Page 25 of Stalk (Assassin’s Kiss Duet #1)

Once I finally started working on Alessandra Rossi’s case, I didn’t feel so bad for not giving this assignment my full attention (thanks anyway, Ren).

I know Alessandra’s type. We have women like her back home, too.

She’s only after money. So be it if she loses a husband—or two, in her case—along the way.

From what I observed of her yesterday afternoon and earlier today, she’s happy as a clam so long as she’s at brunch or out shopping, makes it to her daily hot yoga class, and comes home to her large mansion with only her puny Pomeranian to keep her company.

She doesn’t have any kids to take care of, and now she no longer has to share anything with her husband.

Alessandra is greedy, and she’s about to get what’s probably been coming her way for years. A nice, hard shanking.

I can’t wait.

Sometimes, I’m assigned someone like this, and it really makes the thrill of what I do come to life. There’s just something about killing a person who doesn’t deserve to be in the world that riles me up in the best way possible.

Spettacolare.

In the dark, I crouch behind a garbage can that’s hidden from the view of the street by a flimsy, wooden wall. I roll my eyes to myself. God forbid onlookers notice that these rich people actually dispose of garbage. My family may be rich, but we don’t care about such things.

My knees ache as I wait for Marco to send me the go-ahead. I have to wait until our hackers have shut down Alessandra’s security cameras and home alarm system before I can proceed.

Alessandra’s stupid dog yaps from the backyard and I almost jump, because I didn’t hear the sliding door open. Instead, I press my body into the brick siding of the house as much as possible and pray the greedy widow doesn’t have to dispose of a doggy bag filled with shit.

“Cinnamon!” Alessandra calls out from inside. “Come here, baby!”

I stick my tongue out and scowl. Of course the little rat dog’s name is Cinnamon.

Seconds later, my phone lights up in my hand with Marco’s text signaling that I can proceed. Slowly, I stand up and shake out my legs, which feel slightly cramped after crouching for only a handful of minutes.

It would be easier if I could just ring her doorbell, seduce the woman, stab her a few times, and get on with my evening.

But I’m in foreign territory, and Zìa’s protection is not absolute while I’m in the states.

The risk of actually getting caught and being thrown in jail is real on American soil.

In Italy, Zìa has foolproof methods of ensuring that never happens. Not here, though.

So, I’ve got to get this job done the hard way.

Before rounding the side of the house, I take out the grimy bone I bought for the stupid dog earlier today.

Pomeranians aren’t scary, but they are loud.

Hopefully, the treat that smells disgustingly like beef and peanut butter will distract the creature long enough for me to kill its mommy.

With the bone in one hand and my blade easily accessible in my wrist holster, I creep slowly around the side of the house until I’m in the spacious backyard, tiptoeing across the stone patio and trying not to trip over pool toys or lounge chairs.

A light from inside leaks through the sliding glass door, mercifully showing me the way.

I plaster myself to the wall on one side of the door and peek in.

The door leads to a sitting room that looks like it’s more for show than anything.

Thankfully, Alessandra and her dog are nowhere in sight.

I know that the kitchen is closer to the front of the house on the bottom level, and I’d be willing to bet she’s in there cooking or sipping on a hefty glass of wine in the living room by now.

Holding my breath, I reach out and grasp the door, which slides open easily with hardly any effort on my end. You’d think a widow living alone would be a little more careful, but whatever. Less work for me.

I swiftly make my way inside and then slide the door shut behind me.

My eyes wander over my new surroundings, but no dog or widow in sight.

In the distance, I hear a television. There’s a large hallway directly to the left of the sitting room.

As quietly as possible, I place one foot in front of the other until I’m halfway down the hall and in a half bathroom.

The sound of the TV is closer now. The kitchen and living room must be right up ahead.

Alessandra’s dog is a shit alarm system.

Surely, Cinnamon has heard me by now? I grip the nasty bone tightly in my fist. I’m about to throw something like a toilet paper roll to try and get its attention so I can give it the bone and proceed, but then I hear a squeak and see a tiny yellow ball fly down the hall.

Cinnamon’s orange body follows suit. The dog darts down the hall with the tap, tap, tap of its little nails ricocheting off the hardwood.

Once the ball squeaks again, I know Cinnamon has it in her (surely with a name like Cinnamon, the dog is a she— right?

) mouth. Before she can run back to Alessandra, I wave the bone in the doorway.

I hear a little snort, then the nails come closer, one click at a time.

Cinnamon takes one look at me, snorts again, snatches the bone out of my hand, then eagerly retreats toward the sitting room.

Lousy, lousy guard dog.

Now that Cinnamon is occupied, it’s time for me to make my move.

I unfasten my blade from its holster and grab it steadily with my right hand, feeling as though it is an extension of my body—an additional, very welcome appendage.

This blade has helped me complete many assignments.

It feels like home against my flesh, and urges me to push forward.

At the end of the hallway, the light flickers against the walls, so I know the living room must be in there.

I inch as close as I possibly can without being seen, and realize it’s an open floor plan.

Because, of course it is. It’s always more difficult with less walls, but I’ll manage.

My heart rate picks up with anticipation. I do love a challenge, after all.

From where I stand in the hall, I reach out my neck as far as I possibly can, and finally spot Alessandra as she stands up from her spot on the couch.

She clutches a drink in a fancy whiskey glass in her perfectly manicured talons and stretches her lean arms over her head.

She waltzes into the kitchen area and begins rummaging through the refrigerator, which is good news.

