Page 35 of Stalk

My head is fuzzy from the alcohol, and my emotions feel heavier than normal all of a sudden. Though I’m in between being heavily tipsy and drunk, I’m still aware that Mattia is from a different company, and we’re talking about someverypersonal stuff. Things only Cleo knows about. What if he uses all this against me—or Catherine?

Despite my paranoia, a piece of mewantsto open up to Mattia. The problem is that I knowI shouldn’t give him all of this information. I want to talk to someone on the outside about it, because I’m terrified of Catherine’s motives. I want to believe that Mattia’s concern is genuine, but he’s also a cold-blooded killer. Bychoice.I should despise him for that alone. It definitely bothers me. Yet, something about him invites me in.

So, I give in. For whatever reason, I start talking more, and I don’t hold anything back.

“Her name was Shiori. She moved to America from Osaka with her parents when she was a young girl. She was… gorgeous. Insanely smart. Sometimes, she could be pretty severe. She often couldn’t take a joke.” I grimace painfully when her serious face that would show each time I tried to joke around with herflashes across my mind. “I look so much like her. My father was German, but I feel like I’m my mother’s spitting image. Aside from the color of my eyes, anyway.” I take in a deep breath and stare at Mattia. “She was a small woman, but she was strong. She never needed a man to help her with anything. I always respected her for that.

“As I told you before, she told me she was a night nurse. Hell, she would even leave the house in scrubs and come back home in the morning dressed the same.”

Mattia finishes his drink. “What of her family? Are they still around?”

“No. My grandparents died before I was born.”

“What about your father’s family? Do you haveanyfamily that you are in contact with?”

“No… I don’t. My mother was an only child. She always told me that my father’s family all lived in Germany and that she cut off contact with them purposely after he left us. If I ever met any of them, I don’t remember. I was too young, and my mom never spoke of them.”

Mattia clasps his hands together tightly while he thinks. “I need another drink. When I return, tell me what you do know about your father.”

I glance down at my still full glass as Mattia goes back inside. Why is our talk stressinghimout so much? When we met the other night, it seemed to me like nothing phased him. Yet for some reason, this conversation has him tense. I don’t understand it. It’s almost like killing people is part of his personality. Like it’s as easy as breathing for him. Why is talking to me harder for him than taking a human’s life? It’s more than unsettling.

Less than a minute later, he returns with a fresh drink. Whatever smokey cologne he’s wearing wafts over in my vicinity as he closes the door and sits back down, making my mouthwater. It’s like a blend of the tobacco and a campfire in fall mixed with an inviting musk.

For a moment, I forget why I’m here and what he wants me to tell him. I’m distracted by the way he lounges in his chair, with his legs spread open casually, one hand holding his drink loosely atop his thigh. In the dark, his jawline and cheekbones seem sharper than in the light. Like they could cut my flesh just by brushing up against me. His eyes are on me. Unwavering. I swallow roughly and try to reel myself back into reality. Icannotfind this assassin attractive, of all people. But here I am, contemplating how his tongue would feel sliding against my own. That, and what he looks like fully undressed.

“Your father?” he prompts me when I don’t speak.

“Oh, right. Uh—” I tear my eyes away from him and distract myself by downing several sips of my drink. The gin slides down my throat and warms my insides. I exhale a long sigh of relief. “I don’t know much about him.” It’s the truth, I don’t.

“Do you know what he did for a living? What part of Germany he was from? If he had siblings?Anything?”Mattia asks, obvious annoyance coating his voice.

My head spins as I try to figure out if I know any of the answers to his questions. “I know his name was Geoffrey Winter. I think he did something with computers? I kind of remember him looking at code on our old desktop…” The memory is fuzzy at best; the back of my dad’s blond head as he stared at a screen. “I don’t know what part of Germany he was from, but I do know he came to America for college.”

“What college?” Mattia asks, not missing a beat. How can this guy drink like a fish and be so on top of things?Christ.

I bite my lip and shake my head. “I want to say it was some Ivy League, but my mother never specified.”

“Siblings?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.” Mattia runs a hand through his wavy hair, then lights up yet another cigarette. “I wish I knew more. I don’t know why you’re acting so annoyed, though,” I say, my voice growing tight.What the fuck is his problem?

“You’re right,” Mattia says a little too loudly. “Iamannoyed. Why have you never thought to look into this? Any of it?”

My mouth snaps shut, and I suddenly feel defensive. And a little nauseous. If I’m being honest with myself, I know that I should have researched more about my parents a long time ago. Right after Catherine forced me into the remaining contract my mother left behind. It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. I’m not an idiot. I know how all of this must seem to Mattia. There are things in my family history that don’t add up, but for some reason, I could never bring myself to dig deeper. The death of my mother is still too haunting, and my father is such a distant memory, I never thought to try and find him. Maybe I’ve been in denial. Maybe I’ve just been trying to preserve whatever sanity I have left.

“I should have,” I admit. “With my mother’s death still so fresh, though—I don’t know. Sometimes, it’s just easier to think about her as little as possible.” I glance up at Mattia, and notice his features soften a little.

“Okay. Fine. I can understand that. It took me a long time to get over the death of my father, too.”

I realize that his remark is the first thing he’s told me about him that’s personal, and my defenses fall away a little. “How old were you when he died?”

“Almost eight.” He takes a drag from his smoke. “It was sudden. A heart attack.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago. Luckily, I still have my mother, my aunt, and my siblings. I am very fortunate.”

“How many siblings do you have?” I ask. I like that he’s telling me these things about him. It makes me feel less guilty for unloading all of my familial problems onto him, and I’m curious to find out more.

---