The Hitman's Mark

4. Principessa

"Sorry, but I don't think I'll be taking lessons in etiquette from one of my father's dogs." Even in heels, the top of Valentina's head barely brushed Matteo's chin, but that didn't seem to deter her.

The ghost of a smirk formed on Matteo's lips, and he took a slow step closer to the young woman. She didn't falter, only tilted her chin to continue looking him in the eyes as he neared. "Better to learn it from me rather than your future husband..."

Valentina's cool, confident facade wavered slightly at the mention of Ezra McLeod, and Matteo took his chance. He prowled a step forward until he could practically feel the heat radiating from her body, through that black silk and the inch that still separated them. "I wonder what Ezra McLeod would think if he heard news that his perfect Cosa Nostra bride had been caught unchaperoned, dancing with a group of men at a club?"

"I was hoping he would end the engagement," she whispered, icy, never ripping her hazel orbs from him.

Just as Matteo suspected. She walked right into his trap.

He mirrored Valentina's cold smile, cocking his head to one side before dealing the final blow. "And what use would you be to your father, then? You'd be nothing. Might as well ship you back to London."

His words met their mark.

Valentina blinked, and, when she opened her eyes again, Matteo saw the gaze of a girl defeated. She took a small step back, her throat bobbing as she evaluated him with newfound reverence in her eyes... No, not reverence. Disgust.

"Let me go find Luca," she muttered, glancing over her shoulder toward the bar where she'd left him. "He can drive me home," she added, as if she didn't want to give Matteo the satisfaction of dragging her back to her father himself.

"Not a chance in hell, principessa," Matteo scoffed, stepping forward to clamp his hand around Valentina's wrist. "We're leaving."

She tried to yank away, so his grip tightened. She didn't cease her struggling, even as Matteo tugged her across the dance floor, toward the exit. "Incazzato, cane!" she hissed, hurling another venom-laced insult.

Matteo took a deep breath, somehow resisting the urge to steer her into the restroom and force her to wash her dirty mouth out with soap. He couldn't remember the last time someone had tested his restraint this much.

If anyone else had spoken to him like Valentina, he'd have already threatened to cut their tongue out. But, fuck, he couldn't touch her.

By the time they reached the club's doors, Valentina stopped struggling. It seemed like she'd accepted her fate and realized that resisting would only lead to a bruised wrist. Matteo released his hold on her forearm when they passed through the doors, and she immediately rubbed at her wrist, glaring at him. If looks could kill, he'd be a pile of bones.

Matteo ignored her death-glare and guided her toward the car that he'd illegally parked on the curb. None of The Casper's valets or security dared to tell him to move it when he arrived.

He placed a hand on the small of Valentina's back, the calloused pads of his fingers barely brushing the slope where her spine met her ass. She stiffened beneath his touch, her round eyes flickering sideways up at him, but did not move away, and Matteo felt something in his chest rumble to life at her silent compliance.

He opened the door to the back seat of his car. "Inside," he instructed, stepping aside to allow Valentina to crawl into the SUV.

One corner of her lips pulled down, and that rebellious fire returned to her eyes for a moment, like she wanted to protest. She was smart enough to stand down, huffing once before stepping into the backseat, graceful despite the absurdly tall heels on her feet. His eyes snagged on her round backside — on the tight fabric that bunched just beneath the apex of her thighs...