The Hitman's Mark

2. Heir

Her breath caught in her throat when she first laid eyes on the man.

He stalked into the room like it wasn't filled with many of the most dangerous men in New York, propelled by long, jean covered legs. He wore a simple black long-sleeve that stretched tight over well-muscled chest and shoulders. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms strapped with strength and a fine dusting of dark hair on tan skin.

A crown of black, messy waves adorned his head, and a short beard covered an unfathomably cut jawline. And his eyes... His eyes, brown as the finest whiskey in her father's liquor cabinet. Molten and magnetic, but also hard and noble. Eyes that Val would remember anywhere. Eyes that she'd seen in her memories, nightmares, and dreams, time and time again.

The same pair of eyes that rescued her on her eighteenth birthday. Every muscle in Val's body froze, and she forgot how to pull air into her lungs.

"Matteo," her father greeted the man. "You bring news?"

Matteo. Val felt heat rush to her cheeks.

The last time she saw him, he'd cradled her against his chest while she trembled from the loss of her mother. On the entire plane ride back to New York, Val hadn't once considered that she might see the meager bodyguard again. And yet, in her absence, he'd seemingly transformed into a man important enough to burst into her father's study unannounced.

He strode past Val without sparing her a glance, but she couldn't look away. Her eyes widened when she saw a red tinge staining his knuckles and blood caked beneath his fingernails.

"I finally got Belyaev's man to crack," he grumbled, the words like honey. "But he didn't know shit about the money."

Val frowned. She knew what that meant. He'd just returned from torturing someone and wore the man's blood on his fingers as proof. She shifted in her seat. Oxford had taught her about business and accounting, but it didn't prepare her for this aspect of her family's business...

At the far end of the table, her father nodded slowly. A little wrinkle formed between his brows, and Val knew the intel troubled him. She'd never heard the name 'Belyaev' before but assumed it originated in Eastern Europe. Had the Bratva gained power in New York in the past few years?

Her father's dark eyes flickered in her direction. "Valentina, why don't you go to your bedroom and unpack? We'll speak later."

Out of the corner of her eye, Val noticed Matteo stiffen and turn toward her, as if finally realizing that she sat in the study, but she couldn't rip her gaze from her father. She recoiled, feeling like she'd just been slapped across the face. "You're sending me to my bedroom?" she scoffed.

Her father sighed. "Don't argue with me, amore. This is not the sort of thing a young woman should hear."

Val blinked. None of the capos around the table dared to look at her. "A young woman?" she echoed, disbelief coating her words. "What about an heir? Isn't that what I am now? Heir of the Romano?"

"Yes, you are my heir, but I will not have you concern yourself with such unpleasant matters. Go to your bedroom," he ordered, again.

Val ground her teeth and spared a glance to Adriano, who seemed determine to avoid her gaze. Traitor.

Her father massaged his temple. "Don't look to your uncle for help, Valentina."

"Papá, I want to concern myself with the business — unpleasant matters and all," she insisted, rising from her seat and leaning over the polished wooden table. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her side. "What sort of leader would I be if I didn't? No one will take me seriously."