Contract: Sicko (Sei Assassin Thriller Book 2)

by Ty Hutchinson

  CONTRACT: SICKO

  Sei Assassin Thriller

  Ty Hutchinson

  Chapter 1

  The polished handles of the four-inch throwing knives glistened in the light as I secured the tiny buckles on the leather sheath wrapped around my thigh, careful not to chip my manicured nails. Over the years, I had grown quite fond of the little daggers—small and deadly, much like myself. I never left home without a pair or two on me. You’d be surprised at how often I have a need for them.

  I lowered my black cocktail dress, smoothed it over my hips, and adjusted the top over my breasts. The dress was Vera Wang; the daggers were titanium. A single strand of cream-colored Akoya pearls circled my neck, and matching earrings dangled from each earlobe. My black hair was pulled back into an elaborate French braid with tendrils framing my face.

  A gold-edged mirror hung above the white marble, dual-vanity counter; three women could tend to their makeup and hair without bumping elbows. Brushed chrome fixtures adorned the integrated sinks, and a few personal amenities in matching canisters sat on the counter: hand soap, lotion, and mouthwash.

  Against the far wall sat a single white toilet and a bidet made from the same marble as the countertops. French impressionist art hung on the walls, and a bouquet of fragrant flowers in a crystal vase occupied a small table. There were no windows, but the dozens of crystal droplets on the mini-chandelier scattered warm light throughout the room. The guest bathroom was on the ground floor of an immaculate villa nestled on the shores of Lake Como in Laglio, Italy.

  The sun had dipped below the horizon before my arrival allowing the calm surface of the lake to reflect the silver glimmer of the full moon. This was my first visit to the area, so I had spent time researching the town and its residents. The villas that lined the lakefront read like a Who’s Who of Italy’s wealthy and influential. Villa Oleandra, George Clooney’s personal luxury villa, was two doors down. I read that the mayor of Laglio had declared a fine of up to five hundred euros for anyone who approached Clooney’s property. I preferred Brad Pitt.

  I hadn’t any worry about being fined or escorted from the area, as I had secured one of the coveted invitations to the popular black-tie affair held every fall at Villa Fiore by its owners—the Abbandonato family. The sprawling structure sat on two acres of land and was enclosed by a series of stone walls and wrought-iron gates. It was classic Tuscan architecture, with stone-accented stucco exteriors, terracotta roof tiles, rustic wooden shutters and doors with iron ring pulls, two enclosed courtyards, and not one but two observation towers.

  Every year, the Abbandonatos held a charity fundraiser, La Buona Volonta Gala, the goodwill affair, and it always raised an incredibly indulgent amount of money. The Children’s Charity in Milan was the lucky recipient of this generosity. The charity provided the basics—food, shelter, and clothing—but its passion, its priority, was to instill music into the children’s educational development.

  Aside from the charitable aspect, the event had long been revered for its delectable dining options. Robert Bertolini, owner and head chef of the Michelin-starred DaVinci, had the honor of preparing the evening’s feast. Great pains were always taken to ensure the secrecy of the menu until the removal of the silver cloches covering each course. In the past, guests dined on dishes consisting of fresh Maine lobster, Matsusaka wagyu filets, and whole white truffles from Alba, Italy.

  Outside of the gluttonous reasons to attend, the gala gave attendees, a long list of Italy’s affluent, an opportunity to rub shoulders with others cut from the same cloth, plan one-of-a-kind holidays, and of course, forge relationships that would lead to lucrative business deals.

  Every year, one hundred invitations were hand-delivered to their recipients, who always promptly RSVP’d shortly after. While the invitation allowed entry, it also required a donation of two hundred fifty thousand euros and highly encouraged guests to take part in the silent auction where bids often ran into the millions. So not only did a person have to be somebody to receive this honor, it required his or her pockets to be deep and generous. One look at the invitation and it was easy to see that this gala would be nothing but spectacular and worthy of attendance.

