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JOAO

M y fingers tremble as I pick up the photo of Stefi. “This is not possible,” I whisper in disbelief, my head spinning. “She’s dead. She died eight years ago.” I take a deep breath and try to gather my thoughts as best as I can. “When was this picture taken?”

“A month ago, in Bucharest. Stefania and her date went to a bar to watch a football game. Somehow, they ended up in a brawl, and the man she was with was stabbed. He died the next day. When the police went to question your wife, they couldn’t find her. She was gone.”

I barely register his words. I’m staring at Stefi, drinking her in.

She’s. . . alive.

How?

I thought she was killed eight years ago in a house fire, but I was wrong because she’s here. I trace the outline of her face and can almost feel her softness on my fingers. I inhale and swear I can smell her jasmine-scented skin.

She must have faked her own death.

The realization hits me like a blow to the chest. It’s the only possible explanation. Eight years ago, Stefi robbed a morgue, put the wedding ring I slipped on her finger on the corpse, and set fire to the guest house she was staying at.

And then she disappeared.

Joy that she’s still alive wars with a growing sense of betrayal. We were married, Stefi and I. When she made her plans, she would have known I would mourn her, but that didn’t deter her. She knew that her death would shatter my heart, and she let me suffer anyway.

Why?

I loved her. I thought she loved me. We’d never spoken about leaving our indentured servitude—even dreaming about escape was dangerous. Bach’s network was extensive, and runaways were always found, brought back, and killed.

So why run? And if she was determined to leave, why didn’t she ask me to join her? Why didn’t she trust me with the truth?

Antonio clears his throat, and I snap my attention back to him. “You didn’t know she was still alive? This begins to explain why I had no idea you were married.” He comes to the same conclusion I did. “She faked her own death? Why?”

I wish I knew. “Same reason I did, probably,” I reply. “Bach owned us. Death was the only way out.”

“She was one of his trainees?” he asks sharply. “That’s how you met?”

“Yes.” From the day she saved my life, I knew I found my person. My soulmate. “Why does Cecelia d’Este have a file on Stefi?”

He ignores my question to ask one of his own. “Is she a good assassin?”

“She’s excellent,” I reply, pushing down my turmoil to answer his question. “She’s always prepared. She does her homework and doesn’t miss the details. And Stefi never loses her head in the heat of the moment. She’s brave, but never to the point of recklessness.” My throat tightens. The reality seems impossible, but somehow, despite the odds, she’s still alive.

“And you’re married to her. Wonderful.” Antonio exchanges a look with Lucia, his voice resigned. “As to why Cici has this file, I’m not sure, but I have a theory. This file has information on each person Stefania Freitas allegedly killed. One of those people is Andrei Sidorov’s father-in-law.”

Fuck. Andrei Sidorov is the pakhan of one of Russia’s largest bratvas, and his ruthlessness is legendary. A couple of months ago, a rival family made the unwise decision to torture and kill Sidorov’s sister’s boyfriend, and even more stupidly, they sent her the footage. Sixty days later, that family’s leadership is gone. The pakhan, his heir, and half a dozen others—all dead.

“It’s a testament to Stefania Freitas’s skill that Andrei hasn’t found her yet,” Antonio continues. “But make no mistake, he will.” He leans forward, his fingers steepled, an intent, focused look on his face. “I want her first. And that’s where you come in.”

I tense immediately, and the padrino’s gaze drops to the photo. I realize that my fingers have been tracing Stefi’s cheeks, and I snatch my hand back, but it’s too late. I’ve given myself away.

So be it. Might as well put my cards on the table.

“I won’t kill her,” I say flatly. I’m feeling a lot of conflicting emotions—happiness that Stefi is alive, intense betrayal about her decision to leave, anger that she didn’t tell me what she was planning—but one thing is clear.

I don’t have it in me to kill my wife. I cannot target the woman who has always been the missing piece of my soul.

And if that’s what Antonio is asking me to do. . .

“I told you this would be his reaction,” Lucia says, a smile playing about her lips. “Pay up.”

Antonio gives his wife a wry look and passes her a hundred euro note. His dark eyes study me for a long moment. “So much loyalty, Joao,” he says. “Is she worth it?”

“She’s my wife. ”

“She let you believe that she was dead for eight years,” he counters. “She came into Venice to abduct a civilian, the fiancée of one of your best friends.”

Doubt trickles down my spine.

“Eight years is a long time, and people change,” he continues. “God knows I’ve done plenty of things in the past that I’m not proud of. Your faith in her is commendable, but Stefania might not be the girl you remember.”

I keep stubbornly silent. Antonio stares at me, then leans back with a sigh. “Very well,” he says. “You’ve been loyal to me, and loyalty goes both ways. I give you my word that she’s in no danger from me.” His voice hardens. “But she came into my city and tried to abduct someone under my protection. She owes me answers. Find her and bring her to Venice.”

