The Hitman's Mark

4. Principessa

Matteo realized what he was doing and immediately tore his gaze from Valentina, slamming the door behind her. He rounded the car, climbed into the driver's seat, and wordlessly cranked the engine.

Dangerous. Those thoughts were dangerous. Not only because she was the daughter of the boss. Even if she wasn't Leonardo Romano's daughter, Matteo would've chosen to give her a wide-fuckin'-berth.

Valentina was young, at least ten years younger than Matteo himself, and reckless. In Matteo's world, recklessness got you killed—no, it got you tortured and then killed—and he'd be damned if he allowed a spoiled principessa to make him reckless.

So, Matteo forced the thought of Valentina, and her slender body and plump lips and dirty little mouth, out of his mind.

Tension, thick and palpable, settled over Leonardo's study.

Matteo marched Valentina to her father's private office as soon as they arrived back at the mansion, and the Don had been staring at his daughter, frustration and disbelief clouding his brown eyes, for almost an entire minute without saying a word. Every time Valentina tried to open her mouth to explain herself, Leonardo lifted a single hand, and she fell silent once more.

Half of Matteo wanted to leave the suffocating study. The other half wanted to remain to hear Leonardo teach his daughter respect. Regardless, he stood frozen by the door until Leonardo dismissed him.

Finally, Leonardo released a long sigh and leaned back in his throne-like chair. "What were you thinking, Valentina?"

Valentina stiffened, cracked her lips open to respond, but first glanced over her shoulder at Matteo. He understood. She didn't want an audience for what was about to occur.

Leonardo frowned, eyes flickering toward him for the first time since they entered the study. "Matteo will stay. He wasted his evening tracking you down. Now, answer me."

Valentina slowly nodded and kept her chin high, braver than half of the men in the Cosa Nostra when they faced the Hollowman, and spoke matter-of-factly, "I wanted to go dancing."

Leonardo barked a harsh laugh, and Matteo swore he saw Valentina's shoulders shrink at the roughness in her father's voice. "Oh yes, I know you wanted to go dancing! My informants told me all about how you danced with a group of men, behaving like a fucking prostituta!"

Valentina sighed. "Those men were harmless, papà. Trust me, they weren't interested in me or any other woman in that club—"

"Non me ne frega un cazzo!" Leonardo growled, the words lethal. This time, Valentina visibly flinched. "You didn't want to just go dancing. You wanted to humiliate me. You wanted to humiliate Ezra McLeod! Vergognosa."

Matteo's chest tightened at the thick silence that followed, and he hated the pity that swelled inside him.

She deserves this, he reminded himself, hands curling into fists at his side.

Valentina lifted her chin again, resilient, and Matteo waited with bated breath as she countered her father's fiery rage with icy calm. "You're wrong. If I wanted to humiliate you or Ezra, I would have."

"Excuse me?" Leonardo practically seethed, color rising to his olive cheeks.

"I didn't want to humiliate you," she repeated, clasping her hands behind her back. Matteo saw her knuckles bleach, saw her nails digging mercilessly into her own palms. The only sign of her nerves. "But I want you to know that I could have."

Matteo's teeth ground together at the cocky insinuation of her words. He had half a mind to stalk forward and force the brunette beauty to her knees, demand that she beg her father for forgiveness. In the same moment, he felt the urge to laugh at her brazen display of disrespect.