  That year, the invitations were handcrafted by an artist who specialized in the elaborate and incredibly detailed art of Chinese paper cutting. Opening the invitation revealed a magnificent pop-up scene of the mountains surrounding Lake Como with Villa Fiore front and center. In the past, it wasn’t uncommon to find a few of the invitations for sale on eBay for upwards of two thousand euros. I suspected this particular invitation would be no different.

  I popped my lips after applying my ruby red lipstick and dabbed Chanel on each wrist. Before leaving the bathroom, I took one last look at a photo before tucking it back inside my clutch. I drew a deep breath and let it pass through puckered lips. Time to locate my mark.

  Chapter 2

  I exited the bathroom and followed a short hall leading to a large courtyard. The night was cool, even with the portable space heaters fighting the chilly air off the lake. I took a deep breath. The air had a sweet woodsy smell thanks to the fire pit in the middle of the courtyard burning cherry wood. Guests stood in small conversational groups of three to four while sipping champagne from crystal flutes. A few seconds was all I needed to ascertain that every Italian and Parisian designer was well represented. The jewelry adorning the necklines and wrists of the women sparkled enough to total into the millions. A promising haul for someone with that in mind, but I wasn’t there to steal jewels.

  As I continued to take in the sea of wealth, I couldn’t help but feel slightly out of place. While I too had a bank account hosted in Switzerland like many of the attendees, I was sure my coffers didn’t come close to matching their holdings. It didn’t matter; I wasn’t a fan of banks, and I always kept a large stash of cash reserves on or near me. I moved around too much and ATMs pinpointed my location—a liability in my profession.

  Although my balance sheet probably couldn’t begin to compare with the aristocracy, that night I certainly looked the part. My employer had paid the required donation and covered all the expenses needed to attend the gala: hair, makeup, clothing, and travel. It was a considerable amount, but necessary for me to blend. I could only imagine the costs for those who came with plus twos and threes. I came alone, but I liked it that way since I worked alone. I also despised unnecessary small talk.

  It didn’t take long for me to spot the man in the photo: Matteo Abbandonato, the CEO of Abbandonato Italian Marble. I had learned earlier that his family was purveyors of Carrara marble, the world’s most expensive and sought after. The company was established in 1942 and quickly become well respected in the marble industry thanks to the development of a number of profitable quarries throughout northern Italy. His father, Enzo, had relinquished the daily duties of running the company almost seven years ago. He remained on as chairman, but from my understanding, he was largely a figurehead and wasn’t involved in the day-to-day decisions involving the business.

  Why so many people attended was mind boggling to me. The lake views were stunning, so I could understand the attraction from a touristic perspective, but these people weren’t here on a ten-day tour of the region. I highly doubted the Abbandonatos’ guests were genuine friends. I suspected attendance had more to do with puffing out one’s chest and gloating about the latest moneymaking scheme rather than catching up.

  As I slowly wove my way through the fake laughter and overzealous smiles, a tinge of nausea bubbled in my stomach, but I pushed through and managed a smile of my own.

  Matteo stood off to the side of one of the three bars, surrounded
by four other men. The looks on their faces told me they weren’t discussing their next golf outing but most likely plotting the demise of their competitors. The wealthy retained their wealth because they did whatever it took to continue acquiring it.

  As soon as I popped out from behind a gaggle of frosted blondes with enhanced chests, Matteo’s eyes fell upon me, resulting in a double take and a hint of a smile. As I neared the bar, he excused himself from his circle and intercepted me.

  “Hello. Would you like a drink?” he asked with an Italian accent.

  “That would be nice.”

  He spoke in his native language to the bartender and a few seconds later handed me a champagne flute. “Tonight we’re pouring Dom Perignon from 2003. I hope you’ll find this particular vintage satisfactory, Ms....”

  “De Snajier. Valarie De Snajier.”

  His left eye squinted in question.

  “My father’s Dutch and my mother’s Chinese,” I followed up.

