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Sure, there’s a small caveat. If I erase the info, and he’s at risk of escape, I can kill him sooner.

But that’s even less likely.

The man turned me in the last time I tried to make nice and that was two years, and two dozen hits, ago.

How the hell am I supposed to win his trust in thirty tiny days?

Maybe I can work with our complete lack of loyalty. Maybe I can use his desire to see me in jail against him.

My chest tightens. This would be easier with anyone else. With Matteo, I⁠—

I don’t even know.

I pull out my phone and do a little standard spy work. I check his social media. (I’ve ignored it for all twenty-six months). It’s about as forthright as you’d expect, given his career. But there is a clue to his intentions.

Two, actually.

A Sherlock Holmes novel, turned to the page introducing James Moriarty. (It’s so him to be on the nose that way).

And then there’s the image of Matteo and his brother in Oslo in March, in front of an art museum. At a glance, it’s a pretty standard tourist pic.

But I know better. I killed a tech C.E.O. and stole a painting from his house. A painting that’s supposed to be in this museum. (Really, some thief swapped it for a forgery).

He left me little clue. No, this little dare. Try this again and see if you can get away with it.

A fun idea, yes, but too obvious. He doesn’t care about stolen art. He doesn’t even care about putting me in jail, in particular.

No, I’m a tool to help him catch my boss.

A text forms in my mind. Silver handcuffs. Lingerie on a bed. Come over here and make it real if you’re brave enough.

I start to type the message.

Elena stops me. Shoots me a look that says what the hell are you doing? “There’s a smarter way to play this.”

Sure, and if he was anybody else, I’d care.

But he’s not. I slip the device into my purse.

“I don’t want to switch,” I say. “But I’ll take your job. We can split the fee.” I need to do something to get his attention. And this is the version of me he cares about now: the assassin.

Elena hands over her notes without any pomp or circumstance. Truth be told, she’s done most of the hard work already. Found his apartment, his hang out, his weaknesses.

She could sneak in there tonight and shoot him in the head and pocket every cent of the payout. She’d enjoy it too. She loves killing bad guys. And while Hera targets plenty of people on the right side of morality or the law, she has picked a genuine bad guy with Tommy here.

Which is where the annoying part of the job comes in.

She wants information. I have to interrogate him before I kill him.

What a pain.

I sip espresso at a cute café across the street from the seedy bar where Tommy holds court. I pass the time by writing the stories of tourists in my head. The two older woman touring Italy as a start to their golden years, long time friends who don’t realize they’re in love.

The Dutch couple walking hand in hand, daydreaming about watching their child wander the cobblestone streets.

The wannabe Tony Soprano and his pretty blonde sugar baby. He barely conceals his gun and looks around the street like he’ll attack anyone who approaches.

He has some idea he’s going to die tonight, but he doesn’t realize the woman he pays to pretend she loves is willing to sell him out.