Page 41 of Kill, Sleep, Repeat: Vol II

I flip on the nearest light. He’s sitting in my armchair, legs crossed, his elbow resting casually on the armrest as if he owns the place. The sight of him is infuriating, but what sets my teeth on edge is the closed door to Hayley’s bedroom down the hall. My daughter, asleep, utterly unaware that a man like this is sitting less than twenty feet away.

“This is a new low, even for you,” I say. “Breaking into my home?”

He shrugs, flicking ash from his cigarette into the glass tray he’s brought with him—from where, I don’t know. The casual disrespect of it makes my skin crawl. “Your security’s too good for anyone but me. Consider it a compliment.”

“Put that out,” I snap, nodding at the cigarette. “Now.”

He raises an eyebrow but obliges, stubbing it out with an exaggerated twist. “Happy?”

“Not remotely,” I cross my arms. “What do you want, Carlo?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, leaning back in the chair as if he has all the time in the world. His silence feels deliberate, a power play I’ve seen a hundred times before. But I’m not in the mood for games tonight.

“I’ve been getting texts,” I say, cutting into the quiet. “And I think I’m being followed. Is it you?”

Carlo’s eyes narrow, just slightly. “Paranoia doesn’t suit you, Charlotte.”

“Don’t patronize me.” I step closer, keeping my voice low. The last thing I want is to wake Hayley. “If you’re playing some kind of game, I need to know.”

He leans back in the chair, exhaling a slow stream of smoke despite having extinguished the cigarette. The faint lingering smell is a reminder of his intrusion, his audacity. “You’re slipping.”

My blood runs cold. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen it before,” he says, his tone maddeningly calm. “Agents who burn too brightly, too fast. You need a break. A week at the beach, maybe. Clear your head.”

I stare at him, searching his face for the telltale signs of deceit. But Carlo’s good—too good. If he’s lying, I can’t see it.

“A non-working assassin is a dead assassin,” I say. “You know that.”

“Then prove me wrong.” He rolls a fresh cigarette between his fingers and then places it between his lips, the unlit endbobbing as he speaks. “Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve got a job for you.”

I don’t like the way he says it, the casual way he dismisses my concerns. But I stay silent, letting him continue.

“There’s a yacht party,” he says, pulling a sleek tablet from his jacket and placing it on the coffee table. The screen lights up, displaying a dossier. “Your target will be there. High-profile, dangerous. This one needs precision, and it needs to be public.”

Public. The word feels like a slap. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about work.”

I pick up the tablet and scroll through the details. My chest tightens when I see Sophie’s name. “I don’t want her involved in this.”

“She’s ready,” he says.

“She’s not,” I snap, shoving the tablet back onto the table. The screen flickers as it spins. “And you know it. Besides, this is a terrible way to handle this job.”

“It’s not your call,” Carlo says, his voice hardening. “The agency agrees. We need to send a message. It’s how it has to happen.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

His eyes lock on mine, cold and unyielding. “You know the answer to that.”

I’ve seen this before. The setup. The trap. Two birds, one stone. My stomach churns, but I keep my expression blank. If Carlo senses hesitation, I’m as good as dead.

“You’re asking me to risk everything.” My words are steady, but the question is about to get me in a lot of trouble. “For what?”

His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “To twist fate. Rewrite the course of the future. Take out a few bad actors before they get their hands any dirtier than theyalready are.”

I don’t respond, but he takes my silence as permission to continue.

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