Page 39 of Stalk

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 coursethe little rat dog’s name isCinnamon.

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 theyareloud. 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,Cinnamonhas 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 thetap, tap, tapof 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 itsteadily 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 courseit 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, muchsharperblade. “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?”

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