Exterminating rats fell within the jurisdiction of the head of enforcement for the Romano family. Uncle Vince. My favorite uncle. The most compassionate Romano. Go figure he’d have my least favorite job.
“Vince has narrowed it down to a list of four possible people. We’ve got tails on three of the four, but we need you on the last.”
I gestured around the bare room. No shelves. Just a desk and chairs. “I’ve got a business to run.”
“He’s here. Works for you, Bastian.”
I knew Gio hadn’t meant it as an insult, but I took it as one anyway. “Are you telling me I hired a rat?” Each and every employee here had undergone a careful vetting process. I held a grudge against Gio, but I’d never take it out on Asher and the rest of my family or risk their lives.
Then again, you hired that incompetent bartender, the asshole in me reminded.
You don’t even remember his name, the rest of me agreed.
The judgment in Gio’s eyes didn’t escape my notice. They flicked to the security monitor in front of me. “I’m telling you to be damn sure your house is clean. Before it starts infesting mine.”
I ran a tired hand down my face. Ever since he’d paid off Elsa, Gio had been looking for a way to reshape our relationship. He had never drawn a line between me and the family like this before. He was serious about this, which made me more alert than I wanted to be while tipsy.
A rat meant everyone I gave a shit about was at risk. I would have taken care of the rat without being asked. When people fucked with what was mine, I left them without a dick to fuck with. Simple as that.
“Fine. I’ll take care of it.” I slid my phone out of my pocket and unlocked the screen, dismissing Gio.
He nodded. “See you around, son.” His footsteps paused a few feet short of the door. “You see Old Man Tony’s daughter lately? She’s got tits out to here.” He stretched his arms out a foot away from his chest.
I spared him no attention as I said, “Kindly fuck off, Gio.”
He laughed all the way out the door, and when the handle clicked shut, I let out a long exhale. This—caring for my family—was how I always got roped into the mafia life. I had gotten away with just running L’Oscurità for a while, but all signs pointed to my reprieve coming to an unwilling end.
And I wasn’t close to ready for it.
Chapter Three
ARIANA DE LUCA
“Deep breaths, Ari,” I muttered to myself, much like the homeless woman who’d taken up residence outside my new apartment building two days ago. “You can do this. Everyone has their first big cover.”
My affirmations fooled no one. The likelihood of coming out of this cover dead outweighed my probability of living. I might as well get used to pasty skin and the matching hand-me-down funeral dress Aunt Nadia had made me promise to wear to the grave.
I sent my handler Simmons a quick coded text message, letting him know my position, and then I pushed him out of my mind. I hated being partnered with him. Simmons had a recognizable face—a near replica of his dad’s, who served as the secretary of state for the current administration.
Nine out of ten times, someone recognized him before he could even start his cover. The bureau still hadn’t pulled him from fieldwork. Nepotism at its finest. Today was one of those nine times, and I’d gotten the message that I was on my own only an hour ago. We’d already planned for it—I would be stupid not to with a partner like Simmons—but it didn’t make it any more palatable.
Neither did the difference in the way the FBI treated me compared to Simmons. My boss Wilks told me time and time again that he thought of me as a daughter, yet he'd given the order for me to go undercover with my real name.
Ariana De Luca.
Worse, he’d recruited me, so only he knew what my last name really meant.
That I was one of those De Lucas.
I pushed the betrayal aside and tried to focus on my goal. Armed with a killer little black dress, nude Louboutins, and my padded resume, I entered L’Oscurità to… Well, I actually didn’t know. Most of being a legend required winging it, but I at least expected to flirt, seduce, or show off my way into a bartending job here—despite every instinct of mine screaming at me to turn and leave if I valued my life.
A buzz hummed in the atmosphere at L’Oscurità, sending a dark thrill down my spine. The midnight-black brick wall split the restaurant in two—a fancy high dining restaurant with a year-long waiting list in the front and a low-key, dimly-lit bar hidden in the back.
