MATTEO
Matteo spent the next five days following Valentina—or Val, as she'd requested—around New York. And it was hell.
God, it was hell.
Perhaps he'd gotten too accustomed to life as Leonardo Romano's notorious hitman, but every second spent trailing after Val felt like an eternity. He felt like a dog—or a cane, as the brat liked to call him—mindlessly following its owner. Completely at the mercy of another's whims. Demoted to the role of a simple bodyguard again, after three years of serving as the Hollowman's enforcer.
And he hated it. He was counting down the days until she'd be married off to Ezra McLeod and he could resume his duties as a hitman.
Unfortunately, Val seemed determined to prevent that from ever happening.
Every morning, she woke before the sun to work, and her obnoxious alarm blared throughout the entirety of her father's five-bedroom apartment in Midtown, preventing Matteo from sleeping past sunrise, too. By the time Matteo padded into the luxurious kitchen, without fail, Val sat curled on a couch, cup of coffee in hand, pouring over one of the business records she'd collected on their first day in the city.
By ten o'clock in the morning, Val consistently announced that she was ready to visit more of her father's business ventures across the city. Like a fucking chauffeur, Matteo drove the principessa wherever her heart desired. Then, when she'd finished sticking her nose in her father's business, he brought her right back to the apartment, where they ate dinner separately and retired to separate wings of the floor. Then, they repeated the whole process again the next day.
It was a monotonous, boring hell. Matteo almost wished that she'd try to sneak out or stir up trouble, if only for a change of pace.
On the fifth evening of their tenuous partnership, Matteo wandered from his side of the apartment to refill his decanter of whiskey in the kitchen. Before he reached the bar, however, his eyes snagged on Val's figure, hunched over her binders and folders at the glass table.
She'd thrown her hair into a careless bun atop her head, chestnut curls spilling out of the scrunchie and curtaining her soft features. In one hand, she held a highlighter. The other massaged her temple, repetitive and contemplative, like she saw the business records as a puzzle she wanted to solve. She didn't look up once as Matteo stepped into the kitchen.
Despite his urge to simply open the refrigerator and refill his glass with a splash of chilled Disaronno Riserva, Matteo leaned his hip against the counter and dared to start a conversation with the principessa. "Found anything interesting yet?"
Val's big, hazel eyes snapped up, as if she hadn't even noticed him enter the room. For the first time, he noticed dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping well.
"No," she admitted with a small laugh, smoothing a tendril of hair behind her ear. "Nothing interesting."
He almost felt bad for her. She'd been working harder than most of the men in the Cosa Nostra, and, as much as Matteo hated to admit it, she seemed to know her way around business. If she had balls and a cock, he guessed Leonardo would've handed over the Romano business years ago.
"But you don't want to give up?" Matteo prompted, casually tilting the ice at the bottom of his empty whiskey glass back and forth.
Val shook her head, setting the highlighter aside and directing her full attention to him. "If I still have found nothing by the end of the month, I'll give up. Until then, I've gotta keep trying."
"That's..." Matteo paused, searching for the right word. Sad as hell? Impressive? A waste of time? Finally, he settled on, "commendable."
She huffed, a small, self-deprecating sound, and leaned back in her chair, stretching. "Thanks. But I don't think my papà gives a shit about hard work."
Matteo chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked closer to the table. "No, I don't think he does," he agreed, sliding into a seat opposite from Val.
Leonardo Romano only gave a shit about results. He didn't care if someone worked hard or hardly worked, so long as he reaped the awards by the end of it.
Val watched him with her inquisitive hazel eyes — round, doe-like eyes that didn't belong anywhere close to the New York underworld. She clasped her dainty hands on the table in front of them, then a small, sweet smile formed on her lips. Matteo guessed it was the same smile she wore whenever she wanted a new pair of shoes or a fresh manicure from her papà...
"Y'know Matteo..." she began, thick lashes fluttering in fake innocence. "I was thinking we could go out tonight? Visit one of the Romano clubs during prime business hours? It's Saturday night, after all..."
Matteo frowned, but he didn't outright refuse Val's request. Instead, he leaned his elbows on the table and cocked his head. "You want to party?"
"I want to better acquaint myself with the inner-workings of my father's business," she leveled, pointedly, then shrugged. The fabric of the oversized t-shirt covering her shoulders slipped to one side with the movement, revealing her bare golden skin.
She wasn't wearing a fucking bra.
"If it just so happens that I can do that while drinking cocktails at a bar, so be it. Besides—"
Matteo stopped hearing her. He might've stopped breathing. Every ounce of his attention now rested on that sun-kissed shoulder and the thin, heather-gray t-shirt that hung off of her body. His traitorous gaze flickered down to the twin peaks obscured by the fabric, and he wondered what she might feel like beneath his palm...
"Fine. We can go," he ground out, standing abruptly from the table.
