Page 2 of Stalk

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, Ireallyhave 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’snot 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 reallyold,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 wastoofucking simple. Hate me all you want, but sometimes a guy just wants achallenge.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 daggerthat 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. Ididroll 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 atLa Villa Giordanoa 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 weepand 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 ofil Canal Grandethat 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.

Our ancestors had our villa constructed in the early seventeenth century, not long after they relocated to Venice from the city of Turin in 1613. Since then, no one has ventured away from the villa. History and memories are etched into the crown molding. Numerous galas and parties have been thrown in our large dining hall. Hell, tourists even pose outside of the villa and take pictures of our home while exploring the city, totally unaware of the business we conduct behind closed doors.

As of now, there are nine of us living here. That’s what happens when you have five kids, I suppose. It’s me, Mamma, Zìa, and my four sisters, Alessia, Fiorenza, Lucia, and Giorgia—plus Alessia’s husband and Fiorenza’s fiancé. The housekeeper occupies one of the suites, but the rest of the staff Zìa and Mamma employ to help run the house live in the separate palazzo behind our lot that we also own. Free room and board is one of the perks of their job, because we can’t risk having them at the villa all the time. Otherwise, they may figure outwe’re assassins, not just a wealthy family that runs a well-known foundation to encourage the arts and local culture.

I walk inside on the base level and am met with a large, open foyer that leads to various meeting rooms and offices. In most palazzos, the base level is for commercial use, and the other levels are residential. Seeing as we own the entire building, though, we use it almost as a cover. Sure, we do have real meetings and real work to conduct to keep our foundation up and running, but it’s also good to have for the public to see. No civilian would ever guess that there is a secret hallway near the back of the base level that only Giordano family members and our top associates can access.

The base floor is dead quiet. All I can hear are my own breaths and the footsteps I make as I turn left, into the elevator room. Even the room for the elevator is extravagant. I can’t deny that. A chandelier hangs in the center and casts a soft light across the ivy green walls. I press the button to take me up, as I’m much too tired to take the stairs this evening, and then sigh and crack my neck as I wait.

The sleek elevator doors slide open in seconds, ready to take me to the top floor where I live. I’m lucky, really. The top floor is by far the most lavish of them all. But the best part of it is the view. I love waking up in the early morning, right as the sun rises, and staring down at the glistening water in the Grand Canal from my bedroom window. Those of us without partners stay on the third floor, as the suites are a little smaller. The larger suites are on the second floor, where Alessia and Fi live with their partners. Once they have children, they will stay on the second floor until their children are old enough, and then they will move back to the third. Our housekeeper, Isabella, lives on the second floor, too. Mostly because there aren’t as many bodies to occupy that level, and we want to respect her privacy as much as possible after everything she does to help us.

Most of the lights are turned off when I step out onto the third floor, aside from an ancient lamp that sits on a little table beside the archway leading from the elevator room into the expansive hallway. Despite the facade of everyone being asleep, I know that Zìa and my youngest sister, Giorgia must be around here somewhere.

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