Page 8 of Stalk (Assassin’s Kiss Duet #1)

Mattia

M onday creeps up on me before I can get my bearings.

I’ve just finished packing my toiletries when a harsh knock sounds on the other side of my bedroom door.

I know it’s Zìa because Giorgia has a light knock, Mamma rarely intrudes into my personal space, and my other sisters do not often make an effort to come and see me one on one.

“Si accomodi!” I yell.

The door swings open, and there she is. Zìa waltzes in, barely five feet tall in her wedged heels. She smiles as she stops in front of me, then we kiss each other’s cheeks.

“Almost ready?” she asks, arching a perfectly lined brow.

I nod. “Just have to grab my laptop bag.”

“Grande. Meet me downstairs in ten minutes, and we will go to the airport together. Please ensure while you are gone that you keep that laptop locked and protected at all times.” Zìa snorts. “You know how those Americans are… ficcanaso!”

I can’t help but laugh, too. Nosy Americans. As if we are not also nosy. “I know, Zìa. I will be careful.”

She leans in and kisses me once more on the cheek. “See you downstairs.”

With that, she twirls around and saunters off.

I’m left alone in my giant, lovely room.

The absence of which will surely make me feel homesick as soon as I get settled in the United States.

I blow out a giant breath, mentally go through the checklist of everything I need to bring with me, then zip up my bag.

After that, I grab my laptop case after ensuring my laptop and charging cable are safely tucked away inside, then I grab my bags and head downstairs.

Mamma, Zìa, and Giorgia see me off. Once I’m up the small set of stairs that lead into our private jet, I take my seat at the back and glance out the window.

Mamma and Zìa are already walking away, toward their private car, but Giorgia waits until I’m seated and looking out the window.

She sends me a wave and blows me a kiss, which I return with a smile.

Then, she follows the others, and I am left feeling all alone on our jet, despite the pilot and personnel on deck.

In a matter of minutes, we are up in the air.

My laptop bag rests untouched on the table in front of me, right next to a glass of Barolo.

I grip the stem of the wineglass as I bring it to my lips.

After a heavy sip, I decide it’s probably a good idea for me to open up my laptop and start reading over my first assignment in the states.

I have about eleven hours on this flight, so I may as well be productive.

After accessing the WiFi, I log into the secured database we Giordanos use to access all our assignments. The database is run by the best of the best, and always kept secure so that no outsiders can hack into our system and steal our information—or worse, find out what we actually do for money.

I figure I’ll work a little while, snooze, and then maybe watch a movie. I rarely indulge in watching movies or television at home, so I tend to do that on the few times a year that I’m flying.

Once I’m logged into our database, I’m met with all of my pending assignments, put in order by most urgent to least urgent. Four of the people on my kill list live in Washington, and one lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

My first assignment, the most urgent with a set-in-stone due date two days from now, despite what Zìa said about my relaxed deadlines, is in the heart of D.C.

I click on the name and pull up the report.

Helena Taylor. I skim the file, taking in all the details of the poor single mother I need to assassinate.

When drug addicts are assigned to me, there’s always a small part of me that feels bad for them.

I mean, sure, I’d be lying if I said a part of me didn’t think the world would be better off without so many addicts, but at the same time, they all have a disease.

It’s not like they can help it, or the circumstances that led up to their addictions.

I get over the faint feelings of sadness that creep up for this woman pretty quickly.

In my mind, her two young sons will probably have brighter futures with their mother out of the picture.

Plus, if I give into my emotions, it makes my job harder than it needs to be, and I don’t want that.

At the end of the day, I want to do my job efficiently and with as little stress as possible.

Being in a different country doesn’t change that.

It is a very quick turnaround, though. I can admit that much.

Zìa is always confident in my abilities to get in, execute, and get out, but that’s not usually when I have to deal with jet lag, which I know will leave me feeling fatigued for at least the first few days.

I probably should have looked these over yesterday when I was preparing for the trip.

Oh well. Not anything I can do about it, I suppose.

