Page 10 of As Devils Love

Matteo’s dossier includes Fiametta’s address, but I prefer to hunt the old-fashioned way. There’s no better thrill in this world than tracking a target, be it man or beast. Discovering its habits, evaluating its weaknesses, and creating the perfect strike to bring it down.

A file full of information would definitely make it easier, but there’s no fun in being spoon fed.

“Shouldn’t we lay low or something? We just killed two guys.” Mark’s concerns are valid, but irrelevant. Breaking the rigorous order and structure of our routine of the past eighteen months would be more suspicious than carrying on as normal. Besides, we were wearing masks when we killed two of Lorenzo Napoli’s goons, no one’s going to bat an eye at their deaths. The only complication that may arise might come from Fuck-Face’s notleaving when he had the chance. I won’t lose any sleep over him, though. Casualties of war happen every day, and when the cops find Napoli men lying dead in pools of blood and piss, they’ll just think of him as the unlucky victim of some turf war.

“Sure. Until Monday. Buckshot and bait,” Mark echoes my words.

I give him a pat on the shoulder. It isn’t much of a reward for a job well done, especially considering what I’m getting, but it will have to do.

We part ways, with Mark heading up the street, where he left his car a few blocks away. I walk calmly to my BMW, get into the driver’s seat, and watch as her friend struggles and manages to get Fiametta into the car.

I follow them from the club to her place.

Fiametta can hardly stand on her own two feet when they stop outside her apartment building. Her friend’s forceful pulls are the only thing keeping her moving, and she’s assisted by the Uber driver who has a deeply worried look on his face. The ladies disappear into the lobby, leaving the Uber driver waiting outside.

I spend the next forty-five minutes waiting for the firecracker to conclude her business upstairs, taking in my surroundings while I wait. The first thing that catches my attention is aRentals Availablesign outside the building opposite Fiametta’s. She lives in the nice part of town, full of tall buildings, with regal, elegant architecture. Most are apartments, but a few are triple-story houses with front lawns.

I haven’t seen a single bum loitering on the street, and the same security truck has done its route twice in the time I’ve been here. They must come out every half an hour or so, to ensure their streets remain clean and tidy.

Whether they are in secrecy or not, the perks of being a mob boss’s daughter are astounding.

Right, time to move, I urge myself as the ginger firecracker leaves by the front door. She gets into her car, and I watch her drive away, until her headlights vanish in the distance. To save myself the hassle of having to find exactly where Fiametta is inside this building, I grab Matteo’s notes and read the few that are related to her apartment’s interior:

Remington Building, apartment forty-eight. An end apartment with the main bedroom joining the fire escape to the street, and the second conjoined to the neighboring wall.

Master bedroom: en-suite bathroom. Walk-in closet. Access to main balcony.

Second bedroom: down a T-shaped adjoining hall. Bedroom on the right. Bathroom on the left. Smaller. Standard cupboards. No access to the balcony.

Open-plan kitchen, dining and living room, with an overhanging loft – part of which extends to a second, higher balcony. The other is cut off for staircase use.

Balconies, top and bottom, overlooking the street.

The already thorough notes are accompanied by a design and layout blueprint with measurements for each of the listed spaces. If only Matteo made it this easy for all of my targets, I would’ve finished his list weeks ago.

From the outside, everything matches so far. Now, let’s take a look at the inside.

I get out of my car and cross the street, breaching the Remington’s main door. An old man is snoring at the front desk, with a tiny box TV at his side playing decades old re-runs ofCheers,making slipping past him an easy task.

A familiar sensation raises the hair on my arms as I press the number four in the elevator. It’s the same feeling I always get when I’m alone with my prey, watching them silently from the shadows, while they cower and squirm or try their hardest to break free of their bonds.

It shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. I’m not here to kill Fiametta. I’m here to observe, gather intel, and start building my own report on her routine and habits.

So, why am I so excited?

That’s when I realize how worked up Fiametta has me, and I’m thankful I haven’t lowered my mask since I got out of the car.

Cameras. I didn’t bother looking for them when I walked into the Remington, and now it’s too late to scour the front and lobby. The elevator doesn’t have one, and when I step off onto Fiametta’s floor, I can’t see any along the ceiling. Maybe I dodged a bullet by blind luck, this time, but I can’t allow myself to be this reckless again.

The halls are empty, but that’s unsurprising since the clock just struck two A.M. I slip my hand into my leather jacket’s breast pocket and pull out my leather toolbox, before I walk the short distance to Fiametta’s door. Outside it, I grab the various items I need to pick the door’s lock and get to work.

I learned lock picking as part of my Special Ops training, and I’ve mastered the skill over my years of becoming New York’s most elite assassin. Slipping in and out of wherever I need to go is an important skill, and rudimentary door locks pose no challenge. Less than a minute passes before I hear the satisfying click of an unlocked door.

Since Fiametta will be sound asleep, and the firecracker departed not long ago, the deadbolt is unlatched, and the door swings open with a push. I step inside and lock the door behind me, on the off-chance reinforcements were called in at any point during my wait outside.

My first glance leads me to believe that all of Matteo’s notes were correct. The living room lamp is still on, as well as one in the dining room, and it gives me a clear view of it and with light fading as it enters the kitchen. Overhead, the wooden floors ofthe loft make up the ceiling, and through the tall windows I can see the narrow balcony it leads onto.

I almost want to find a flaw in his notes, and if I had brought my measuring tape, I might’ve gone through the flat, room by room to see if the blueprint is also correct. There’s time to waste, after all. Fiametta won’t wake from my chemically induced slumber for at least another seven hours.

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