Page 85 of The Hitman

We stay like that well into the night, grinding against one another, slow and then fast and then slow again. He whispers so many Italian words and phrases into my ear and against my hot, sweaty skin that I feel certain I’ll be fluent in Italian in no time.

At the very least, I’ll become well-acquainted with the Italian tongue.

My favorite phrase, though, is the one Giulio breathes into my mouth each time he comes inside me.

“Penso di amarti.”

“Shut up. We barely know each other,” I tell him just before we pass out in his bed. “I think I love you, too.”

Epilogue

Zoe

I’m pacingaround the living room, and I hate pacing in this apartment. There’s a squeaky floorboard around the coffee table, and it annoys the shit out of me. I’ve tried pacing around the bedroom, down the hallway, and through the small galley kitchen. There are squeaky floorboards in all those places too. This place is a minefield of sharp sounds that make it hard to think while doing the one thing that allows me to think.

I could go to my apartment.

There aren’t any squeaky floorboards there.

There aren’t any dicks there either, though, so I’m kinda trapped at the moment.

Trapped and pacing around my boyfriends’ apartment while I type a very long email to my younger sister that she probably won’t reply to. The squeaky floorboards are worth it if it means that they’ll help me work out my frustrations once I press send. It’s better than burning through a pack of batteries with my sex toys, I think.

Now, back to this email:

Zahra Christine Port-

This is the third email I’ve sent you in as many days. If you have not responded to this email within 24 hours, I will be forced to take drastic measures to ascertain whether or not you’re dead in a ditch, were kidnapped by that shithead you almost married or joined some weird European cult. If you’re wondering, I would prefer the cult, but since I promised you that I would try and accept that douche nozzle, I will.

Sorry, I should probably call him by his name, but I’ll wait until you’ve confirmed a reconciliation before I give him that courtesy.

Look, I know you, and this isn’t like you at all. Call me. Call mom and dad. Call Shae or the aunties. CALL SOMEBODY!

You better be safe. I didn’t go to journalism school to have to spend the golden years of my career running around Europe looking for your remains. I refuse! I’ll do it, but I’ll be so mad at you. And it’ll kill our parents.

I love you.

Stop being a dick and check in.

I read over the email a few times, but honestly, I think it’s perfect, so I press send.

“Hey babe, dinner’ll be ready in ten,” Kevin calls from the kitchen.

“Okay, thanks,” I call back with false cheer and start typing another email. This one is quicker and much less formal and emotional.

KeKe -

Hack into my sister’s credit card accounts, please. She’s disappeared in Italy. Let me know when you find anything.

My best friend’s response is much faster than my little sister’s.

Done. Will send a report in the AM. Hope she’s getting that good vitamin D.

Faster, but much crasser. No one is perfect.

“Z,” Tyrone calls from the kitchen, “you want wine?”

“God, yes,” I breathe, walking toward the dining room.

I imagine that each step brings me a bit of calm, because, for the first time ever, I have a plan; a promise, really. I promise myself and my annoying, overthinking sister — wherever she is — that if I haven’t heard from her in twenty-four hours, I’m going to find her, even if I have to hop on a plane to Italy. I’m willing to make the sacrifice of a few days in a beautiful country with lots of wine and the best food to find her.

If I have to throttle her with a bunch of grapes when Idofind her… Well, she’s been MIA for a week, she deserves it.