John was stoked. This job was going to be easy money. He
parked in the shadow of a tree—not that his quarry could see
him parked around the corner. The stupid old fuck was
probably congratulating himself for being so crafty. Marco
Barbieri’s plane from Italy had landed five hours ago, and
the old man had been riding taxis in big, useless circles
around the boroughs of New York City ever since. He’d
changed cabs five times, but he always took the traitorous
RF blip with him, the one planted deep in the trolley of his
carry-on suitcase.

And it had led John right to the small upstate town of Hempton.

Served the old fart right for trusting his domestic staff
back at his crumbling palazzo in Castiglione Santangelo. All
it took was money to get the device planted in Barbieri’s
suitcase. Not even that much money.

John slunk along the spiked wrought-iron fence that lined
the street, staying in the shadows of overhanging shrubs.
The taxi was pulling away, turning the corner. Barbieri
climbed the steps slowly.

Triumph pumped through John. He’d found the elusive, long-
lost Contessa. Marco Barbieri’s runaway bride. She’d be a
shriveled hag now. Too damn bad, but she was still the key
to the treasure chest. Marco Barbieri himself knew
jack-shit. He was played out, ripe for the coroner’s slab,
but the Contessa was another story. She would know what his
boss needed to know. Why the fuck else would she have run?

John’s hands twitched with eagerness.

The door opened. A square of light, a tall, thin silhouette
of a woman. The two figures stared at each other,
motionless. John squinted in the dark. Too far to be sure,
but saliva still pumped into his mouth.

They were speaking. John wished he’d been able to plant a
listening device. Fuck it, he’d just get the woman to repeat
their conversation, word for word. A few minutes with John’s
talents, and the old bitch would walk on her hands and bark
like a dog if he told her to.

He enjoyed that part of his work a bit more than he should,
but whatever. No one ever knew how much he enjoyed himself
on the job except for his victims. And they certainly
weren’t telling.

He pondered ways and means as he composed himself to wait.
Killing Barbieri in front of the Contessa would put her in
the right mind-set for his interrogation, but it might also
make a mess. John could wait when the situation warranted
it, but his employer had been waiting for decades already.
Nothing could be served by more waiting.

He drifted like a big dark ghost up the stairs, pulling on
the mask. Unnecessary, since the Contessa would not live out
the night, but John had found that wearing the mask
unleashed him in some obscure way. He became superhuman. The
essence of Death. Just putting it on made his body buzz with
unholy anticipation.

He heard voices behind the door, the click of locks being
disengaged. John slunk to put his back to the wall, reining
in the hungry blood-drinking beast inside him. No knives, no
guns. Barbieri’s blood spilled here would narrow John’s
options afterward.

The instant the old man stepped out the door, John was in
motion; grab, wrench, a strangled grunt, a wet crunch of a
spine snapping, like a chicken with its neck wrung for the pot.

“Marco!” The old woman sprang out the door at him.
“Stronzo!” she shrieked. “Assassino! Aiuto! Help!” She
clawed at his face.

He lunged back, startled, dropping Barbieri’s limp body to
the floor. Her shrill cries choked off as he knocked her
into her house, onto the floor. She scrambled back,
crablike, and squeaked as he landed on top of her, knocking
all the air out of her. He clapped his hand over her
trembling mouth. Feeling her fragile rib cage hitch and
jerk, seeking air. The fine, soft wrinkled skin beneath his
palm. He pinned her flailing hands in the vise of his
thighs. Her long white hair had come loose. Her shirt was
torn. Her thin, frail body vibrated with stark terror.

He drank it in, grinning. Guzzling it. Terror. A heady liquor.

“Not as fresh as I like,” he remarked, lightly. “You must’ve
been good-looking a century ago. But I’m a professional.
I’ll manage.” He yanked out the first implement that came to
his hand, a hooked blade, and waved it in front of her eyes.
“So, Contessa. Let’s talk about the sketches. Where are they?”

Her eyes froze wide. “D-d-don’t know wh-where.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Oh, yes, you do,” he said
through clenched teeth. “And you’ll tell, Contessa. Believe
me. You’ll tell.”

Something like amusement flashed in her eyes, in spite of
her fear. Something cynical, ironic. She gave him a little
head shake. No.

As if she were laughing at him. The uppity dago bitch
actually dared to laugh at him. Like she thought she was
smarter. Better.

Killing rage flooded him like rocket fuel. He was going to
know everything in her head. He would carve it out of the
snotty old whore, chunk by chunk. He reared up, twirling the
blade in his fingers—

And realized she was no longer looking at him at all. She
looked at the ceiling, gasping. Her face was white, her lips
purple. He rolled off her, dismayed. Sure enough. Her freed
hand went to her chest. Clutching. Oh, Christ, no. A fucking
heart attack. He leaned over and stared into her face. “You
stupid, troublesome bitch,” he said loudly.

She focused on him, and his heightened predator senses felt
her, slipping away to where he couldn’t follow. He saw a
fleeting hint of triumph in her eyes before they rolled,
went blank. Unconscious. He wanted to howl. Dying, to spite
him. And now old Barbieri was dead, too. The boss was not
going to be happy.

Searching Barbieri’s suitcase and briefcase yielded no
insights. They’d fucked him but good. He touched the
Contessa’s throat. Dead as a doornail. He suppressed the
urge to mutilate their corpses.

The austere room was empty but for a writing table and some
carefully lit art pieces. Three envelopes lay on the table.

He snatched one up. Stamped, but not yet sent. The one he
held was addressed to a Nancy D’Onofrio. He ripped it open
and squinted at the fine, delicate antique cursive script.

My dearest Nancy,

What I have to tell you will come as a shock, and I’m sorry
to tell you in a letter. I wanted to tell you all in person,
but after my cardiologist appointment last week, I see now
that I do not dare to wait until I can get all three of my
girls together in one room . . .

Girls? John’s head lifted like an animal scenting new prey.
His eyes lit on a shelf crowded with photographs.

He strode over. Sure enough. Three young women smiled out of
the picture frames. Pretty girls. Each hot, in her own
dick-prickling way. Too young to be the bitch’s daughters.
Granddaughters, more like.

Fresh meat. And their addresses, written right there. Handy.

He stared at the images, breathing hard. One buxom, curvy
girl with curly dark hair was curled up in a window seat,
reading. Another mahogany-haired sylph was holding up a
calico cat beneath her chin, smiling. A slender redheaded
waif sported a slinky evening gown, gesturing toward a huge
abstract sculpture behind her. All had sparkling eyes, rosy
lips, expanses of smooth, unmarked skin like untrodden snow.
Hot blood, blushing beneath. Curves and hollows, for him to
pinch and squeeze and bite. Those girls would walk on their
hands and bark like dogs for him, too. He would find those
sketches, make his pile of money, and have a fine, juicy old
time doing it.

So much saliva exploded into his mouth he began to dribble.
He licked his lips, wiped his chin absently. Wouldn’t do to
make it easy for the forensics techs, leaving a puddle of
genetic material for them to test.

Finally, this job was starting to get interesting.