It’s the housekeeper from the elevator. He moves his lollipop to the corner of his mouth and points a suppressed pistol at me.
FORTY-ONE
PIGEON
Lake
I stare at the barrel of the gun. The hand holding the gun doesn’t shake. In fact, if anything, the pistol in this man’s hand looks like an extension of his arm. The energy he emits is calm and collected, casual even, as if entering a room and executing three people is as easy as popping a can of soda.
This man is a professional killer. I’ve never seen one before, but everything about him screams just that. Since I’m still alive, he must want to savor my end. I close my eyes.
I hear a soft thud and then feel a dip in the couch. My body tenses. Is he sitting down with me?
He might be.
I open my eyes. Yes, he’s seated at the opposite end of the couch, left arm slung across the back of the couch, facing me. He’s sucking on the lollipop while resting the gun on his thigh.
“Heard you’re looking for me,” he says, his voice more masculine than the one he used when we spoke in the elevator.
“Who are you?”
“Miro. I’m Miro.”
This is Alessio’s best friend and his hitman, the man Alessio mentioned during the phone call I listened to. He’s the man who will do the job nobody else can do. I can see why that is. His eyes are devoid of humanity. Dead. It’s like they’re made of granite.
I glance beside me, where the woman knelt, then toppled over. “They were looking for you.”
“They found me.”
“I mean, I wasn’t looking for you. They were.”
“I heard you. You’re Leo’s governess. Lake Wilder. Daughter of Daniel and Fran Wilder, who died in an unfortunate airplane crash. Sister to one Prescott Wilder, who lives with your aunt and your uncle on the weekends.”
I say nothing because he asks for nothing. His gaze rolls over my body and settles around my belly. I look down and see that a button at the bottom of my blouse is missing. I pull my blouse together. As I do, I notice the pool of blood around the woman’s head.
“What’s on your belly?” He taps his own stomach.
“Hm?”
He points at my midsection. “Someone wrote on you. What’s it say?”
This man is very perceptive. “Nothing.”
“That’s what it says? Nothing.”
“No, it says something, not nothing.”
Miro smiles, but his eyes remain flat. When he leans in, I whimper.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
“It’s private,” I say.
Miro leaps up, and in a second, his gun is pressed against my lips. “Open your mouth.”
When I do, he nearly shoves the silencer down my throat.
“I saw a picture of Alessio’s dick in your mouth. Now, see, that’s what I call private.” He rolls his shoulders. “I owe Alessio Angelini my life. If I think you mean nothing to him, you will swallow the rest of the bullets in this magazine. I’m throwing you a bone. Since you refused to tell me, you will now show me.”
