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Did she leave this for me for the next time she needs something, or just to fuck with my head?

I run my fingers over the text, tracing the lines of his cursive. The same inky black as his hair and eyes.

He must have been so hurt that day. Numb even.

What would I have felt in his place? I’d never forgive him for playing me.

I scribble a reply with the pen I keep in my bag.

I meant every word, mi vita.

But I’m not sure how much is true. Where my part ended and my real feelings began.

It doesn’t matter. I’ll feel whatever I feel for the next two and a half weeks, then I’ll kill him, and I’ll move on.

That’s one thing I love about this job.

The clarity of it.

After all, my options are comply or die.

That’s an easy choice.

Sure, hopeless romantics say they’ll die for love, but when’s the last time one of them walked in front of a bullet?

I push thoughts of Matteo’s future aside and search the apartment from top to bottom.

The same king bed with the same smooth cotton sheets. The same dark shades. Black, cherry, ink purple. All moody and masculine, like him.

The space is sadder than it was. Less lived in.

No plants. No trinkets from friends or lovers. No photographs.

Everything is practical yet beautiful. The British and Italian sides of him working together in harmony.

There’s nothing hidden in the dresser or the closet. Just the same rows of suits, casual clothes, gym attire.

He does work in the field from time to time, but he’s not exactly a master of disguise. More the type to show up for a negotiation as himself.

I find an old pair of my panties and the matching bra. The soft blush I was wearing the day I left him.

Why did I change into something else and leave them there?

I don’t know anymore.

They’re clean. Because he couldn’t stand the smell of me. Or because he couldn’t stand how much he needed the smell of me.

I check the study, but I don’t have time to scan the space. It’s right there, like a flashing neon sign:

The wall safe is wide open.

I move closer. Find the note inside that reads:

You’re going to have to do better than that, mi diavolessa.

He knows I’m after his information. The flash drive he keeps in his pocket. His work laptop. A paper ledger.

He used to guard all those things.