Page 5 of Stalking His Assassin

If we were ordinary people…

If I could really be Grace Silva, and he was just Christos Caputo, a handsome businessman interested in a woman. It’s a fairytale. Another life, another time, another world. One where my parents were never killed by a greedy bastard and Christos was never forced to become a killer by the mafia. His history is just as ugly as mine.

My alarm dings, letting me know it’s time to get dressed for my evening out. I shut down my system and nudge Potato off my lap. He jumps down, giving me a dirty look.

“Don’t look at me like that. Exercise is good for you,” I tell him.

He hisses at me in response, then walks out of my office with a flick of his tail. See why I think he understands me? Potato is a better conversationalist than most humans I’ve met. Smarter too. I follow Potato into my bathroom, where he’s already sitting on the shower ledge. I swear he reads minds too. I shower quickly, then head to my closet wrapped in a fluffy towel.

Potato is already perched on his shelf, waiting for me to walk in. “What should I wear?” I ask him.

He meows.

“Harper will probably drag me to a club after dinner. I’ve been putting her off for weeks…”

Another meow, this one sounding mournful. He hates it when I leave.

I settle on dark skinny jeans and a black blouse with spaghetti straps that show off my small amount of cleavage and clings to my body. It’s a Harper-approved shirt, even though it’s black. I wear my custom knee-high heeled boots. They have hidden sheaths for my specially made ceramic knives that won’t trigger metal detectors, meaning I can be armed anywhere, not to mention the heels themselves are a weapon if push comes to shove. I look through my jewelry and select a beaded bracelet that wraps around my wrist multiple times. It seems dainty, easily breakable, and totally innocuous when it is actually a cleverly disguised garrote.

It takes me less than thirty minutes to style my hair and put on minimal makeup. I usually wouldn’t bother, but it’s Harper, and I’d do anything for her. Dressing up and going out makes her happy. If a bit of mascara and lipstick makes her happy, I’ll wear it. I study my reflection, and I look like an average twenty-five-year-old woman. The juxtaposition between what my reflection shows I am versus what I am inside is monumental.

I imagine myself as if I were the woman in the mirror. If my life was simple and I could get dressed up and go out with my friend without needing hidden weapons. Where I didn’t have to worry about threats to my safety and didn’t know the reality of the ugliness the world tries to hide.

It’s bittersweet to think about being someone else. If my parents weren’t killed, I would’ve been raised in a happy, loving home. I never would have had to see the cruelty humanity has to offer. I wouldn’t have become a killer. Maybe I would have more than one friend and a boyfriend instead of a cat to keep me company. But if that was my life, I wouldn’t be able to protect innocent people. All the bad people I’ve killed would still be out there in the world doing horrible things.

I’m not selfish enough to wish for that picture-perfect life. I accept the sacrifice of giving up my potential happiness for all those I’ve saved by being who I am. My life molded me into the perfect weapon to combat the worst of the worst the world has to offer, and I can’t be upset about that. I turn from the mirror and those useless thoughts. There’s no changing anything, so there’s no reason to consider the what-ifs.

“I’ll be back soon, Potato Cake.” He lets out a mournful meow and follows me to the front door. I reach down and rub behind his ears. “I won’t be long.” He huffs before turning and walking away with his tail high.

I step off the elevator into the parking garage and pause before setting my alarm. Tomas’s words float around my mind. Before I can second guess myself, I enable the security system as if I were going on a mission. I’m sure I’m being paranoid, but paranoia and extreme caution have kept me alive more than once. My phone dings, letting me know the system has been activated, and I immediately relax.

I was going to take the Bugatti tonight, but the paranoia has me turning toward the Range Rover. I highly doubt an armoredvehicle will be needed for this girls’ night, but tonight I’m erring on paranoia’s side. I’m entirely giving in to that old adage of better safe than sorry. Especially since I’ll have Harper with me.

The twenty-minute drive to Harper’s apartment building takes twelve. I text her that I’m waiting so I don’t have to try to find a place to park. She lives in a decent area, but parking is atrocious. I’ve tried to get her to move into my building several times, but she says it’s out of her price range. I never intended to charge her rent since I don’t need the money, which made her double down on not living there.

It frustrates me that she won’t let me take care of her. It’s not like I have a family or anyone else to spend my money on. Instead of being able to openly help her stubborn ass, I just do it behind her back. Four years ago, she got a substantial raise after I secretly bought the company for which she works. In all fairness, it was a good investment, and the owners didn’t recognize the potential they had working for them. They went with antiquated ideas and kept a good ole boys’ attitude regarding decisions.

After a bit of restructuring and getting rid of the dead weight, the company is thriving. I know this sounds bad, but I gave everyone a raise in the company as they were all underpaid. Harper got the two promotions since based on her own merit. Having superiors in place who recognized talent was the only thing that was really missing. Honestly, an easy fix, and what Harper and the other employees don’t know is that every penny of profit goes into the charities the employees decided to support. That way, if Harper ever does find out—which she won’t—she can’t get too mad at me because the better she does at her job, the more money the charities earn. A little devious on my part, but I know Harper would approve after yelling at me.

Once she was making more money, I thought for sure she would move somewhere safer. Instead, the stubborn womandecided to save up for a new car. Again, she refused to let me gift her a car or even use one of mine. I ended up buying that shitty apartment building and evicting all the tenants. It sounds worse than it is because I also bought three other apartment buildings in better neighborhoods and offered them to the evicted tenants at less-than-market-value prices.

Everyone won in that bit of deceit. The tenants all live in secure buildings in decent neighborhoods and pay the same rent they paid before. Plus, I paid for movers for anyone unable to make the move themselves. Since their old apartments didn’t have washer and dryer hookups, everyone got new washers and dryers with the apartments. Everyone has newly renovated apartments with new appliances, security where they had none in the old building, and safer neighborhoods. I can find no fault in what I did, though my moral compass is slightly off balance. I’m sure Harper would have something to say about it, but like with her job, I’m helping people, not causing harm.

It's funny if you think about it because her denying my help meant I spent a ton more money taking care of her than I would have if she allowed me to help. Not that I care about the money. I’ve got a ridiculous amount, which grows daily with my business and investments. It’s why I give so much away. It’s not for the tax breaks most rich assholes do it for. Considering that most of my wealth is hidden from the U.S. government, I don’t need those breaks.

Two minutes after I sent the text, Harper comes rushing out of the building. She throws open the door and hops in, smiling wide.

“Girl, you will not believe what I got!” she says excitedly.

“What did you get?”

Probably something that will be torturous for me…

“Passes to Pink Diamond for tonight!”

It takes way more effort than I’d like to admit to bite back my groan. I knew we would be going out to a bar or club, but Pink Diamond is beyond extra. It’s a mash-up of a high-end dance club and an exclusive strip club. Harper has wanted to go since they opened, but it’s next to impossible without being on their list or having a pass. You can stand in line and wait all night, and no one in line will be admitted.

“Sounds great,” I say with a grimace.

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