"Really?" Val's eyes widened, like she'd been expecting a fight.
"Yes." God, he just wanted to get out of that room. He turned, stalking back to the kitchen and the whiskey that waited for him. As soon as he reached his whiskey glass and the decanter, he poured another shot over the half-melted ice and immediately brought the rim to his lips.
"Well, great!" Val chirped.
Her chair scooted against the wooden flooring, followed by the soft patter of her bare feet drawing nearer. Matteo clenched his eyes shut moments before she reached his side, inhaling to subdue the newfound heat churning in his groin.
She snatched the decanter out of his hand, her fist curled around the bottle's neck as she brought the rim to her lips and knocked back a swig. Her full lips wrapped around the head, and a single droplet of the dark liquid leaked from the corner, trailing down her chin. Matteo's chest tightened, and he forced himself to look away.
This was dangerous. She was dangerous...
Val lowered the bottle and shuddered as she swallowed the liquor. "Cazzo, that's strong," she complained, shaking her head.
"Can't handle it, principessa?" he challenged, the words like gravel in his throat. He took the glass bottle back and brought the rim to his own lips.
One swallow. Two. The whiskey's inviting warmth slid down his throat and settled in his chest. It provided blessed relief, so long as Matteo ignored the faint hints of vanilla that teased his tongue, the remnants of whatever godforsaken chapstick Val wore.
When Matteo set the bottle on the counter again, he lowered his gaze and found Val staring at him. Her round hazel eyes trailed up the column of his throat, riveted and curious. Those plump, vanilla-laced lips parted when her gaze met Matteo's and she realized he'd caught her. Something in Matteo purred in satisfaction.
A faint blush clouded her honeyed cheeks, and she immediately tore her eyes away. A tendril of dark hair fell across her forehead, but she didn't swipe it back behind her ear, almost as if she wanted the lock to shield her from Matteo's gaze.
"We'll leave for Lo Specchio in half an hour," Val announced, turning toward the side of the apartment that she'd claimed for herself five days prior.
Matteo watched her go. Watched the sway of the oversized gray shirt just inches below her ass. Seconds before she disappeared around the corner, she spun back around, arms crossed against her chest and shoulder leaning against the archway.
"And Matteo? Try to dress like an actual human being. As soon as someone sees my father's favorite dog brooding over my shoulder, they won't want to dance with me." Val smirked, all hints of the blushing, bashful girl gone.
Before he had the chance to respond, she sashayed around the corner.
Matteo loosed a ragged breath. Yes — Valentina Romano was a very dangerous creature, indeed.
***
Per the princess' request, Matteo wore the only suit jacket and black silk button-up that he owned. When they re-emerged in the kitchen half an hour later, Val gave him an approving once-over. As soon as they entered Lo Specchio, however, he instantly regretted heeding her sickeningly sweet command.
He suddenly remembered why he typically chose to wear simple black t-shirts. On the one hand, they didn't show blood stains. On the other, he could actually breathe in them.
No longer able to bear the suffocating heat inside the body-packed club, Matteo ripped the top two buttons of his shirt open. Air fanned his neck and chest, providing momentary relief to his flushed skin. God, he hated clubs.
The entire building shook from the overpowering bass. Hundreds of intoxicated, high patrons swayed on the dance floor below, but Val took up residence in the second-floor VIP section. Right in the fucking snake nest...
Made men from the Romano family and rival families alike lounged throughout the elite second floor, smoking and drinking and snorting lines. Dancers, clad in mere straps of fabric, twirled slowly, sensually around their metal poles. Others carried trays of drinks and drugs to the men seated on couches.
And Val sat in the middle of it all. She was alone on a couch, with one slender, golden leg crossed over the other and a cool, amused smirk playing on her lips. An empress of sin.
She'd transformed from the unassuming t-shirt clad girl in the kitchen of her papà's apartment and now dripped confidence and charm.
When she first emerged from her bedroom wearing a dark red mini-dress with asymmetrical sleeves and an open back, Matteo had half-a-mind to order her to change into something else — anything else. But that would only betray just how much Val's appearance — her soft curves and round ass — affected him, so he kept his mouth shut and spent the entire drive to the club ignoring the tightness in his black dress pants.
Now, as the eyes of every man on the second-floor stripped her bare from across the room, he wished he had commanded Val to switch her wardrobe.
"Had your fill of this shithole, yet?" Matteo leaned over the back of the couch and grumbled in Val's ear. "Or are you just going to sit here all evening?"
She glanced over her shoulder, her long-brown ponytail nearly smacking him across the cheek in the process. She rolled her eyes. "We've only been here for thirty minutes. Besides, I thought you'd be pleased that I sat up here?"
Val gestured toward a half-naked dancer that strode past the couch with a tray of bubbling wine. Under any other circumstances, the sight might've made Matteo's cock jump. At that moment, only one woman commanded his attention, and she came dangerously close to hitting him with her ponytail again...