The walled-off restaurant gave no indication of its affiliation with the bar. In fact, no sign hung above the bar entrance. There didn’t need to be. If you didn’t know where it was, you probably wouldn’t get in anyway.
“Can I help you?” A woman approached me and ran her eyes down my body, myriad emotions flying across her face before she settled with disdain.
Jealousy did fickle things to people. It also happened to be the reaction I usually elicited from women. Just like your mom, Aunt Nadia had never failed to remind me. Like a siren, always drawing attention. Good and bad. I swiped a hand at the mess of honey-brown waves that reached the curve of my waist—my natural hair color for once—and tucked a loose lock behind my ear.
I could barely breathe with a tight bandage dress wrapped around my curves. Her eyes dipped down to my long legs, traveled to the generous swells of my breasts, and settled on the pop of my blue-green eyes past the smoky eyeshadow. Very rarely did I look out of place unless I wanted to. Perks of being a legend.
It took her a few seconds too long to nod at the resume clutched in my hand and say, “There’s no job available.”
I slid the resume into my bag and studied the woman, my silence clearly making her uncomfortable. Though she didn't wear a name tag, I knew everything I needed to know about Dana Till from the files I’d been given.
She worked as a server on this side of L’Oscurità and dated Bastiano Romano a while back. He managed the restaurant and, as the nephew of Frankie Romano, the head of the Romano family, boasted deep ties to the Italian mafia.
Without a doubt, if Dana already didn't like me, she most definitely wouldn't like me when I got a job here. So, I matched her stare, the disdain coming readily to me, and brushed past her. She was harmless, a minnow in a room full of sharks, and I hadn't the time nor inclination to deal with pests.
Given her visceral reaction to me, her history with Bastiano “Bastian” Romano, and the fact that she saw me as a threat in the first place, I knew without a doubt that her ex held my ticket into this place.
I ignored Dana and skimmed the room, forcing a look of indifference onto my face at the humbling sight of Bastiano Romano. He nursed an empty glass between his mammoth palms while the bartender rushed to satisfy the crowd on the other end of the bar. The irritation lining Bastian’s face told me all I needed to know. He was short-staffed at L’Oscurità, and I had a chance to weasel my way into the business.
A woman chattered beside him, the curves of her body angled toward him as she traced a suggestive finger down the swell of his bicep. Light caramel skin. Waist-length raven hair. Dark eyes. Slender body. An exotic Mediterranean beauty, through and through, yet Bastian paid no attention to her. Instead, his eyes glared holes into the back of the bartender’s head.
If it were only for the look on his face, I would have thought he was an alcoholic, but I knew better. Memorized his file. Heard the bureau’s advance team wax on and on about the Romano family. This man possessed pure dominance, and dominant men didn’t have vices that weakened them.
The woman dipped her head forward and leaned her chin on his shoulder. He used that same arm to pop an ice cube from his glass into his mouth without acknowledging her. She nearly fell when his shoulder moved and stumbled to right herself. Still, he didn’t pay her any attention.
The urge to turn around and walk out the door seized my legs.
You’re not inexperienced, I assured myself. Okay, so maybe you could have more e
xperience under your belt, but this is how you get it.
Judging from his mostly empty file, Bastiano Romano thrived on secrets. As far as I knew, he—and his presence at L’Oscurità—was the reason the bureau thought there would be something worth getting out of this cover, but he also fostered my hesitation.
Even after studying his file for weeks, I had thought I’d been ready to see him. To go toe-to-toe with him and come out as the unrelenting victor. I had been wrong. Just one glance at him, and I knew I was utterly, unequivocally fucked.
He was a beautiful monster—mafia royalty wrapped in a fifty-thousand-dollar bespoke Desmond Merrion suit. The tailored fit did nothing to hide his towering build or the sheer muscled width of his chest. His hair—so full and dark in its costly short gentleman’s cut—spoke of the hundreds he must have parted with to get it.
