Kill Order Kiss Novel Chapter 03

Kill Order Kiss Novel Chapter 03

By noon, Dante had called eleven times.

Not my phone—that was at the bottom of the East River. He called Sofia, my mother, my restaurant, even my college roommate Priya, who hadn’t spoken to me in months.

Sofia played dumb. “Haven’t heard from her. Maybe she went on a spa day?”

My mother, who knew nothing about Dante’s real life and thought he was a “successful import-export businessman,” was confused but unhelpful. “She didn’t tell me anything. Is everything okay?”

By 2 PM, Marco showed up at Sofia’s door.

I was hidden in the bedroom, ear pressed against the wall, barely breathing. Through the thin plaster, I heard every word.

“Sofia, hey.” Marco’s voice was casual, friendly—the same tone he used when he brought cannoli to family barbecues. “Dante’s worried about Val. She left early this morning, no note, phone’s off. You know how she gets when she’s upset.”

“I don’t, actually,” Sofia replied coolly. “Valentina doesn’t get upset. She gets quiet. There’s a difference.”

“Right, right.” A pause. “So you haven’t seen her?”

“If I had, I’d tell her to call her boyfriend. But I haven’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a client call in ten minutes.”

Sofia was a corporate attorney. She could out-stare a sociopath and had, on multiple occasions.

Marco lingered. “Look, between us—Dante’s not in a good place. He really cares about her. If she’s somewhere safe, just let us know. No drama.”

No drama. The man assigned to put a bullet in me was promising no drama.

After he left, Sofia locked every bolt on the door and came to find me.

“He bought it,” she said. “For now.”

“He’ll be back.”

“Then we move faster.”

Professor Ashworth responded to my email within the hour. The position was still available—a two-year research fellowship at King’s College London, starting September. He remembered my thesis on forensic accounting and said I was his first choice.

I almost laughed. Forensic accounting. The skill set that had made me attractive to Dante in the first place—”My girl’s so smart, she could audit the Vatican”—was now my ticket out.

Sofia booked me a flight to London for Thursday under her married name. She’d kept her ex-husband’s surname specifically for situations like this, she joked, though neither of us laughed.

Wednesday night, I sat on Sofia’s couch, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. My mind kept circling back to the same questions.

When did he decide?

Was it before or after he told me he loved me?

Was any of it real?

The worst part—the part that made me physically sick—was remembering the night before I found the order. The way he’d held my face in his hands, looked straight into my eyes, and said, “When this is all over, I’m taking you to Italy. Just us. I want to show you where my family comes from.”

He was planning my death and my vacation in the same breath.

My phone—the burner Sofia had bought me—buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

I don’t know what happened, but I know you’re scared. Don’t go back to him. —Rome

Rome. Dante’s younger cousin, the only Moretti who’d ever treated me like a person rather than a possession. He must have figured out something was wrong.

I typed back: I’m safe. Don’t tell anyone.

His reply was instant: Never. Be careful, Val. The family meeting is Friday. After that, everything changes.

I didn’t ask what he meant. I already knew.

Friday was when they’d discover I was gone for good.

Friday was when the hunt would begin.

My flight was Thursday at 6 AM.