For the next couple of hours, I make my notes on my first and second assignments, and then come up with a game plan for both assassinations.

There isn’t much planning I can come up with until I’m physically in the city, though.

I know from experience that it’s better to make a loose plan originally, spend several hours stalking my hit, and then finalize the plan from there.

When my eyes become a little blurry from staring at my laptop for too long and from typing up my extensive notes, I decide to give it a rest. I pour myself another hefty glass of wine, pop in my AirPods, and doze.

We land in D.C. around one in the afternoon Eastern Standard Time—which is about seven in the evening back in Venice. Thankfully, I took a nice snooze on the way, so by the time I walk down the steps of the jet at the airport, I feel okay. I can thank the wine for that, I suppose.

As soon as I step foot outside, I’m met with thick humidity. The temperature isn’t horrible, but it feels like I’m drowning by just inhaling the thick air into my lungs. Puffy, white and slate gray clouds cover up the sun up above, and I wonder if rain is soon to come.

Once I’m down the stairs, my security guard, Marco, follows behind me.

I don’t usually have security with me during work, but it’s necessary whenever I’m abroad or too far away from Venice for Zìa’s liking.

Marco will not only act as my second pair of eyes, but he will also be my private driver during our stay.

Marco yawns beside me and stretches out his large, bulky arms behind his head as we wait for our car to arrive.

“Stanco, Marco?” I ask with a chuckle. “You slept the entire flight, my friend.”

I’m taller than most at almost one hundred and ninety centimeters, but Marco is a bit taller than me. I’m not used to feeling short, but here we are. Marco lets out a hearty laugh then pats me roughly on the back.

“I am like a house cat, boss. I could sleep away the majority of the day if I had the chance,” he says with a wink.

I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. At the end of the day, I’m happy that I actually like my security guard. There’s nothing worse than having to be around someone dull, and Marco is anything but boring.

A minute or two passes, and then I spot a sleek black SUV in the distance.

Eventually, it parks several meters away.

As soon as the car is no longer in drive, the driver leaves the car running, gets out, then walks in the opposite direction.

We are not supposed to engage with whoever he is.

Once the man is a safe distance away from where Marco and I stand, we walk over to the vehicle in unison.

We load our luggage into the trunk, then Marco hops into the driver’s seat and I sit beside him up front.

Just because I have a driver and security guard at my disposal doesn’t mean I’m going to be snobby and sit in the back.

Not unless I have someone else in my company, which I don’t see happening while we’re here—unless I meet a very beautiful American woman who wants to come home with me, anyway.

“Where are we headed?” I ask once Marco begins driving.

He turns a dial and decreases the volume of the radio, which plays an obnoxious pop song. “Padrona Giordano has us set up in a downtown hotel until our house is available. There wasn’t an opening until Friday.”

I nod. I would be willing to bet that finding an open rental space last minute in the heart of the city can be hard. Even for the Giordano family.

As soon as we’re away from the airport and on the city streets, I feel bad for Marco.

Driving in this city seems stressful as fuck.

These Americans cut over into whatever lane they need to be in whether there’s room or not, and there are many cars on the road.

But Marco is relaxed as always. In my years of working with him upon occasion, I’ve never seen him lose his temper or become agitated in the slightest. Driving in the city is no different.

His glistening, bald head bobs along to the pop song on the radio.

He doesn’t even curse out the other drivers.

Meanwhile, I’m not even the one driving the car, and I’ve been cursing these assholes out the entire ride.

“Almost there,” Marco says at a stoplight.

He doesn’t have a GPS pulled up, and I wonder how he knows where he’s going. I’m sure he was prepped ahead of time. Every single detail is always planned to perfection by Zìa, and I would imagine that the instructions she gave to Marco before we left Italy were detailed and extensive.

We go through a few more lights, then Marco takes a left and pulls into our hotel for the next few nights. It’s a giant tower of a building, bland on the outside with no memorable architecture. Just a large brick building that is so tall it seems to get lost in clouds up above.