His eyes were dark, but the expression they held was darker, the variety of sinister I would expect from the Devil himself. Absent of emotion and horribly indifferent, they pierced my very soul and left me feeling irrevocably bereft.
His defined cheekbones were cut like the sharp edges of an executioner’s blade, and coupled with his perpetual, derisive sneer, he gave the impression that he knew just how much better he was than all of us and it amused him greatly.
Bastiano Romano looked expensive.
And dangerous.
But I still had a job to do, and that required approaching him.
I reached several feet away from him when, as if sensing my presence, he glanced my way, sparing me a second of fatal, arresting eye contact before he returned his attention to the bartender, quickly moving on from me as if I were nothing.
I faltered for a moment, both surprised and unsurprised by his reaction. His companion leaned forward, pressing herself against his arm, taking advantage of the split second of eye contact Bastiano and I had shared.
The top of his lip curled up in a scathing snarl. He said something to her that caused her to pout, but she stayed pressed up against him—defiance in her eyes and lust on her lips. I took another step closer, cataloging the situation. This woman was hitting on him. The only difference between her plan and mine was that she had failed first.
Another step and I stood close enough to hear her shamelessly advertise, “I’m not wearing any panties. We used to have so much fun.”
And still. No reaction. This woman was Aphrodite’s reincarnation, and he would know that if he’d spare her the slightest of glances, but he didn’t. Instead, he absently lifted his glass to his full lips, tilted it back, and was met with ice.
She flinched when he slammed the glass down and skimmed his eyes across the top shelf selection of alcohol before returning his accusing glare to the bartender’s back. Irritation swam within the volatile depths of his eyes.
I took another step closer, breathing deeply, loud enough, apparently, to draw his attention again. His eyes ran a leisurely path up my body, causing me to waver until he finally looked away. I forced the hesitation out of me.
You took an oath. You’re doing the right thing. There’s no room for weakness.
A lackluster mantra, but I repeated it anyway.
Closing the distance between us, I placed my hand on his suit-clad shoulder. His muscles rippled beneath my palm, but I dismissed them as I smiled. “Sorry I’m late, babe.”
I ignored his heavy stare, my heart pounding violently as I leaned over him. My chest brushed against his bicep. I ignored that, too, and pressed my lips to his, captured his lower lip between my teeth, and tugged on it.
I waited for him to return the kiss. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Chapter Four
ARIANA DE LUCA
He tasted like spearmint, whiskey, and lemons. Like danger and ruin. Corruption and sex.
I kissed him, but he didn't kiss me back. Instead, he tilted his head to the side so Aphrodite couldn't see our faces, effectively cutting her off from our interaction. He was using me to get rid of her. Hell, I had planned for him to do so.
But this was different.
This was him taking my plan and twisting it in his favor in his way. With his skill. As if it had been his idea in the first place. He wasn’t kissing me back, but he dominated me regardless. I felt it in the pounding of my chest. In the weakening of my legs. In his refusal to Kiss. Me. Back.
He reached an arm around my waist and pulled me closer, still not returning my kiss. His palms explored my hips, curved up to the side of my breasts, then lowered to my ass. He gripped a cheek and squeezed, pulling my body forward and into him, grinding my core on the side of his thigh like he owned me.
His taunts didn’t go unnoticed. Neither did the audience. I got it. I’d kissed him without his permission, so he touched me without mine. And still, he didn’t kiss me back. My lips remained pressed to his lifeless ones, and his hands continued to knead my ass, both of us waiting to see who would cave first. His hand slid from my ass to my front, dipping beneath the hem of my dress.
I took a step back and tore my lips away, mentally cursing myself for using such a stupid, unoriginal, and clichéd approach. I was better than this, but he had made me sloppy. I was lightheaded from his presence—the heavily intoxicating smell of whiskey, oakmoss, musk, and aged ambergris. Drunk from the power he radiated. And dizzy from the viscous tension coursing through my veins.