  Matteo’s relaxed his face and smiled. “You have a unique look.”

  I brought the glass to my lips but blocked the flow of bubbly into my mouth with the tip of my tongue.

  “How is it?” Matteo motioned with the flute he held.

  “Delicious.”

  Matteo took a sip from his glass before speaking. “Is this your first attendance at La Buona Volontà? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

  “It is, and thank you for the invitation.”

  “Of course.” Matteo had hazel-colored eyes, a chiseled jawline, a flawless olive complexion, and amazing hair. He stood tall, approximately six-foot-one. I knew from my research that he trained daily in mixed martial arts. Even in a tuxedo his physique stood out.

  “Do you personally know all of your guests?”

  “Mostly. It’s good business.”

  “Is it always business with you?”

  “Depends on the company I share.” His smile widened.

  “Mr. Abbandonato, you strike me as a man who always gets what he wants.”

  “Please, call me Matteo. And yes, when something or someone gains my attention, that’s usually the case.”

  I pretended to take another sip while I looked around. “You have a beautiful home.”

  “It’s been in my family for three generations.” Matteo grabbed another glass of champagne and then offered me his arm. “Come, I’ll give you a personal tour.”

  I smiled. Perfect.

  Chapter 3

  Matteo escorted me around the bar and past a row of large balled topiaries in boxwood planters adorned with decorative pewter lion-head knockers.

  “We’ll escape through here. The other way will have me stopping and chatting with every guest I pass.”

  “I feel special.”

  Matteo glanced my way. “I have that effect on women.”

  “Are you always so arrogant?” I said with a forced laugh as I kept in step.

  “I call it confidence.”

  “Semantics.”

  “Are you always so guarded?”

  “That might be disinterest that you’re sensing,” I said with a coy smile.

  “Feisty. I like it.”

  Matteo pushed open a pair of French doors leading into a small sitting room. The lights were off, but enough moonlight shone through the doors and windows allowing us to move easily around the furniture.

  We exited the room and entered a long hallway. Two things caught my attention immediately: the hand-carved wainscoting made from wood and the painted portraits that hung along the left side of the terracotta-colored wall. The portraits, all of them, were of men and each one accompanied by its own display lighting.

  “Family?” I inquired.

  “Yes. That’s my father, my grandfather, and the tenacious-looking one at the far end is my great-grandfather, Corrado Giovanni,” he said, pointing.

  “Giovanni?”

  “Yes, my family is Sicilian. My great-grandfather changed his last name when he started the company. He felt there was a stigma attached to Sicilians.”

  “It appears that it worked in his favor,” I said, running my fingers gently along the wall.

  Matteo nodded. “He had no money, no education, but an intense desire to succeed. Abbandonato Italian Marble exists only because of him.”

  “Where are the women?” I asked as I perused the portraits.

  “There’s another hallway reserved for the matriarchs of the family.”

  “I don’t see your picture?”

  “One will be commissioned when I marry. That’s the tradition.”

  “Well, you better hurry before you end up with a portrait that makes you look older than Corrado.”

  Matteo laughed. “Come on. Let me show you the grand library.” We walked to the end of the hall, through another sitting room, and into another smaller hall with similar architectural accents as the first one we’d passed through. “You’ll like this,” he said as he put effort into pushing open two wooden doors.

  “Grand” was an understatement. That familiar musty-library smell flooded my nostrils as my eyes took in the scene. Hundreds of hardbound books lined towering built-in bookshelves.

  “There are over ten thousand books in here,” Matteo said as he stood by my side. “The first floor houses the classics and favorites of the family. The second floor is all Italian, mostly first editions.”

  A wooden staircase spiraled from the first to the second floor. Its deep red color reminded me of a glass of cabernet. The newel at the end of the left handrail was an impeccably detailed lion’s head. I could practically hear it roaring.

  “We spared no expense when it came to building the library,” Matteo said as he ran a hand over the lion’s head. “The shelving, the staircase, the floor, the furniture, all of it custom-built from solid East Indian rosewood.”

