65

Alexei
I used to believe in God, but not since that day. The last few hours had me questioning my lack of belief. For without some sort of divine providence, how could Gianna Marciano be sitting, unsuspecting, just outside the bar with only tinted glass and brick between us? The Bastard was all the way across the ocean in New York. He couldn’t stop me now.
Well, either divine intervention or a little luck with a whole lot of work put in, really. The Bastard kept her safe in the States. My father’s ties to Putin had us flagged by US Customs. Unless I snuck in, they’d turn me back almost before my feet touched the ground.
My favorite Moldovian hacker had flagged her for me, so I’d know the moment she left the country. That she had traveled to Rome so soon after I’d left Malta on my yacht, that was luck, or the long and winding course of history bending toward justice.
So close to my target, my fingers rapped a frantic pattern on the glass I held. A nervous habit I’d gotten over the first few times I held a gun while intending harm. This wasn’t a hit. No need to tap into that excitable and lethal energy. I wasn’t a monster, happy to hurt women and children. Gianna would be safe with me.
Okay, maybe I was a monster, on occasion, but not that type of monster. Gianna was my goal, not my true prey. Even so, I’d stalked her like a tundra wolf from the airport to the hotel and straight to this bar with her bubbly blonde friend Katie.
Watching them, I’d found that Gianna couldn’t contrast her friend more if she tried. Unlike the chatterbox with her slouched posture and wild gestures, my current target sat rigid, her shoulders set, prim and proper like one of the lords daughters at Charterhouse. That matched the intelligence dossier I’d had compiled.
Unlike her friend and roommate, Gianna didn’t post a picture of every single outfit and meal she tried on or ate on Instagram. She ghosted socials. Understandable. The Bastard had dangerous enemies. If her BFF didn’t live her life online, my information would have been even more scarce.
My target snatched the glass off the table and sniffed it. She wasn’t going to drink it. A girl like that, so controlled, she wouldn’t let that facade crack, to take the risk of letting it slip with the liquor.
She slammed it down and my own almost slipped out of my fingers. Had the intelligence been wrong, or was my assessment of the Bastard’s daughter faulty? As confident as I was in my analysis, only a fool thought themselves beyond error. That sort of arrogance bit you in the ass in the end.
It didn’t matter. No battle plan survived contact with the enemies. Some had to adapt even before the first volley had been fired. The unexpected looked good on her anyway.
It might have been the drink, but her mask slipped soon after. Not much, a slight smile came to her face, softening it. The tension in her posture relaxed. The few pictures I had of her hadn’t done her justice, not at all.
They only showed her facade, the reserved public-facing flat expression of a dutiful daughter in a write-up of the Bastard’s investment firm, or the same in her senior class photo at Exeter.
In real life and with a second drink in her now, I found her captivating. The dark curls that framed her olive toned face danced when she snapped a retort to her friend. Her smile broadened into a playful smirk. She leaned back in her chair. Her modestly cut top hid more of her body than her friend’s plunging neckline, but clothes of that quality were tailored to emphasize a woman’s femininity, her curves. Finding the target attractive only made my job easier. Now, all I needed was a proper opening.
As if the divine had been listening in to my thoughts, both girls froze before Katie stood, turning toward the bar door and Gianna pulled a phone out of her handbag. My target was alone but I stayed still. I’d waited years for this opportunity. I could wait a few more minutes to ensure she remained alone.
Once her friend left, she stared at the phone screen, rigid as she’d been before the drinks. Her lips mouthed the word ‘father,’ and my grip tightened, fingers white on the glass when she answered it. If I was as much a monster as the Bastard, I’d have her hit right now. Let him hear the shots, his daughter’s dying breaths knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. But I wasn’t him.
“Well, hello tall, blond and handsome,” a feminine voice said, too close.
My head jerked around to find the bubbly blonde standing in front of my table. Her eyes looked me up and down, smirk growing. Then they darted between me and where I’d been looking.
“Oh, I don’t think Gia’s ready for a guy like you.” She giggled and batted her eyes, stepping closer. Her fingers stroked the back of the chair opposite me. “You are certainly not a starter model.”
“Starter model?” I repeated with a frown.
“And you’re British! I just love that accent,” she gushed before winking, “maybe I’ll be back for you myself.”
