, she passed me a handwritten note from whoever requested and paid for the hit. All it read was: Scuoiatelo vivo.

Skin him alive.

I’m not one to disobey a command like that.

So, I lured the fucker out to the alleyway behind the bar he was at after I saw him seated at a high top, drinking alone.

Sometimes, things happen in my favor like that.

Other times, my prey will be with friends.

Family. It’s always easier to snag them when no one’s around who will notice they’ve disappeared.

It was too easy to get him to come outside with me.

After watching him for a while from a booth in the corner of the busy bar, I walked over to him.

Asked him if we could go outside for a smoke, as I’d “forgotten” my pack at home.

I’d observed him going outside for a cigarette about thirty minutes prior, so it’s not like I was taking a shot in the dark.

I explained to him that I’d been stood up by my date and didn’t want to smoke alone.

The man was already heavily tipsy, if not drunk.

He was more than happy to accompany me outside for an unsuspecting cigarette break.

Once outside, I slowly stepped away from the front door and in the direction of the alley that would lead us around the building, to the back. “ Cammina con me?”

The guy nodded along, not paying me much attention as he fumbled, trying to find the pack of smokes on the inside of his coat. He didn’t second-guess a thing when I asked him to walk with me, away from the noise of the bar. We were just two loners going on a friendly stroll, after all.

My prey was old. Well, not really old, per se, but nearing seventy, at least. He had a swollen belly fed by copious amounts of beer, and a white, unkempt beard that frizzed out and flew off in every direction. He was short, too. Much shorter than me. But most people are, I suppose.

All in all, it was too fucking simple. Hate me all you want, but sometimes a guy just wants a challenge. A change of pace. Some adrenaline for once.

By the time my prey lit his cigarette and passed me one along with a lighter, we were practically near the dumpsters behind the bar.

Which is exactly where I wanted him. The man puffed on his stick and drawled on and on about his own heartbreak.

Something about his first wife cheating on him and leaving him and his second wife committing suicide. Yadda yadda. Not interested.

I didn’t light the cigarette that I popped in between my lips.

I slipped the lighter he’d handed me into my jacket pocket and nodded along to his sob stories.

Eventually, I stopped walking and leaned against an old brick wall.

We were near the corner, right in between the back of the building and the side.

Someone could easily come outside, but we were shielded by an overflowing dumpster and the shade of night, so I wasn’t too concerned.

The man joined me and puffed on his cigarette some more. Slurring his words and not paying any attention to the stench of our less than pleasant surroundings.

He paid me no mind when I unsheathed the sharp dagger that I always kept secured to my forearm, just underneath my coat.

He didn’t notice when I gripped the handle or positioned my body to face him.

His eyes were far off in his own memories, not taking notice of anything other than the ghosts of his past.

Too fucking easy.

I nodded to the man, as if I were an understanding confidant.

And then I swiped my blade across his fat belly so fast that he didn’t register what had happened until his light button down shirt seeped with blood.

He gasped and looked down, then shot me a horrified look.

Staggering backward, he clutched at his abdomen.

My prey looked so pathetic, I almost rolled my eyes.

Another swipe, this time a vertical slash that began at his sternum and went all the way down past his belly button.

He screamed, and couldn’t help it. I did roll my eyes after that.

“Silenzio,” I commanded with a bored sigh.

He should have tried to run. Or, he could have at least screamed louder.

But no. Instead, the pathetic creature stepped backward and tripped over an overflowing trash bag.

He fell on his back onto the asphalt, surrounded by old napkins and rotting food, and looked up at me with tears running down his flushed cheeks.

I should have been worried that an employee from the bar would come outside and see us, especially when he crawled closer to the back door. But I wasn’t concerned. I knew I would make quick work of this one.

After crouching down and hovering over him, I got down to business.

Swipe, swipe, swipe. I cut gashes upon gashes until his torso, his neck, and his face became bloody, swollen pieces of meat and nothing more.

When the light faded from his eyes, at least from what little I could tell in the dark, I knew it couldn’t have taken me more than two minutes to kill him.

I didn’t bother hiding his body. I hardly do.

Just like I don’t bother with gloves. We know people in high places, and my fingerprints will never be known to anyone in Venice.

I knew that someone would find him, and soon, just as I knew that if an investigation were to open after discovering his body, it would be shut down almost immediately.

Cops love hush money more than they love solving a case.

Before I took my leave, I stared down at his worthless corpse, retrieved the lighter from my pocket, and lit the tip of the cigarette.

Another one bites the dust.

I arrive back at La Villa Giordano a few minutes after midnight.

I know Zìa will be waiting for me. She always stays up later to ensure I am safe before turning in for the night.

My father’s sister is sharp, intuitive, and sometimes downright cold.

I have seen her make some of the most influential men weep and fall to their knees.

But there’s also a softness to her, even if she doesn’t show it often.

At least where her family is concerned. Once Papà died, she put us first more than ever, and her dedication hasn’t faltered since.

Not even when she took over the company.

She is a walking dichotomy. Fire and ice and all that lies in between.

My home never fails to take my breath away.

I suppose many would wager that we don’t see the beauty in such luxury anymore.

Not after living here our entire lives. But I cherish the villa.

Our home. Not because of the sixteen bedrooms each adorned with en suite bathrooms, the three separate libraries, or because of all the space.

More than anything, I admire the view of il Canal Grande that can be seen from the front windows.

The quaint balconies that look down on the sparkling water.

The courtyard out back with our small gardens on the perimeter that leave the air smelling like whispers of oleander.