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For the rest of the ride, my body stays tuned to Matteo. I barely managed to get out of the car. Even with his help, I stumble over my heels.
I take impossibly unsteady steps up the stone path to the house.
I need to have him again. To take him here. To make him come however I can.
Dammit, why do I have to work?
I should kill everyone here just so I can spend the entire night having my way with him.
It’s not a practical idea, but I still consider it as I step into the party. There are only a few dozen people here. With the gun in my purse…
Okay, no, I only have the six bullets. And I’m not wasteful that way. I only kill when necessary.
It’s just—
What’s more necessary than this?
Ahem.
I smile as I take in the modern space again. Beautiful people. Shiny things. Floor to ceiling windows and money, money, money.
Ugh, I thought Europeans had taste. But this is as bad as any American tech mansion on the coast.
The smell of salt mingles with perfume and cologne. The aquamarine pool makes a strange backdrop for the soft lighting and shiny jewelry in the house.
This whole thing screams look at me, but maybe that’s on purpose. Yorgos is hiding in plain sight with billboards all over Athens.
Could I do that? Hide as famous playwright Jamie Moriarty? After all, what are the odds an author who writes about people who kill actually kills?
No. No more silly fantasies. Business.
I survey the room again, looking for Yorgos. But I don’t see him amongst the handsome Greek men.
Matteo stays still, like he can wait all night for my next move. Which is good. He’s my partner, here. Mostly.
I ask him to grab our drinks.
He leans in and gives me a big showy kiss, his hands on my waist, his tongue swirling around mine.
I play my part too, hooking my leg around his hips, digging my fingers into his hair, sighing dramatically as I release him. “Don't go far, I'll miss you.”
He blows me a kiss and stage whispers in Italian.
A couple next to me smiles as if they’re taken by our newlywed energy. (I made sure to wear a flashy engagement ring). The woman introduces herself in Greek. I switch to English, make a little small talk for a few minutes.
Finally, I see him, in the corner, flirting with a woman in a black dress. Yorgos.
He looks exactly like he did the last I saw him. Tall and statuesque with short, salt and pepper hair, and a tailored suit.
The woman with him laughs like she can’t get enough of his wit. She places her hand on his chest, to show off her flashy engagement ring and the expensive platinum band underneath it.
He takes her hand with both of his.
No rings.
That’s no surprise. He’s never been the marrying kind. And he’s always had a taste for adultery.
He leans in and whispers in her ear.
