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It’s a beautiful night and the bar is humming with sexy strangers, live music, strong drinks.

But I can’t lose myself in playing wing woman.

I keep going back to the reality:

I have to kill him.

Chapter

Eleven

JAMIE

It’s just work becomes my mantra.

When that’s not enough to distract myself, I channel my feelings into a new play. One about a spy assigned a mission to kill her ex-boyfriend. Autobiography is self-indulgent, I know, but I need an outlet. Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve written a scene.

It feels good to lose myself in something completely within my control.

After a few hours, my head is clear enough to form a plan. One that will work quickly.

This time, I don’t give Matteo the chance to outwit me.

I buy a camera with cash. Same for the train to London.

I even use a different passport at border control, just in case he’s flagged mine. Who am I kidding? Of course, he’s flagged Jamie Moriarty. But how many of my other aliases does he know?

It’s late when I arrive outside Matteo’s apartment in the West End.

The second I step on the concrete, I feel a strange sense of déjà vu. I’m home. And I’m a million miles from home too.

We spent so many evenings in that apartment, looking down at this little street, listening to the mix of football fans, theater goers, and tourists that frequent this neighborhood.

The scents of chips and spring and sweat fill the air.

Back then, Matteo felt like destiny. A playwright assigned to a man who lives in the theater district. But it wasn’t the work of the Gods.

Only my handler, who managed to look closely at his dossier, and figure out he’d want a woman who was ambitious and witty and creative, and, yes, busty and blonde too.

I sleep in a quiet apartment across the street (the owner is on vacation). Then, I wake early enough to follow Matteo through his routine.

I watch as he rises at seven (in only his black boxers), fixes his usual omelet, tea, and toast for breakfast, cleans his dishes in the kitchen, dresses in his sharp suit.

It’s trickier to follow him to work, but sunglasses, a brown wig, and a frumpy outfit help me blend in on the metro.

He arrives at nine sharp. Disappears into the building. Which gives me plenty of time to contemplate his mortality.

Finally, at six, he leaves, he meets two colleagues at a bar. A man and woman. A little older. Both in suits, with dark hair. Both attractive.

He laughs like he’s perfectly content with his life. Like he doesn’t think of me at all.

When the guy goes to the bathroom, the woman leans in close enough to whisper. She places her hand on his arm, makes a joke, pulls back enough to smile.

He smiles back like he’s thinking of taking her home. Or like he has before.

Or maybe like he knows I’m watching, knows I’m jealous, knows I can’t stand the thought of anyone else coming on his face.

I take an alternate route back to his place. Watch as he finishes dinner—another freshly cooked meal, this time fish and sauteed vegetables—and takes a shower.