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This was not a line of questioning I wanted to entertain. Soon he would ask if I knew who D’Agostino hired to shoot at Fausto from that rooftop. “He’s well fortified in Napoli, from what I understand,” I hedged.
“More than the Russian president?”
He looked at me through his lashes, and the impact of his eyes was like a fist to the chest. I nearly tripped. Sweat dripped off the sharp lines of his jaw, and I had the wildest urge to lick the sweat from his skin.
Cazzo, this had to stop.
I didn’t wish to discuss assassinations and money and mafia dons. He was my target. I didn’t want to grow close to him.
Yet I couldn’t stay away.
In other words, I was fucked.
Admit it. You just don’t want to kill Giulio.
I didn’t like that voice in my head. This was a job, just like any other. Yes, it was taking longer than usual, but I would do what needed to be done when the time came.
“Hurry up,” I muttered and picked up the pace, not caring if he kept up or not.
CHAPTER SIX
Giulio
Alessio was a moody motherfucker.
After I asked about how much he charged to kill someone, he shut down and practically sprinted along the path. I couldn’t keep up and his tall form soon disappeared into the twists and turns of the hill.
Slowing, I jogged at my own pace again. Was he planning to jump me? I tensed around every bend, my eyes scanning the landscape, but he wasn’t there. His shoe prints were steady and straight, headed down the other side of the mountain toward flat ground.
I didn’t understand him. At all.
I’m not supposed to understand him. He’s here to kill me.
Well, I wouldn’t make it easy. I was tired of running, both literally and figuratively.
Drawing to a stop, I bent over and put my hands on my knees, sucking in great gulps of air. My thighs felt like noodles. Thank God I quit smoking cigarettes at Paolo’s insistence. Vaping weed was bad enough on my lungs—not that I ever planned to give that up. Some nights it was the only way to catch a decent sleep.
I walked to the bottom of the hill. Alessio was long gone, not even a speck in the distance. I scanned the surroundings. Was he out there with his rifle, hiding and waiting?
Somehow, I didn’t think so.
Heading toward the farm, I considered this. What would I do in Alessio’s shoes? The ferries on and off the island ran three times a week, and the next one was soon. If Alessio was smart, his plan would be to kill me then immediately board the ferry and disappear. It made perfect sense.
So I had to strike at him first.
Once at the farmhouse, I showered and dressed. Then I ate breakfast and examined the guns I’d found in the house. They were older, unused for some time. I’d used one in my failed attempt at killing Alessio last night. Had I missed because my aim was rusty, or was the gun faulty?
I needed to find out.
I bundled up with layers upon layers of clothing. Then watched the perimeter of the farm, looking for signs that someone else was out there. From what I could see, it was all clear. I loaded one of the guns just to be safe before heading outside into the cold.
Madre di dio, this weather. My Mediterranean soul weeped.
I kept walking until I found a tree stump. I rested three empty bottles on top and moved back. Then I took aim at the bottles.
Figlio d’un cane! I only hit one out of three.
I grabbed a different pistol, loaded it, and tried to shoot. But this one jammed. I tossed it aside.
