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The last thing I see is Dario’s disgusted expression before I hurry toward the door. It bursts open, and one of the guards intends to stop me until they see my pale expression and steps to the side. He simply points.
I rush down the hallway, memorizing every door and inch of the mansion. Quickly, I find the bathroom and close the door behind me, then slam my back against it with my heart racing. I expect to hear footsteps following me, but there is nothing. Good. My heartbeat eases into a rhythmic beat as I check around the marble powder room. It’s obnoxiously oversized, but so are most of the houses and grand events I’ve attended since moving to New York. Hell, the one I grew up in was of the same standard as this one, with the opulence and grandeur of people who think they are superior in every way.
Casually, I walk over to the mirror, ruffling my hair to look every bit the part of a sick, rattled woman. No one will bother giving me any attention because I am simply a little girl who can’t handle her liquor. I find it almost comical. In instances like this, it’s a blessing to be a woman because no one ever sees me as a threat—especially the type of powerful men I grew up around.
I check the mirror and notice how the blonde wig contrasts heavily against my tan complexion. It makes sense, considering my natural hair color is as black as night. I’ve also worn contacts to cover my green eyes with flecks of blue.
My gold bracelet is nothing too expensive but offers evidence I am the perfect example of Dario’s type.
He likes to buy people.
He likes his whores.
If they already have money, they don’t need him unless it’s for their reputation alone.
I wait a few more minutes, then kick off the counter. Time to focus on what I actually came here for.
Meticulously, I open the door and look to either side, half expecting a bodyguard to be waiting. To my delight, there isn’t anyone around. So I walk in the opposite direction of the orgy, staggering slightly and looking lost. Noticing one camera already, I pause before two wooden ornate doors and place my finger on my lip for dramatic effect. If anyone’s watching, I’ll look like a lost little lamb.
When I open them, I’m delighted by the massive wooden pillars and a room that expands into an impressive personal library and office. It’s dimly lit but enough to make out what it contains. So far, it’s the only room with no cameras. For privacy, I guess. A false sense of security and one I must not allow myself to get caught up in. I carry on, pretending to be tipsy but inquisitive. What’s certain is what I’m after is clearly not in this room.
A shadow falls across the entrance, and I hear the click before I have time to fully turn.
Shit!
A gun is pointed in my direction.
My breath naturally falters. I’ve done a few jobs, but I’ve never been held at gunpoint during any of them.
Before I begin my lost lamb theatrics, I recognize who is holding the gun in my direction. He wasn’t meant to be here.
The dimly lit room fiercely highlights the cruel cut jaw and cheekbones. Piercing blue eyes strike me like lightning. I’ve seen them so many times in articles, media, social circles, and in the thousands of photographs I have taken of this very man. My only saving grace is he has no idea who I am.
“Last I checked, my brother’s orgies don’t extend to my office.” The lethal edge to his voice cuts through the room like a blade. Goose bumps erupt over my skin.
Play your role.
Had this been during the day, our exchange would have been very different. We would have been obliged by the masks and roles we both have to wear to be accepted in society. But this was his home and entry to his lucrative business. There are no rules that confine him here.
Luca is the perfect poster boy. Cool and elusive but charismatic and successful. Wealthy beyond belief, mostly because of his rumored association with the mafia. But I know better than to just assume after my research and proof. This man isn’t connected with the mafia. He is the mafia. He is the head, or Boss, or god, or whatever term best suits him since his father died over ten years ago.
Fuck me, what shit luck.
This ass wasn’t meant to be in New York.
He wasn’t meant to be here.
I let a tear slide down my cheek, my bottom lip wobbling, hating every bit of the part I need to play. I want to show no weakness against this man, and it’s inherently obvious right now I must because tonight, I have a role to play. “I’m sorry. I got lost.” My voice is raspy, like a small child’s. “I suddenly felt sick and couldn’t find my way back.” I hiccup for added effect and allow a natural sway about my body to give the illusion of having way too much to drink. “Then I saw this room, and it’s so pretty. I’m sorry.”
Luca’s dressed in a black suit, his tie half undone as if he’s only starting to wind down for the day—at four in the morning.
“If they don’t notice you’re gone, then I imagine they won’t care if you’re erased permanently.”
His words are a cruel cut through the air, the threat abundantly clear. His expression is cold and impassive, the same as every picture I’ve ever taken of Luca Armani.
My bottom lip still wobbles against all instinct to allow a man like this to see any kind of weakness. But Luca Armani only allows subservient people around him. Anyone who challenges his authority and hierarchy, rest assured they end up bankrupt, bought out, or six feet under. I know all of this, but meeting the monster in reality is an extremely different experience.
“Get on your knees.” He points the gun to the floor.
