Chapter 145

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Five

Matteo climbed the fire escape with deliberate care, his fingers gripping the cold metal rungs as he ascended to the top. Reaching the final step, he settled beside the bedroom window, his breath steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. He tested the lock with a cautious shake of his head when he found it hanging unlatched. Foolish. After hearing about the others, he had hoped this one might be more secure, smarter, but no such luck. This errand promised to be just as tedious as the rest. Sliding his lock-picking kit back into his pocket, he eased the window open with slow, practiced movements.

Stepping inside, Matteo cautiously placed his toes on the desk beneath the window, measuring his weight before fully entering the room. Two figures lay beneath the heavy blankets of the queen-sized bed, their breathing steady in the quiet darkness. He exhaled softly and rested his hands on his hips, considering how to approach the second occupant without waking them. Retrieving his secondary kit, stocked with first-aid supplies and syringes designed for less-than-healing purposes, he selected one filled with a powerful sedative. Silently, he tiptoed across the room to the far side of the bed, where his true target lay.

The woman’s eyes snapped open the instant the needle pierced her arm. Matteo had anticipated this reaction. Her small, startled cry was muffled instantly by his palm, his fingers pressing firmly but gently over her mouth. Her lashes fluttered closed again, surrendering to the drug’s pull. Releasing her with a quiet sigh, Matteo mouthed a silent apology, fully aware that the memories she would wake to the next morning might haunt her for years. But he had a score to settle, and the presence of a witness would not deter him.

Crossing to the other side of the bed, Matteo leaned over, covering the man’s mouth and his broad, pig-like nose with his hand. The prison guard’s eyes flew open, panic flashing within them as he began to thrash wildly. Matteo let him struggle briefly, allowing the man a fleeting hope of survival. His gaze darted toward the woman, searching for any sign of recognition, but Matteo kept his own head still, denying him that final clarity.

“My problem isn’t with her,” Matteo said quietly. “She won’t die.”

Six months ago, he would have left the guard alive just long enough for the realization to settle in—to know why death was coming. But now, something softer had crept into him. He needed to offer reassurance. As if those words alone were enough, as if the man could trust him, the guard’s struggling ceased. A single nod acknowledged his fate. Then, with a swift flick, Matteo’s knife cut across the guard’s throat—quick, clean, merciful.