Page 7 of Fastest Kill

After a few tense seconds, he looked down at the dark head resting against his arm and thought, very clearly: I am so fucked.

4

The Alesci house sat at the end of a narrow gravel road lined with olive trees, perched on a rocky hillside with a view of the harbor that most people would kill for.

Frederica's mother had technically killed for it, though how Despina acquired the property was a story her parents only told at dinner parties after the third bottle of wine.

Frederica stood at the bottom of the front steps, boots crunching on gravel, and stared at the blue-painted door like it was a live grenade.

Behind her, Dario shut the car door and let out a low whistle. "This is not what I expected."

It wasn't what most people expected. The house was a sprawling, whitewashed stone building with terracotta tiles, bright blue shutters, and a courtyard tangled with bougainvillea and jasmine. Mismatched pots crowded every step, most of them filled with herbs Despina used for cooking and, on occasion, for poisoning.

A fat orange cat was sunning itself on the garden wall, and a pair of Tore's work boots sat beside the door, caked in what was either red clay or dried blood. With her father, it was genuinely hard to tell.

It looked like a postcard and also a home where nothing bad could possibly happen, which was a lie so enormous that it was almost laughable.

"What were you expecting?" she asked without turning around.

"Something more... fortified. Gun turrets. Razor wire. A moat."

"The gun turrets are metaphorical. My mother is the razor wire." Frederica took a breath and climbed the steps. "Don't touch anything. Don't compliment her cooking if she offers you food, and for the love of God, don't flirt with her."

Dario's brows rose. "Why would I flirt with your mother?"

"Because you flirt with everyone. It's a reflex." She reached the door and paused, hand raised to knock. She hadn't knocked on this door since she was twelve years old. She always walked in, hollering for food because that was the rule. Alesci doors were never locked to family.

She was stalling because Dario Colleoni was standing behind her, smelling of a nightclub, and her mother would take one look at this picture and draw the worst possible conclusion.

The correct conclusion, a traitorous voice whispered. Frederica told it to shut up.

She didn't get the chance to knock. The door swung open, and Despina Alesci stood in the frame holding a Beretta 92 in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other.

Frederica's mother was a study in contradictions. Soft curves, a face that got more beautiful with age, dark bouncy curls in a loose knot, with a pencil holding it in place, and wearing a floral apron over a red linen dress.

She looked like someone's yiayia about to offer you loukoumades and homemade beauty products.

The gun and murderous intent in her eyes rather ruined the effect.

Despina's gaze went to Frederica first. A full scan, head to toe, the kind of rapid threat assessment that only came from decades of fieldwork. Frederica watched her mother take in the hangover, the stained shirt, the half-unraveled braid, and put it all away for later interrogation. Despina spotted the very large man standing two steps behind her daughter. The Beretta came up.

"Who is this malakas gigolo?" she demanded, eyes narrowing.

"Mama," Fredica groaned.

"I'm asking a simple question. Who is this tattooed giant on my doorstep at six in the morning, dressed as if he works in a Mykonos strip club? If he is after some euros, pay him, because I don't have any on me."

Behind her, Frederica heard Dario make a noise that was either a suppressed laugh or a choking sound. She prayed for the latter.

"He's not... He's a colleague. We work together. Sort of." The words were coming out wrong.

Frederica could lie to arms dealers, intelligence officers, and priests without blinking, but her mother turned her into a stammering teenager every single time.

Despina didn't lower the gun. She looked past Frederica at Dario. She had been a contract killer for twenty years and knew exactly what category to put him in.

"A colleague who picks you up from jail? In a silk shirt?"

She knows about the jail. Of course, she knew. Despina Alesci knew everything. She probably knew about the jail before the Cretan police had finished the paperwork.