Page 9 of The Hitman
But I can’t risk being awake any longer than is necessary, so just in case I don’t fall asleep quickly, I need to be prepared. “Can you please send up a bottle of white wine?”
“There’s a bottle of champagne in the room already, madam.”
“Great, that’ll be a good start while I wait for the wine.”
I don’t see judgment in her eyes. I’m tired as hell, but I’m pretty sure that what I see there is mild amusement, and you know what, I’ll take it.
“Might I suggest a bottle from our local vineyard?”
Maybe she sees the way my face scrunches at that because she smiles wider, leans over the desk, and lowers her voice.
“We have a few very expensive varieties,” she whispers.
I huff out a dry laugh. Lord, I need to drink some water. I imagine that the mild amusement I saw earlier might have been tinged with a bit of grudging respect. Maybe she’s had someone cheat on her, or she just likes crime. Either way, I decide that I like her.
“Send two of the most expensive bottles you have,” I say.
Her smile is wide enough that I assume she must be getting some kind of commission. “Of course, madam.”
I turn to the elevator, and a porter follows behind me. I ride up to the honeymoon suite — which is really just one of the larger penthouses on the top floor of each villa. I’m still dehydrated, exhausted, maybe hungry, and I definitely still stink, but there’s a bit of pep in my step. Whatever stage of grief this is, it’s the best by far, even if I know it’s fleeting.
* * *
Giulio
This isn’t a holiday. Not really. I know that, and so does Salvo, but I’ve never actually taken a holiday in my life so, I decide to treat this trip like one instead of like the hideout that it is. I don’t have the kind of job that allows for much leisure time, and I’m not looking to change careers, so I decide to take this unprecedented break with both hands. This might be the only holiday I ever get, and I want to feel it in my bones for a few weeks after I’m back in the muck that is my life.
Villa San Marco is just far enough away from Naples and remote enough that the likelihood of running into anyone who knows me is slim, but it’s still close enough to get back to Salvo just in case I’m needed. This is comforting enough that I hope it means I can relax. If Salvo doesn’t need me, the next week is mine to do with as I please, and the only things I want are rest, sun, wine, and figa.
Pussy. I want all the pussy I can handle and more. I want to drown in the wettest pussy I’ve ever had the pleasure to taste and touch. I deserve it. I’m also near to bursting with adrenaline in the post-job, pre-holiday excitement haze. My veins feel as if they’re coursing with pure lust.
Until the bubble bursts.
“What do you mean, it’s booked?” I hiss across the front desk to the concierge — cute, maybe smiles too much, great rack; a definite possibility.
“I am sorry, sir,” she says in English. “The room has been booked for months. There was a mistake on the website. The system shouldn’t have allowed that booking.”
“But it did. Who’s in my room?” I ask slowly, each word a single frustrated syllable.
The concierge smiles nervously at me, and I decide that she absolutely smiles far too much. I’d still fuck her. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t share the information of other guests. But we do have another penthouse suite available if you would like.”
“Another penthouse?”
“A junior penthouse suite,” she corrects. Still smiling. Trying to rush past that word. Junior.
I’m 190 centimeters tall. There hasn’t been anythingjuniorabout me since my balls dropped.
But I don’t tell her that because I’m supposed to be laying low, and I feel like an angry guest cursing and grabbing their cock in the middle of the hotel lobby might garner a bit of unwanted attention. I take a deep breath in through my nose and push it out slowly through my mouth. I saw that shit in a movie once. It works.
I need to solve this like a civilized, wealthy traveler who can afford a holiday in the exclusive Villa San Marco, instead of who I really am, even though that might be more efficient and effective.
“This is the only option? Thebestroom you have?” I ask in that slow, irate voice.
“Yes, sir. It’s next to the superior penthouse suite. I am sorry,” she says in a halting voice.
Under normal circumstances, I could have just taken my business elsewhere. Although, actually, if I were in Naples, this wouldn’t even be a possibility. If I were in Naples, whoever took the penthouse suite I wanted would have already been dragged to the junior suite — maybe even another floor — so I could have the room I wanted. But I’m not in Naples, nothing about this is normal, and I remind myself, as I take another deep breath, that this is a good thing. Being out of my element is good. Being unknown instead of as Salvo’s bullet is a blessing, even if it’s temporary.
“Fine,” I say, throwing the counterfeit credit card Alfonso procured for me onto the counter. “Give me thejuniorpenthouse.” I sound like a petty, bitter man when I’m anything but. But this is my holiday, and I can be anyone I want.