The Hitman's Mark

6. Weak

Unease skittered up Val's neck, but she didn't break eye contact with him. She held his gaze until the tension in his shoulders loosened, and he lowered the gun. A ragged breath of relief escaped her lips, overshadowed by Mario's wail of gratitude.

"Grazie, signorina!" he exclaimed, falling onto his hands and knees at her feet. "Tell me how I can repay you, please. I'll do anything."

Val ripped her gaze away from Matteo to frown at the trembling, gratuitous manager, aware that the eyes of every man and woman on the bottom floor of Lo Specchio now watched her.

"Get up," she muttered, lip curling in disgust. "Show me the books and accounts, and I will forget your impudence."

Mario scrambled to his feet at her command, careful to avoid stepping too close to Matteo, who still looked ready to cut out the manager's tongue. A dark stain marred the maroon fabric of the crotch of Mario's dress pants. His cheeks were red with shame.

"Sì, sì, of course," he rambled, unwilling to meet Val's gaze. She almost pitied him. Almost. "I will bring them to you."

Mario scurried, head bowed, toward a pair of doors that likely led to the establishment's offices and private rooms. Val waited until the doors shut behind the manager before turning to Matteo, who re-holstered his gun.

"I take it your talk with your not-girlfriend didn't go well?" she drawled, feigning nonchalance, as if he hadn't been about to end a man's life for her.

"It was fine until I looked up and saw that worm looking at you like a piece of meat." His brown eyes, still icy and hard, followed her as she stepped around him, casually wandering toward a nearby table and leather booth. She wanted to get away from the prying eyes and ears around the bar.

Val's teeth tugged on her bottom lip, and she slid into the booth. He spoke about Mario with such rage. If she didn't know any better, she'd guess he felt protective of her. But she knew better. She'd seen the lethal calm in Matteo's eyes as he held the handgun to Mario's temple. He acted that way because it was his job to kill the enemies of the Romano family. Nothing more and nothing less.

When she looked up at Matteo again, she clasped her hands on the table and shot him a provoking smirk. "It was very honorable of you to rush to my defense. I can see why you're my father's favorite attack dog..."

A muscle in his jaw flickered, and he took a slow step closer, towering over her and blocking her view of the rest of the club.

Val's heart palpated unevenly in her chest, but she maintained her cool smile. She continued, tilting her chin to look him in the eye. "But I didn't want your help. I didn't need it. I had the entire situation—"

"Under control?" Matteo huffed, a scalding sound that burned straight through Val's detached facade. "You were drowning, principessa."

"I was not drowning," she countered, turning in the booth until her shoulders faced him. Now, her legs hung over the plush booth's edge, between Matteo's own wide stance. "I took management courses at Oxford. I simply... miscalculated the leadership strategy that Mario would be most likely to respond to."

Her words were a lie. She hadn't been thinking about her leadership training when speaking to Mario. Four years of studying and seminars and presentations... They'd all flown out the window. She'd floundered. No — she'd been drowning. But she'd be damned if she admitted that to Matteo.

Another harsh chuckle, devoid of any actual amusement, then he murmured, "Some 'miscalculation.'"

The words were heavy with condescension, and Val knew he saw through her lies.