Page 48 of The Hitman

I shower and throw on a pair of pajama bottoms and a fresh t-shirt.

This house has three bedrooms. It’s not a big house, but it sits on a large plot of rich, fertile land, bordered by the vines from a local vineyard. On paper, this place is a paradise. In reality, my skin began crawling as soon as I walked through the front door. I don’t want to see any of the rest of the house. I hurry back to the bedroom.

Zahra’s flipped onto her stomach, and her snores are softer now, or maybe they’re just muffled by the pillow. I didn’t imagine she’d be such a wild sleeper. My eyes move involuntarily to the empty side of the bed. I consider slipping under those covers. I wonder if she would roll onto me in the night. If she’d kick me, or steal all the blankets. I wonder what she’d think about waking up in my arms tomorrow morning.

I smile, imagining a rude awakening of her palm against my cheek, and shake my head. If she’s going to slap me, I want to see it coming. I grab a blanket from the foot of the bed and settle into the comfortable chair by the window.

I move the curtain aside and look out into the night. There’s nothing but darkness outside. Good. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders, slump into the seat, and fall asleep to the sound of Zahra’s heavy breaths.

17Zahra

You knowwhen you sleep so hard you wake up still kind of tired and groggy? That’s me this morning. I’m somehow refreshed but still tired. I think the exhaustion from the last few days is finally starting to catch up with me.

It takes me a few seconds to realize where I am. I don’t recognize this room or this bed, but then I hear him snore. I turn onto my right side and see Giulio sleeping in a chair with a blanket thrown over his body. It isn’t until I see him that I realize I’d expected Giulio to sleep with me, especially after that train ride. But he didn’t.

Like so much of my life right now, I don’t know how to feel about that. Should I be happy that he didn’t cross any boundaries we hadn’t explicitly discussed? Should I be frustrated that after fucking me so publicly, he couldn’t even sleep in the same bed with me? Should I be confused that I let a man fuck me on a train when sometimes I was nervous to let Ryan hold my hand at press events? Should I be concerned that all of this — masturbating for a complete stranger, running away with a man I know is a killer, the great public sex — is very unlike me?

If Zoe were here, she’d probably roll her eyes and tell me that life is full of contradictions and to stop obsessing over all the details. And maybe because I’m not rested, and also she’s thousands of miles away, I decide to lean into the advice from her imaginary self.

Also, Giulio is sexy as hell when he’s sleeping. His arms are crossed over his chest. I swear I can see his muscles flexing under the blanket. His head is lolling to his left, and his face looks so serene that he almost looks like another man. His lips are parted the tiniest bit, and every time he snores, he wrinkles his nose adorably. He doesn’t look like a killer, I think out of nowhere.

And there goes Zoe’s voice in my head.What the hell does a killer look like?

Great question, imaginary Zoe. To clarify, this man doesn’t look like a killer to me — even though I know that’s exactly what he is — because he looks like a man I want to fuck again.

Imaginary Zoe pipes up again.And that’s all that matters.

I shake my head and roll onto my back. I stretch my arms and legs wide, moaning as my stiff muscles loosen. Yeah, last night was definitely the best sleep I’ve had the entire time I’ve been in Italy. I crawl out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. My bag is right where I can see it next to the bed, and I snatch it up, holding it to my chest. The only door in the room leads to the hallway, so I head toward it. I have to pee so badly I’m practically jumping up and down. Thankfully, as soon as I step out of the room, I see the open bathroom door across the hall. I rush inside and close the door quietly.

Since Giulio is asleep, I decide to take my time relieving my bladder, showering, brushing my teeth, and washing my face. And then I see my hair.

“Jesus,” I whisper to myself, gently touching the frizzy, dry curls as if they’re someone else’s. I didn’t wear a scarf last night, and it shows.

I dig into my bag and find the small pouch of travel-sized hair products. Since I’m in no rush, I spend another indeterminate period of time gently wetting, moisturizing, and setting my curls, trying to look less like a tumbleweed, even though I kind of feel like one. I’ve moisturized my entire body and my hair, but my mouth and throat are so dry I don’t even think I can speak.

But I can scream.

And I do, just as soon as I open the door and find Giulio, looking bleary-eyed and menacing in the hallway outside the bathroom door.

“Troppo forte,” he grunts at me.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I croak. My hand is resting on my chest, and I can feel my heart beating a wild rhythm.

“Too loud,” he says. “Are you done?”

“I wouldn’t have yelled if you hadn’t been standing out here like a statue,” I tell him, gasping. My throat feels shredded.

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “No. With the toilet. Are you done in the bathroom?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Let me just grab my things.”

“Leave them. Make yourself at home. But move, I have to piss.”

I turn to him and squint. “You’re so rude first thing in the morning, apparently.”

“We can talk about that after I use the toilet,” he says, ushering me out of the bathroom unceremoniously.

I stand in the hallway, confused and still tired, as he rushes into the bathroom and slams the door in my face. But then I hear his voice through the wood barrier. “You smell delicious, Tesora.”