Before the shelter opens, I drop listening devices in common areas, and her office, so I can hear her.
I’m obsessed. I know it.
I love her voice. It’s soft, lilting, with a slight Italian and British accent. She says things like, “It’s good, no?”
VeryItaliana, where the language wraps itself around agreement, and you don’t just state a fact, you invite the person you’re speaking with to feel it with you.
“È buono, no?”
It’s not a question. It’s a gentle tug. A shared moment.
Even her grammar carries softness.
You should start writing poetry, asshole. Her grammar does not carry anything. What the fuck is wrong with you?
I have no answer except this woman’s light has seeped into me. It’s addictive to feel that light, which I do whenever I watch her, listen to her, am close to her.
This is how stalkers must feel—this is why they can’t stop following their prey around. It’s like a cocaine hit, and I did that for a while, recreationally, so I know what I speak of.
It’s just past ten when she leaves the shelter.
I follow her. She doesn’t look over her shoulderonce. Like she knows I’m there.
I just know it. She can feel me, just like I feel her.
I don’t mind it. I should. But I don’t. Logan would say I’m losing my edge. Gideon would say I was taking unnecessary risks. Adrian would tell me I need to finish the job andthenevaluate my feelings.
Her back straightens, like she can feel my eyes glide over her.
She hasn’t seen me, not directly. But her instincts are sharp, street-bred. The sixth sense of prey that’s been hunted too many times and lived to tell about it.
Which is why I know she’ll seehimcoming.
I spot the man half a block before she does—hood up, slinking between parked cars. His gait is too controlled. He’s not a junkie. Not a panhandler. He’s purposeful. He’s like me.
A professional.
I clock the blade in his sleeve as he closes in.
Looks like Remo changed his idea of making it look like an accident. Two days since I got the contract, and he’s already got a second man on the job.
I hate people like that.
Sure, I’m not going to do her—not likethat; but Remo doesn’t know that, so sending a second man is the asshole being a controlling prick who doesn’t leave things to chance. He’s not the first in the business to do this; he isn’t going to be the last.
She rounds the corner.
Now or never, Lucian.
I cut across the street, quick and silent.
As the man reaches for her, I step into the light.
“Wrong girl,” I say.
He doesn’t get the chance to argue or even look at me.
I drive my fist into his ribs—two sharp hits—and sweep his legs. He hits the ground hard, the knife skittering into the gutter. I grab him by the collar and shove him into the alley.