Wrong. Those thoughts were wrong. Leonardo Romano had ordered Matteo to guard his daughter. Not lust after her. He'd sworn to protect Val, a task made more difficult if he wanted to bend her over his knee every time she peppered him with a snarky comment.
Matteo ground his teeth together and leaned closer to her ear, his lips nearly brushing the hollow just beneath her lobe. At this proximity, he smelt the subtle scent of bergamot and vanilla lingering on Val's skin. Not overpowering, but warm and sensual. He barely resisted the urge to inhale her deep.
He hardened his resolve and reminded himself of the trouble that she'd caused him in the last week. Curling a fist around her ponytail, Matteo wrapped the chestnut silk around his knuckles once. Twice.
"Were you hoping to distract me with puttanas, then slip away to humiliate the famiglia again?" He huffed a low laugh, and his blood warmed at the sight of goosebumps peppering Val's slender arms. "I'm not Luca."
Val tried to whip her head to the side to confront him, but his grip on her ponytail tightened, holding her in place. She gasped, charcoal-painted eyes widening in anger, while her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. The soft curve of her breasts spilled over the corset of her dress at every inhale. Matteo almost groaned at the sight.
He tugged her head to the side, exposing her neck while allowing her a single inch of freedom. She tilted her jaw in his direction, nostrils flaring.
"You don't like watching the dancers, then?" Val's wine-laced breath fanned against Matteo's lips, but he didn't deign a response. Her throat bobbed and her smoky eyes flickered to his mouth. A small smirk played on her full lips. "So what do you want, Matteo?"
He enjoyed the sound of his name on Val's lips so much that he almost overlooked the fact that she'd skillfully avoided his accusation. Her omission was proof enough of her plan. She had been hoping to distract him with the dancers and booze and drugs. Matteo should've known from the second she asked to visit Lo Specchio that evening.
"I want to leave," he answered, rough, releasing his hold on her ponytail. He thought he saw something like disappointment flicker across her beautiful face before he walked away from the back of the couch, coming around to where she sat on the leather. "Let's go. Now."
The disappointment in Val's eyes shifted into stark annoyance, but she pushed off the couch and brushed past the hand that he'd extended for her to take. "Fine. Will you go get my jacket from the coat check?"
The second-floor coat check was only a short distance away, but they would have to pass a group of sleazy, drunk men on the way, and Matteo disliked the idea of those bastards finding any sort of pleasure from the sight of Val's toned legs and perfect ass walking past. For that reason alone, he agreed.
Matteo exhaled his frustration, but nodded. "Don't move your ass from this spot until I get back, or I'll—"
"Make me wish that I never stepped foot in this club?" Val drawled, crossing her arms against her chest. "Yeah, I know the drill, cane."
Perhaps it was the poison dripping from Val's words. Or, perhaps, it was Matteo's own urge to touch her one last time and silently ward away the lecherous gazes of the surrounding mafiosos. But he couldn't stop himself from closing the space between their bodies and snaring her chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting her jaw until she had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"Matteo—" she gasped.
His grip on her chin tightened, and his other hand curled into a fist at his side, barely resisting the urge to snake around her waist and pull her flush against his front. Let her feel the evidence of what he truly wanted — evidence that hardened with every moment that Val did not pull away.
She stared up at him with dilated pupils, and quick breaths escaped from the little crack between her lips. Her tongue swept along her lips, wetting the plump petals. Eager. Hungry. And inviting. Matteo had never wanted to taste something—someone—so much in his life.
One of Val's bold hands landed on Matteo's wrist of the same hand that held her chin. The soft pads of her fingers traced over his bone, across the jacket that hugged his forearm and bicep—his shoulder and neck —until her hand curled in the short hair at the base of his head.
Matteo needed to stop this. This would get him killed.
Val tugged at his hair, a silent request for him to lower his head to hers. She leaned closer, excitement flaring in her eyes...
Matteo stepped back, ripping his hand from her chin and forcing her fingers from his hair. He couldn't think—couldn't breathe.
"What—" she began, eyes widening and a blush staining her cheeks.
"Stay here." Matteo couldn't manage anything else. He turned away and stalked to the second-floor coat-check, coaching himself to take deep, measured breaths to calm his rapid pulse. To tame the raging hard-on that pressed against the seam of his pants.
Fuck. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had ensnared him so effortlessly. They hadn't kissed—had scarcely even touched. But something about Valentina Romano... It was lethal.
When he retrieved her jacket, Matteo took one final, calming breath and turned. His eyes immediately landed on Val, who stood directly where he'd left her. Good girl, he thought, but all satisfaction drained when he realized she wasn't alone.
A man stood opposite her.
Blonde, slender, and dressed in the most lavish, most pink suit Matteo had ever seen. A man who screamed wealth and power and didn't belong within an inch of Val—at least for another month.
Ezra McLeod.