We waited in silence as Aphrodite tucked tail and ran, silently disappearing into the crowd while our eyes locked in a power struggle he was bound to win.
He already won, I reminded myself as I took another tiny step back, hoping he didn’t notice.
He did.
Amusement touched his eyes before it fled like an alleycat, darting away before I could even process it. Only when Aphrodite was gone from the bar did he return his attention to the bartender's back, dismissing me again, like he had earlier. Like I was worthless.
I felt the dismissal in my gut.
“That’s it?” I kept my voice low and carefully concealed the emotion in it, hoping I didn’t sound as breathless as I felt.
He didn’t respond. I was Aphrodite now, except he had actually looked at me, taken me in, deemed me inferior, and disregarded me. I felt like a flea. A pest. The minnow I had mentally accused Dana, his ex-girlfriend, of being.
In this moment, I knew that Wilks had been right to some degree. I needed the power of my last name. This legend had no chance of surviving otherwise. Not with this apathetic jerk involved.
I took a seat on the stool next to him, far enough away that I felt like I could breathe a little again. “Ariana De Luca,” I introduced myself. “But you can call me Ari.”
He didn’t react. Not physically, at least. But I felt his attention as he spoke, still not facing me. “That’s an interesting last name.”
“It’s just a last name.”
He curled his fingers around his glass. “Sure. In the same way Romano is just a last name.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
That got to him. He turned to me, giving me his full attention and, with it, the full force of those devastating eyes. This was it—my moment to succeed or fail epically. I leaned over the counter, aware of how high my short dress rose, and grabbed a bottle of top-shelf amaretto and sour mix.
Leaning closer to him, I held steady eye contact as I poured sour mix into his glass, followed by the almond whiskey. My hand covered his, and together, we swirled the glass, mixing the whiskey sour with the steady movement.
I held my breath as he took a sip of it, downing a finger in one impressive gulp. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the movement far more erotic than it should have been. I forced myself not to avert my eyes.
“How’d you know?” Whiskey coated his lower lip. His tongue swiped across the skin, cleaning it in a way that ripped the air from my throat and left me fatally winded.
I tried and failed to tear my eyes away from his mouth. “I tasted it on your lips.”
The same lips I couldn’t stop stari
ng at.
I was being unprofessional. I was getting drawn in by his allure, and I had no excuse. Bastiano Romano was about as delightful as a positive STD test result, yet here I was, distracted, intoxicated, and engrossed. The equivalent of spreading my legs and begging for gonorrhea.
“Are you in the habit of coming into bars and putting your lips on random strangers?” He paused, disdain passing over his features. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a classy gal?”
And on top of his lack of charm, he was a full-blown jerk.
I held back my scowl, forcing myself to pretend he didn’t affect me. “I don’t recall ever asking for your opinion.”
“I don’t recall giving you my consent.”
“And I don’t recall you pulling away.”
He laughed at that, but his laughter was drier than sandpaper. “This has got to be the worst job interview I’ve ever partaken in.” He slowed his words, his tone dripping with condescension. “Have you ever had a job?”
I ignored his jab and leaned away from him, feeling exposed and three steps behind. “How do you know I want a job?”
“You looked around when you entered the place, but you stopped as soon as your eyes landed on me; you just fixed me a whiskey sour with amaretto; and you have the tip of your resume hanging out of your purse.”
Jesus Christ, he had made me as soon as I’d entered the room. Did he notice these details about everyone or was it just me? I bit back a scoff at my arrogance. Surely it wasn’t just me, but the alternative was almost unbelievable. I was a trained FBI agent, and even I sometimes missed things. Granted, Wilks usually assigned me to such insignificant cases, I had virtually no experiences I could brag about.
I studied his eyes, wondering what they took in. “Are you always this observant?”
“Only when I’m breathing.” He finished his drink and slid the glass my way, a silent demand for me to make him another drink.
Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel Page 50
