Page 28 of The Hitman

“Would you like to keep your reservation?” the woman on the phone asks.

I can’t be certain, but I think it’s the woman who checked me in. Not because I recognize her voice, but because of the hesitation I can hear there — now that my heart isn’t beating so hard against my chest that my ears are ringing. And in truth, I’d forgotten about this reservation.

“Um…yes?”

“Splendida,” she exclaims. I can hear the relief in her voice, and I feel exactly the same because, to be honest, I’ve been waiting for Ryan’s financial analyst to shut his cards off and reject the hold from the hotel, and then, I guess, for hotel security to throw me out on my ass. I don’t know why that hasn’t happened yet, but I’m grateful, nonetheless. I should probably come up with a contingency plan for when that inevitably does happen; that’s the kind of thing I would normally do, but these are not normal times, so I jump out of bed with a smile.

“Great. Thanks. Grazie,” I say as if all is right with the world.

“Will you…” She hesitates, and my stomach twists. “Would you like to modify the reservation?”

I’m silent and confused.

“Would you like a single reservation instead?” she whispers, confirming that she’s absolutely the woman who checked me in.

My stomach plummets to the floor. “No,” I say automatically, but I can’t for the life of me say why.

This woman knows I’m alone. I know she knows, and yet… I lick my lips and clench my fist again. “No,” I say again, “there’ll be two.”

I can hear the confusion in her voice, and once again, I feel the exact same way.

“Splendida,” she says again. She sounds much less relieved this time. “We will have a car to take you…your party to the vineyards at eleven. Please meet the driver in the lobby.”

“Okay. Will do.” I cringe at the false cheer in my voice, and then I hang up.

The lightness I felt when I woke up is gone, completely evaporated. Now I feel heavy with grief again. I think about crawling back into bed and sleeping the day away. I turn around and look for another bottle of wine, but I’m out. I didn’t order any more from room service last night because… A mental image appears, of Giulio’s lips wrapped around the wine bottle, drinking casually as he palms his dick through his shorts and watches me get myself off.

I shiver, and then my eyes land on the wall we share.

I have an idea.

I take more time getting dressed than I have since I arrived. I shower and wash my hair. I don’t have the energy to blow-dry and straighten it, but I’ve always loved it curly. Besides, the sun is already high in the sky, and it probably wouldn’t stay straight for long anyway. I dig my favorite white sundress from my suitcase. It’s linen and very wrinkled, but it’s clean, and I know that it makes my tits look amazing. I even swipe my favorite glossy lip paint on my mouth. I stand back to look at myself in the full-length mirror in the suite’s closet.

I look like myself. Well, myself on vacation. Well, I don’t look like my life went to shit three days ago, and that’s an improvement.

But do I look good enough for the strange man next door to agree to spend a couple of hours touring a vineyard with me because I don’t have the guts to go on my own?

Let’s see!

I throw my sunglasses, room key, and my phone — even though it’s been turned off since I arrived — into a purse. I walk on unsure steps down the hallway to the other penthouse suite. I feel like I’m going to throw up, and I really want to run back to my room and hide in the closet with a couple of bottles of wine, but I refuse to let myself lose my nerve.

I stop in front of his door and suck in a deep breath. I hold it. I’m too terrified to let it go, but eventually, I have to. I take another, slower breath. It does nothing to calm my racing pulse or mind. I knock on Giulio’s door.

No answer.

My pulse somehow finds the ability to race just a little faster, and my stomach is doing for real somersaults in my gut. I feel queasy. “I need to stop drinking,” I mutter to myself, shrugging at the irony of my words and my current plans. I knock again.

He yells through the door in Italian, and I stutter what is clearly going to become my mantra for this trip. “Um. Non parlo Italiano.”

I think I hear him chuckle as he translates. “Who’s there?” he says, and then he pulls his hotel room door open.

Lowkey, I forget my name because holy shit, this man is fine. I don’t think I had fully appreciated that before this morning. Or maybe the orgasms make him look better? That’s also a distinct possibility.

“You look…” I say and then stop. I try to swallow the drool in my mouth without him noticing, but I’m not really sure if I succeed.

“I look?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe. He crosses his arms over his chest and smiles at me. “How do I look, tesora?”

Like I should’ve sat on your face last night.Thank God I only think that.

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