Page 13 of The Hitman
That’s a grief thing, right? The sudden, uncontrollable tears? I’m not even sure what triggers them this time. I haven’t cried all day, mostly because I was too caught up watching that shameless man’s ass and dick in those tiny ass trunks as he strutted around the pool like a peacock, heavy on the cock. Whatever, the point is that I didn’t cry all day, so I have no idea why I cry myself to sleep tonight, but I do.
And I hate it.
* * *
Giulio
The bitch is crying again.
Great.
I roll my eyes at the sound of her pitiful hiccupping.
“Sta’ zitto,” I mutter to myself. “Shut up,” I yell louder, and in English, just in case she heard me and doesn’t understand Italian.
Get out of town.
Lay low.
Get some rest.
Those were my orders. Simple. Easy. Except not.
How am I supposed to get some rest when there’s a fucking wailing banshee next door?
When she starts crying again, I mutter to myself for a few minutes before getting out of bed and finding my earbuds, trying to drown her out with a little heavy metal. It doesn’t work. I need silence to sleep.
I feel myself getting tired and rip my headphones out of my ears, praying that she’s done with her sobbing. She is, but now she’s snoring.
“Fucking paper-thin walls,” I mutter to myself before falling into a fitful sleep.
7Giulio
I wakeup in a bad mood. Again.
Not only did I sleep for shit, but I was so angry that I forgot to wait for the waitress to show up at my door. So not only is the banshee fucking with my sleep, she’s fucking with my pussy. Unacceptable.
This isn’t the holiday I deserve. It’s only been two nights, and I’m already nearing the end of my admittedly short rope. I throw the sheets from my body with a roar and jump into the shower on a mission. I pull on another pair of swim trunks and linen shorts and a t-shirt from the closet and rush from my room. I don’t even take the time to do my hair or spray on any cologne. The only thing on my mind is getting to the front desk and handling this in the civilized way since I’ve committed myself to pretending that I’m civilized.
“Ciao, Mr. Rossi. Buongiorno,” the concierge says as I rush up to the hotel’s front desk. My steps falter for a fraction of a second. Who the fuck is Mr. Rossi? It takes me a few seconds to remember that I am. I blame the lack of good sleep on almost blowing my cover before leaning into my cover identity. That’s why I left my pistol in the hotel suite.
I nod at the concierge and force myself to smile. I’m not the kind of person who smiles easily, but I can pretend if it means getting what I want. And what I want is for someone to get the bitch next door to shut up so I can get a good night’s sleep.
“Ciao,” I grumble as I step up to the front desk. I sound surly, so I stop smiling. Why bother?
“How may I help you?” the concierge asks.
“I’m in the junior penthouse,” I spit at him, “and the person next to me…”
“Yes, sir?” the man asks, leaning closer as if I’m about to say the most interesting thing in the world.
I don’t like that reaction, and it makes me pause. I’m not a turncoat. I don’t snitch. And more importantly, now that I have a second to think about it, I don’t know if ratting out the woman in the penthouse is the way to go. Not because I’m not pissed, but because I don’t make moves without assessing the potential consequences; that can be deadly in my line of work.
I sigh, exhausted, and defeated for the moment. “Never mind.”
“Are you certain?” he asks, and the eagerness in his voice only strengthens my resolve that this isn’t the right course of action. At least not right now. I look around the front desk and realize that everyone’s paying attention to me — to what I might say next — and there are warning klaxons blaring in my head. I need a new strategy.
“Is the restaurant open?” I ask, instead of telling him to shut her up before I do.