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He’s turned to the messy four-poster bed like he’s ready to watch the action on the faded pink sheets.

Only there’s no action. The room is silent. No breath. No footsteps. No wire trap.

There’s no one here. No one alive.

His lack of a pulse confirms it. He’s still warm. He hasn’t been dead long.

Wait a minute.

Those handcuffs are familiar. The pink color. The furry texture.

The ones Jamie brought the first time she suggested a cop-criminal role play scenario.

But how could she⁠—

How could anyone beat me here?

Then I see it, tucked into his pocket.

The card that came with the flowers I sent her on Valentine’s Day, along with a perfectly pressed rose petal.

My message on one side.

Ti amo, mi diavolessa.

Then the other, in her handwriting.

Sorry, baby XO.

It hits me all at once.

Nike—the assassin I’ve been chasing the last two years⁠—

Is my ex-girlfriend.

Chapter

Two

FOUR YEARS LATER

JAMIE

Blue skies. Cozy apartment. A man in his fifties fixing his morning coffee as he contemplates his mortality.

Until I wrap a tie around his neck and hold tight. He goes down fast.

I follow my instructions to make the hit look like a suicide (boring), fashion a noose out of his sheets, and arrange the body just so.

Voila. I’m finished with work before noon.

I celebrate with blood orange sorbetto, a long walk down Rome’s cobble stone streets, and daydreams of handsome strangers.

Only my gelato is too sweet. The familiar streets fail to capture my attention. The strangers too. Most hotties are still asleep this early.

The bar next to our air BnB has an air of tragedy (an 11 am beer reeks of desperation and alcoholism), but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers, so I approach the American tourist sipping from a bottle.

“How’s your morning?” I ask.