She walked off before I could respond. Not that I would have corrected her. When Gianna disappeared, better her companion tell the police about the handsome Brit than the Russian thug.
Katie continued toward the bar. Even before she reached the bartender, a couple of locals approached her. With a tilt of her head, she gave them the same appraisal she’d given me. Immediately after, she pressed closer to the taller of the two and whispered something to the other man.
His head jerked to stare out the window at my target. His lips curled into a punchable smile. After whispered words with his buddy, he turned his back to me at the bar. Katie let the other guy lead her back to his table. The one at the bar turned toward the door. As he passed, he shook the shot glass in his hand.
Had he spiked it?
He complicated the plan just by heading toward my target. Not physically. He nearly matched my height, maybe an inch or two shorter, but his arms were thin as twigs. I’d snap one, if it came to that, but such actions came with screaming and wailing, attention I’d rather not get. My assessment of Gianna told me she’d likely take advantage of a scene, use it to escape. You only got one chance for a surprise attack. Once the enemy has regrouped, you did too.
If he slipped something in her drink, she’d be easier to handle, more compliant. Less chance of a scene but the thought had me frowning. If I wanted my revenge to be easy, I’d just kill her. Eye for an eye and all that.
The easy way out was the path of the weak. In our world, the weak ended up dead or indebted to the strong. I’d have vengeance, justice on my own terms against a worthy opponent at the top of her game. Victory against a weak opponent tasted like ashes.
My target’s eyes darted to the door as it opened. She’d put her phone away and held her eyes wider than before. Her chest rose and fell with quicker breaths. Something had her excited.
A war raged in my head. Rush out and stop the shrimp from drugging the target and risk her escaping in the scene that came next, or bide my time, let it happen and take him out afterwards, easily securing the target? I’d just decided, a second from jolting out of my chair when she did the unexpected.
Her posture and bearings slipped back to its rigid pre-intoxication state when the boy reached the table. He set the drink down and took her hand. The kiss he planted on the back had me tensed to bolt out the door. It looked like I’d be too late when she picked the glass up. My chair slid back and banged against the wall as I stood, but then she sneezed and spilled the laced drink.
Oh, she was a worthy opponent. Victory would taste even sweeter.
The door creaked open and the attempted rapist sauntered in. With a shake of his head and a mumble in Italian too quiet for my middling skills to pick up, he approached the bar. I followed.
“That dumb bitch spilled her drink,” he said to the bartender in Italian, pointing toward the door. His eyes flashed to mine and he stiffened for a moment before turning back to the bartender. “I could use another beer too.”
The bartender poured a shot of clear liquor for the man before hurrying down the bar to the refrigerator. The would-be rapist glanced both ways before hunching over the drink. Persistence would provide no reward for him today.
The bartended returned with the man’s beer and quickly turned to serve another patron. My hand slapped onto my irritant’s shoulder, holding him in place. He flinched at the unexpected arm around his back, but no amount of jerking freed him.
“Hey, what the hell!” His head swung to face me. Lips quivered. Eyes widened. “Wha… what do you want?”
“I want you to drink that,” I said in English with a low, calm voice, then pointed to the doctored drink.
“But that’s not for me,” he replied.
“It is now.” The tip of my thumb pressed into his neck. “Drink up or we’ll see if I can dislocate your shoulder with one hand. Don’t worry. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just use my other hand too. I’ve done that enough, it’s like riding a bike. Now drink up.”
He frowned at the drink. A little powder still floated on top. He glanced my way and that frown only grew. I offered no quarter though. My fingers provided encouragement, squeezing until the man sucked in a breath.
A resigned sigh later, he lifted the drink. His eyes turned to mine again, a tacit beg for mercy. I offered none, spoken or not. He shuddered but downed the glass in one gulp.
“Was that so hard?” I inched back and held my arms out, freeing him.
His hands pushed against the bar. He stumbled back and ran into another patron. Without even acknowledging them, he sprinted to the back of the bar and disappeared into the men’s room. At least he’d made up for his rudeness by offering me his beer.
I snatched it off the bar and focused on my next prey. Gianna remained at her outdoor table, slight frown marring her face, probably plotting her next move with the chemist. With her defenses up, she’d make an even more worthy adversary… and prize.