If I can catch her from behind and slit her throat, I’ll be able to get out of here sooner rather than later.

I stay hidden and watch, somewhat in disgust. Alessandra is the perfect walking stereotype of a wealthy widow.

She’s in her mid-forties, petite, with bronze skin, baby blue eyes, and dyed platinum blond hair.

Her fingers are weighed down by diamond rings, even though she’s home alone and dressed in yoga pants and a cropped tank top.

She’s all muscle, no fat, and has hardly any curves.

I don’t understand how some men would find her attractive.

Personally, I like my women to have some meat on their bones.

I prefer them soft, with more to grab onto. To each their own, I suppose.

Alessandra starts chopping vegetables after taking a sip of whiskey. Now’s as good a time as ever. I look behind me to make sure Cinnamon is still occupied. There’s no sign of the little beast, so I prepare myself with a deep breath, then step out of hiding.

I square my shoulders and breathe in and out slowly and steadily as I carefully place one foot in front of the other and creep up behind her.

When I’m a little less than a meter away, Alessandra sets down her knife and whips around.

She takes one step toward the fridge before she jumps out of her skin and howls out in fear at the sight of me.

I grin. “Ciao, Alessandra.”

Alessandra clutches at her chest in terror, then darts back to the kitchen island and grabs the knife she was using to chop. “What are you doing in my house! Cinnamon? Cinnamon!”

I can’t help but laugh. “You think your little rat dog is going to save you, somehow?” I snort, because I kind of love that Alessandra spotted me. That means I can really fuck with her.

Alessandra jabs the knife out into the space between us. “Get out! I’ll kill you!”

My eyebrows raise as I lift up my much larger, much sharper blade. “You’ll kill me like you killed your late husband? You seem like the kind of murderer who prefers something clean, like poison. Wouldn’t want to mess up your clothes with my blood, would you?”

Her eyes bug out in anger. “I didn’t kill my husband! Who are you?”

I cluck my tongue. “Now, now, Alessandra. No need to lie to me on your deathbed.”

Quick as an unexpected thunder clap, I lunge for her.

She only manages half a step away from me before I catch her by the back of her neck.

She whimpers in my grip and forgets all about the knife in her hand.

I don’t want her to come to her senses, though, so I grip her wrist tightly until the blade drops to the tile under our feet with a clank.

“You were a naughty girl, Alessandra, and now it’s time for your punishment.”

I lean forward and kiss the slope between her shoulder and neck, just for the hell of it, making her body break out in goosebumps, and I smile into her quaking flesh.

I get a better hold of my blade, then drive the point up and into the center of her abdomen.

Alessandra inhales sharply, then cries out.

Music to my ears.

I leave the blade in, then slip it out ever so slightly before jabbing in once more.

Then again, and again. Finally, I pull my weapon out all the way.

Her head rolls forward and I drop her to the floor.

But she’s still alive. Once she’s on her knees, I kick her so that she’s on her back, sprawled out like a dead frog on the pavement.

I crouch down and hover over her so that we’re face to face.

“Say hello to your husband for me.”

With that, I slit her neck and watch in delight as the light slowly leaves her eyes, turning her baby blues dull. I stay like that until she’s exhaled her last shaky breath, then stand up and sigh contentedly.

As if on cue, I hear Cinnamon running down the hall.

I turn behind me and see the thing looking up at me with love in her eyes.

She licks her snout and then continues to pant.

She runs around me and sniffs at her dead mother, then goes around the kitchen island to lap up some water from her bowl, none the wiser.

Meanwhile, I stare down at Alessandra and come up with my plan.

I decide that it’s probably easiest to cut her up into tiny parts and shove her and her essential personal belongings—wallet, purse, passport, cell phone—into whatever expensive luggage she’s bound to have and make it look like she’s gone abroad.

I’ll put her into a bathtub and do the dirty work there once I find the suitcases and her personal belongings.

Once I’m done with that and she’s all “packed up,” I’ll clean up, lock up the house, and take my leave.

Several hours later, I stretch out my back by placing my forearms on either side of the door frame in the guest bathroom, and groan.

I’m finally done cutting, packing, and cleaning.

Alessandra’s body parts are wrapped in Saran Wrap and tucked away in three separate Gucci suitcases along with all of her personal belongings, aside from her keys.

It will be best for me to drive her Porsche away after I lock up and park it at the airport, and Marco will pick me up from there.

I’ll just have to be careful to avoid any security cameras.

Once Marco picks me up, we’ll find a good place to dispose of the suitcases.

Luckily, Alessandra’s car is parked in a three-car garage, so I’ll get out of here unnoticed. After I roll the suitcases out and load them into the back seat, I lock up all the doors. I send a text to Marco to meet me at the airport. Once he confirms, it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.

After sliding my phone into my back pocket and wiping the sweat from my brow with my forearm, I head back out to the garage. But I forgot about the damn dog. If you can even call it a dog.

The wretched thing darts past my ankles and runs into the garage, then does a little hop by the passenger side door. She yaps at me then sticks her tongue out happily.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter.

I lock up the door that leads from the garage into the house, then open the passenger side of the Porsche, and Cinnamon hops in.

Once the garage door starts to slide up, I glare at Cinnamon.

“If you think you’re stuck with me, you better get that idea out of your head right now.

” I didn’t think of taking the dog with me, but I suppose Alessandra would have never left the little beast behind, so I have no choice.

I am not keeping her, though. Absolutely not.

Cinnamon crosses over the center console and makes herself comfortable in my lap. “Gesù Cristo.”