I open my mouth to refuse, but the padrino holds up his hand. “Before you tell me you’d rather quit than hunt down your ex-wife, consider this. Sidorov’s people will kill Stefania. If anyone can find her before she ends up in a body bag, it’s you.”

He’s promised Stefi safety, and I trust Antonio to keep his word. “Okay.” I take a deep breath and get to my feet. “I’ll do it.”

Assassins in movies always have cool nicknames. Copperhead. Cottonmouth. Black Mamba. In real life, that kind of nonsense will get you killed. If you want to live, you keep a low profile and don’t make waves.

But when my wife went missing eight years ago, I went to Mexico to try to find her. And during that bloody search, I acquired a nickname.

The Hunter.

For almost a decade, my wife let me believe she was dead. I want answers, and I’m going to get them.

The Hunter is going on the hunt.

I return home, my head reeling, feed an indignant Mimi, and start on Cecelia d’Este’s file. There’s a USB key in the envelope the padrino handed me, so I pull out an old laptop that isn’t connected to the Internet, insert the key, and pull up the contents.

Eight years, two months, and five days. That’s how long it’s been since she failed to check in after her hit in Puerto Vallarta. That’s how long I’ve believed she’s been dead; that’s how long I’ve mourned her.

You shouldn’t have run from me, little fox.

There are seventy-three folders, each one detailing a person who died under suspicious circumstances. If this intel is to be believed, Stefi killed all these people.

I should go through each of them to see if there’s something I can use to find my wife, but instead, I stare at her photo, a thousand memories swirling through my mind. She’d been sent to kill Peng Wu when she disappeared. Peng, the emissary of a Chinese triad based in Shanghai, was in Mexico to make alliances with the dominant cartels in Guadalajara and Sinola, and Bach’s client didn’t want that to go through.

They said she was killed in a house fire. A body was recovered at the scene wearing the wedding ring I slipped on Stefi’s finger. Everyone else was satisfied it was her, everyone except me. The body was too badly burned for a DNA test, and absent a positive match, nothing was going to convince me she was dead. She couldn’t be; I wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t imagine a world without Stefi in it.

I walked off a job of my own and flew to Mexico the day after she failed to check-in. Peng went underground shortly after she disappeared, but I hunted him down in Mazatlan. He refused to answer my questions, so I chopped off one finger at a time until he talked.

But he knew nothing.

I expanded the search. Unable to accept that she was dead, I went on a single-minded quest to find her, leaving a trail of blood, bodies, and broken bones in my wake. I don’t even remember half of what I did—I was driven by frantic desperation.

For months, I searched high and low for answers. I stalked the crime scene. I investigated the local morgues to see if a body had been stolen from any of them. I interrogated the guest house owner, the detectives in charge of the case, the insurers paying out the claim. Everyone.

Three months after she went missing, Henrik paid me a visit. “Enough,” he said. “She’s dead. It’s unfortunate, but people die in our line of work. It’s time to accept it and move on.”

Thinking of Henrik always leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I pour myself a Scotch to banish it and return my attention to the laptop in front of me. If I can find out what connects all these deaths, then I can predict the next one and intercept my murderous wife before she has a chance to kill yet again.

It’s almost four in the morning when I finally have a breakthrough. Last year, Reyhan Benita, an Algerian smuggler, died in a cafe in London. The autopsy listed the cause of death as a heart attack, but the pathologist noted two strange things: Benita’s nails were unusually brittle, and his blood had an elevated level of potassium in it.

Brittle nails and potassium. Why does this ring a bell?

I search my memory until it comes to me. Twenty years ago, an assassin going by the unoriginal nickname of Black Death had achieved some notoriety by poisoning his victims. Marcus O’Shea had a Ph.D. in chemistry and swore his proprietary poisons were undetectable, no matter how thorough the autopsy.

O’Shea is retired now. He lives in Dublin and runs a new-age apothecary in Temple Bar, where he sells overpriced incense and lotions to unsuspecting tourists.

I’m almost positive he had nothing to do with Benita’s death.

But if I’m not mistaken, somebody used one of his signature poisons to murder the smuggler.

I’m looking for answers, and Dublin is a good place to start.

I lean back in my chair and shut my eyes. Stefi was the only light in my life, and she was taken from me far too early.

For eight years, I haven’t been able to forget her, and I haven’t been able to move on. I live in Venice because it was her favorite city. I have a black cat because she always wanted one. My entire life is a shrine to the girl I lost.

And then to find out she’s still alive? I’m not angry. No, anger is far too simple a description for the cocktail of emotions churning through me.

I’m feeling betrayed.

My wife is alive, and I will move heaven and earth to find her. This time, I won’t give up. If finding her takes up the rest of my years, then I’ll consider it a life well spent.

She owes me answers, and I intend to get them.