  “Do you spend much time in here?”

  “When I was child, it was my favorite room in the house. I would spend hours reading on that chair until I fell asleep.”

  I walked over to an enormous wooden globe—the diameter had to be about four feet. Each continent had impressive detailing like a 3-D topographical map. The Himalayas, the Andes, the Rockies—all the great mountain ranges were visible to the eye. Even the currents in the oceans stood out.

  “It was hand carved and painted by an artist in Florence. It’s a one of a kind.”

  “Impressive,” I said, spinning it slowly.

  “Come, there’s more to see.”

  During our walk, I learned that Matteo had moved back into the villa just two years earlier. His only sister lived in Paris and his mother passed away five years ago from breast cancer. Since her passing, his father had found new love and moved to the south of Italy for the warmer weather. The villa stood empty for almost a year before Matteo returned to Lake Como. “I was hesitant. I enjoyed my life in Milan.”

  “You enjoyed the fashion models there.”

  He laughed. “You could say that.”

  “Tell me, why at your age are you not already married? I think I read somewhere that you’re one of Italy’s most eligible bachelors.”

  “First, I’m only thirty-four—hardly an old man. Second, do you always believe everything you read?”

  “So does the bachelor maintain a proper office or one of those childish man caves?”

  Matteo led me to a door with a password protected electronic lock. He punched the code into the keypad and then pushed open the wooden door. “Does this answer your question?” he asked, gesturing.

  The spacious office had a nautical décor. Hanging on the walls were framed hand-drawn charts, a shadow box containing an array of navigational tools, and a brass anchor. Behind a cherry wood desk stood an impressive display case holding a wooden scale model of what appeared to be a Spanish galleon. Matching bookcases were built into three of the four walls. Books and more nautical knick-knacks lined them. Opposite the desk were two brown leather armchairs and a matching sofa. A glass coffee table with a fresh flo
ral arrangement sat between them. French doors led to a private balcony.

  “No need for any lights,” he said. “I’m not a fan.”

  “I agree. The moonlight’s enough.”

  “There’s a wonderful view of the lake from the balcony.”

  He took my empty glass—I had emptied my champagne into a potted plant along the tour—and placed it with his on the desk. A pad, a pen, and a laptop were the only items on it.

  Matteo had been right about the view. We were on the second floor of the villa and had unobstructed views of the lake and its silvery reflection of the moon. I wasn’t quite sure where we were in the villa in relation to the gala, but it was quiet, save for the faint singing of crickets and a slight rustling in the lemon trees below.

  I must have had goose pimples on my shoulders because Matteo draped his jacket around my shoulders.

  “Better?” he asked as he stood behind me. Not waiting for an answer, he wrapped both arms around me. I didn’t push away, and it didn’t take long before I felt his lips gently nipping at my neck. I tilted my head to the side and breathed deeply. He wore a woodsy-scented cologne. It was masculine, but not overpowering like some designer ones could be. A soft moan unexpectedly escaped my lips and Matteo saw that as a sign to turn me around.

  He grabbed my behind and lifted me up as I simultaneously wrapped both of my legs around his waist. At that point, I sort of expected his tongue to invade my mouth with quick prodding and heavy suction, but it was pleasant. Perfect. Dangerous.

  I cupped my hands around his face and increased the intensity of my kisses as he carried me back into the office. He was still walking backward when I slammed my balled fists against his ears, bursting his eardrums and causing extreme pain. I followed with a head butt, connecting in the area above the bridge of his nose, and he released his grasp around me.

  I dropped to the ground, and he dropped to a knee. I clasped my hands around the back of his head and forced it down into my knee. His legs gave way, causing him to fall forward onto his hands. I jumped onto his back and hooked an arm under his chin, tightening my arm against his windpipe. He fought it for a few seconds but eventually collapsed to the floor unconscious. I wasn’t there to kill him.