The Hitman's Mark

5. Business

Matteo huffed a harsh, unamused laugh. "What's the point of owning a fast car if you're too scared to drive it?"

He started toward the club's entrance. Val secured her purse over her shoulder and rushed after him, heels clacking against the pavement. The bouncer didn't bat an eye at Matteo as they passed, but he watched her with curiosity. Val ignored him, slipping into the club through the door that Matteo held open for her.

"I wouldn't know. I don't own a fast car. I don't even have my driver's license. I always have someone to drive me..." she trailed off, blinking as her eyes adjusted to Lo Specchio's dim lighting.

The scent of cigarette smoke settled over her as soon as the doors closed behind her, and the music of a live jazz ensemble filled the club. Val's lips parted as she beheld her father's prized establishment.

The club wasn't very full, considering the early hour of the morning, but a few stragglers sat around the poker tables that remained open. Some sat at the bar, mourning their losses or celebrating their victories from the previous night. Other men and women lounged across ruby leather couches that stretched across the entire first floor, and, at the back of the room, two identical staircases stretched to a second floor, where Val could vaguely make out the lithe, twisting bodies of women performing their art on tall metal poles.

Heavy red and gold curtains obscured all exterior lighting, giving the illusion of perpetual night. Above, square mirror tiles covered every inch of the ceiling. Lo Specchio — The Mirror.

Val peered up at her reflection, and a small laugh nearly escaped her lips. It was everything she imagined it would be...

"Valentina."

She ceased her admiration at the timbre of Matteo's voice, but the ghost of a smile remained on her lips as she spun to face him.

Something like displeasure clouded his dark eyes, and Val's smile immediately faltered. What had she done to anger him this time?

A muscle beneath the light scruff covering his jaw clenched, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked like he belonged here — in a club dedicated to sin and pleasure and the night. With his dark bedroom hair, thick and messy at the top, and his intimidating muscles, he could've been a god sent to hold dominion over Lo Specchio and its depraved patrons...

"You wanted to meet the managers and check the records. Not gawk at your reflection," he reminded her, and the displeasure in his eyes faded into a mask of indifference once more.

Val rolled her eyes. She hadn't been gawking at her reflection, but her cheeks warmed at the fact that he'd caught her staring at the lounge like a kid in a candy store. She needed to show him — him and every other man in the famiglia — that she took their business seriously.

She brought a tight smile to her lips. "Lead the way, Mr. Costa."

He didn't entertain her with a response and instead started toward the bar at the back of the club, beneath the second-floor landing where the women pole-danced. Val kept her eyes peeled on her surroundings, hyper-aware that several of the gazes of several of the club's patrons followed her as they passed. Were these Romano men? Their associates?

Val quickened her pace to keep up with Matteo's long strides, but she nearly ran face-first into his back when he stopped suddenly. Her hands flew up, pressing into the muscle that padded his spine before she broke her damn nose on his shoulder blade.

"What the hell —" she complained, but paused when she saw what, or who, had stopped Matteo in his tracks. A woman with sleek black hair and angular features approached. "Oh, hey. Is that your girlfriend?"

"No," he half-growled the word, and Val knew that she'd struck a chord.

Okay, maybe not a girlfriend, but the hitman clearly had history with the black-haired beauty.

Val saw her opportunity to step out from Matteo's shadow and jumped on it. She sidestepped around Matteo to get a better look at the woman. She wore an emerald cocktail dress that accentuated an hourglass figure. Damn, she looked like she'd been photoshopped. Not fair, Val silently complained, then glanced up at Matteo.

His eyes never left the black-haired beauty.

"Looks like she really needs to talk to you. Tell me where to find the managers and I'll speak to them myself. You handle... this situation." Val chewed on her bottom lip, feigning concern for the hitman and his impending conversation with the Kim-K lookalike. She'd nearly reached them, now.

"No, Valentina." Matteo frowned, fingers curling into tight fists.

"This is my father's club," she persisted, lifting her chin in a subtle challenge. "Are you saying I'm in danger here?"

Finally, he sighed, running an exasperated hand through the crown of black atop his head. "The manager is sitting at the bar. Maroon suit. His name is Mario. You can go talk to him, but if you leave this room, I'll make you wish you'd never stepped foot in this place."

Val believed him, but she also had no intention of leaving the vicinity. She'd only just gained her father's trust and still needed to prove herself to him. She needed a glowing recommendation from her hitman.

"I'd expect nothing less," she cooed. Seconds before the woman arrived, Val picked a nonexistent piece of lint from Matteo's t-shirt and patted his shoulder twice. "Good luck, cane."

With that, Val turned on her heel toward the bar, ignoring the faint warmth at her fingertips where she'd touched Matteo's shoulder.

She picked out the maroon suit in an instant and inhaled deep before approaching Mario. A half-empty sangria glass rested in front of him at the bar, but he focused his attention on his cell-phone, scrolling through pictures of half-naked models on social media.

Val swallowed her amusement and cleared her throat.

Mario hastily turned his phone screen off and spun in his seat to face her.

"I wasn't—!" he began, but paused when he realized Val was not a disgruntled girlfriend or wife. His wide eyes narrowed into slits. "Oh. Who the hell are you?"

Val struggled to maintain a pleasant smile on her lips. "I'm Valentina Romano. My father sent me to Lo Specchio to look over the books—"

Mario's mouth twisted into a grin of cold amusement. "Sei pieno di merda. Is this some sort of fuckin' joke? Is someone testing me?"

Val blinked away her surprise. "Uhm, no. I am just familiarizing myself with the establishments. Please, it will only —"

Another barked laugh. This time, one man seated nearby Mario chuckled as well, quickly turning the situation into a spectacle.

"There's only one place for a woman in Lo Specchio. Dancing on a pole," he jeered. "Now go get on one, or you can walk your sexy little ass out of my club."

Val's lips parted, humiliation burning her cheeks. Like a coward, she wanted to retreat. She wanted to turn around, tail between her legs, and forget that she'd ever set foot in the club. But how could she ever hope to command respect from the made men of the famiglia if she couldn't handle a simple manager?

She took a deep breath and prepared to threaten him, but the words caught in her throat as the delicious scent of leather and peppermint surrounded her. Val gasped and glanced over her shoulder to face a dark t-shirt, stretched over the impenetrable muscle of a man primed to kill — to dispose of the men who dared threaten his charge. Men like Mario.

Matteo.

"Get on your knees, Mario," he growled, lethal. Val's knees trembled, just as the gravel in Matteo's voice made her burn. "Kneel before I cut your fucking tongue out."