Page 10 of The Hitman

“Yes, sir. Wonderful, sir,” she says, tapping at the computer. “Please allow us to send a bottle of our best wine to your room. It’s made in the valley just below the hotel.”

“Make it two,” I say like the scheming fuck I am.

“Of course, sir,” she says. Still smiling.

I shrug and turn toward the elevator, thinking that I won’t be able to see her smile if I bend her over the bathroom sink.

5Zahra

By no meansis this the first time I’ve slept alone in six years. Ryan traveled a lot for work, and I never minded because I’ve always loved having a big ass bed all to myself, especially when the sheets are silk so I can sleep without my scarf. Under different, better circumstances, I would be giddy standing next to a big, plush hotel bed that looks like a firm cloud that’s all mine.

But I’m not giddy. I’m standing next to this bed with a towel wrapped around my body because I was too lazy to moisturize, let alone put on pajamas after my shower. I’m clutching a half-full bottle of wine in my left hand, staring at this bed and feeling nothing but dread. I take a deep swig of wine as I pull the covers back and wince. Note to self; wine tastes terrible mixed with the remnants of toothpaste.

I feel hollowed out and skinned raw. It’s not the possibility of sleeping alone that’s getting to me; it’s sleeping alone on the first night of what should have been my honeymoon that makes me feel like the fool that I am.

I crawl into bed with tears already pooling in my eyes. I burrow down into the bed, finding a warm home in the soft silk sheets but still sitting just upright enough that I can empty this bottle. And I do. I take swig after swig as the watery pools of my tears spill down my cheeks. I manage to cry quietly at first, but eventually, a loud, guttural sob bursts past my lips, and I can’t stop it or the one after.

I should order food, but I don’t. I should drink a bottle or six of water, but I don’t. I shouldn’t fall asleep, with an empty bottle of wine clutched in my arms like a teddy bear, with a pillow wet with my own tears, but I do.

* * *

Giulio

I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but I hate whoever the fuck is in the penthouse suite that should have been mine, and not just because they stole from me, but because they won’t shut the fuck up.

Is there any sound worse than a woman crying?

Yes. A drunk woman sobbing like her entire world is ending before she passes out and then the sound of her loud snores.

I’m lying in the best bed I’ve ever slept in, covering my head with a pillow to hopefully drown her out and failing. This isn’t the holiday I planned. This isn’t the hotel stay I paid a fortune for.

My fingers flex against the pillow, missing the heavy steel of my gun. I’m not saying I want to kill her or anything, I’m not a monster, but I definitely wish I could shoot something to take the edge off of all the other times I fell asleep with the sound of a woman crying in another room.

I hate it. Fuck, I hate this.

6Giulio

I’min a right fucking mood as soon as my eyes open the next morning.

I usually get the best sleep of my life the night after I finish a job. I sleep like the dead, to be honest. Is that crass? Maybe, but it’s true. I have a conscience — of course, I do — but I take comfort in a job well done. Just because that job well done happens to involve taking out a few low-level hoodlums coming after my boss and burying them and not, say, picking up the garbage, doesn’t really matter. Not to me, at least.

But as soon as my bare feet hit the floor, I somehow feel even more tired than I did when I crawled into bed last night.

I need an espresso.

I shower and put on my best holiday casual attire. I might be in a shit mood, but I still need to play the part. I pull on a pair of linen shorts and a button-down shirt that I only button to cover my abs. I haven’t been able to make it to the gym for the past few weeks, and they don’t look as defined as I like. Not that I plan to ruin my holiday by working on them.

I look at myself in the mirror across from the bed. I slick my hair back from my face and turn my head left to right, checking out the five o’clock shadow that’s on the verge of turning into a beard, just the look I prefer. Not that I’m vain or anything. Not really. Okay, I might be a little vain. I like to look good, and I like to snatch a bit of attention when I can — when it’s not a hazard — and I don’t think I should apologize for that. I’m not the kind of man who apologizes often anyway. Besides, it feels good to be appreciated for looking good. That’s not just for women; I don’t care what anyone says.

Unfortunately, looking at myself doesn’t improve my mood today. I’m too tired and annoyed. I roll my eyes and sigh at my reflection before storming out of myjuniorpenthouse suite in search of the hotel restaurant.

As I wait for the lift, my eyes move to the door at the other end of the hall; to the real penthouse. I wait, and I watch that door, willing it to open with a barrage of angry, intense thoughts, so I can have the chance to tell whoever the fuck is staying inmy roomto keep their crying to themselves tonight.

But it doesn’t open.

And that makes me even fucking angrier.

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