“Marcello,” I greet my grandfather with a strong, sharp handshake.
My grandfather – the great Marcello Valentino – is made of great grandeur and royalty. He carries himself like a king, he prides himself upon being a leader, and he acts as if no human will ever exceed the power he holds.
“I see you hit the 1824 series,” he comments, nodding to the drink in my hand.
“Yes, I saw it sitting there and couldn’t resist,” I reply, lifting the drink up. “The age definitely adds to the flavor.”
“Might get myself a glass before we start,” he enlightens me. When he raises his gaze to mine, he smiles. “Go and have them all settle,” he orders. Apparently, he wants the alcohol, too. “I’ll be in within the next five minutes.”
I don’t reply to him, and I walk off. I pass through the large hallways, and I’m pleased when I find everyone seated already; it makes my job easier. I take my seat next to the head of the table, offer a brisk welcome, and settle myself. I twist my tumbler around, but a part of me keeps thinking about one thing in particular.
I’m thinking about a fucking female.
Undetected by her, I’ve watched for months as if she were my prey. This week, it seemed the tables had turned, as she seemed to be focusing on me. I’ve never found myself thinking about a woman as I do her. I never allow myself to fall victim to a woman’s ways, but something about that woman has my mind racing.
Shaking my head, I remind myself that I don’t do romance. Fuck, I barely do sex with this life, but there is a lot I’d be willing to sacrifice for one night with that girl. I’m no angel; when I fuck a girl, I take my sweet time and make sure she remembers more than my name the next day. I make sure she never feels a man like me ever again. But when you’re one of the Valens, sex is a once in a blue moon occurrence and you learn to live with that.
You live, eat, breath, kill the Valens.
Looking up, I notice the door opening. There’s no introduction. My grandfather enters the room, ushering silence as he waltzes in without even asking for it. He walks around and takes the same seat as he always does. He sits, all eyes on him, and he acts as if he’s a lone member at the table. After placing his glass down, he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, but still doesn’t say a word.
“Before we get started,” my grandfather begins to say, pushing a sheet of paper toward me. “The new list.”
I put my hand on it and drag it until it rests in front of me. As I scan the list, I realize that most of these men are innocent apart from a few misdemeanors. Their death sentence is an unwarranted task, but my grandfather is a man who likes to end all indiscretion as quickly as it occurs. If you so much as breathe wrong in his, or one of his men’s, presence, then you may as well pick out your own coffin.
I’m just as bad as my grandfather is. Apparently, I’m known for being the best killer because I was taught under the studious gaze of my grandfather. I know not to do anything else. Years of living under his roof, living by his rules, have taught me the consequences of refusing. I was told it built character, displayed me as a survivor, and made me strong, but I know now I was just a pawn.
He was right.
I’m a force to be reckoned with, except when I’m dealing with my grandfather. I do as he says and appear as a loyal minion, but it’s not that at all. Not even close.
I have my own indiscretion with my grandfather. He may be the man who brought me up, taught me at an extremely young age who I was – a natural warrior – but he also withheld from me the most important details of my childhood.
See, I was born of deadly sin.
I just wasn't prepared for my comeuppance to hit me at such a tender age. Now, I’m of an age where I control what happens and I’m preparing for the ultimate showdown. I intend for it to be bittersweet but glorious. I might not know everything that happened to me, but I know enough to serve my purpose.
I don’t lead a picture-perfect life, but one day I will.
“Where to start?” my grandfather asks and looks around the table. “It’s been a slow week, I know, so this won’t take up much of your evening.” My grandfather turns in his seat, aiming his attention to me. “How was James, Dante?” my grandfather quizzes, breaking the tension in the room. “Better yet, how was Tommy?”
I take a deliberate moment to work out what exactly to say, and I remember all the times I was never given an easy ride. It made me create a persona that was not only respectable but also fearsome. Therefore, I will take no prisoners.
“He’s not ready to be out there.” My first comment renders everyone so silent I can almost hear that metaphorical fucking pin drop and I notice how tough this is going to be. “He’s far too empathetic to be out there in the middle of it all. I can’t be doing this with someone who has that much compassion.”
“What do you mean?” Andrea, Tommy’s father, asks, leaning forward upon the table. “I’ve trained my boy well.”
“Not well enough,” I counter, admonishing his sudden need to be defensive. “He doesn’t absolve himself of guilt, he questions the family we leave to grieve, and he’s unable to realize our work and our family go hand in hand.” I watch Andrea’s jaw twitch as he tenses up. “He doesn’t understand the dangers that some men pose to our livelihood. He needs to realize that the men we set out to either kill or teach a lesson are not family. They’re not going to keep secrets forever. He needs a better understanding of how we risk our lives every day by allowing outsiders into the Valens. He needs a better teacher other than you.”
“How dare you fucking talk to me like that,” Andrea replies, his tone tightening with anger.
“If you think you’re doing a good enough job, then make sure the next time he comes with me, he understands the fucking rules of our work!” I bellow, my hands slamming down on the tabletop as I stand up, a ferocious beast. “You make sure he’s not going to fuck it all up because his father didn’t teach him the full reason he lives the life he does.” I’m seething; heat courses through my veins as anger ignites within me. “I have worked hard to make sure the team I work with is perfect for what they’re meant to do. I have taught them to be a formidable force, and I won’t have a lesser man ruining that. I don’t care if he’s family. He is not ready to be on my team.”
“My son is not a lesser man!” Andrea shouts, standing up to match my demeanor.
“He’s not a Valens man, that’s for sure!” I argue, unwilling to back down.
“Enough!” my grandfather suddenly roars above us all. He slowly rises from his seat, placing his hands on the top of the table and leaning in. “Tommy is not to go on jobs with Dante until Dante is certain he can stomach it and keep up.” My grandfather’s hand comes up when Andrea tries to argue. “This is not up for discussion. Dante has worked for many years to perfect his technique of disposing of those who pose a threat, and I won’t risk that. Not even for the family.” He lowers his hand once more and stands up straighter. “We are currently dealing with Salvatore Abbiati for business. Over the next few days, he and Costello will be here to discuss sensitive business matters. He’ll be bringing his daughter, so I expect the Valens reputation to remain pristine.”
“Why is Amelia coming?” I question.
My grandfather smirks menacingly at the thought.
“Salvatore has a great deal planned for his precious daughter, and while we arrange that, you can keep her occupied. We all know how well you two get along.” He gives me a sideways smile; I know he intends to help Salvatore have a killer like me in the Dio Lavoro. “You have your new kill list. You’re dismissed. I don’t care how soon you get started.”
I smirk, lift my gaze to meet my grandfather’s icy one, and nod. “I’ll get started tonight.”
***
I occupy the same spot most evenings. It pisses Jackson off to no end, but I always tell him the same thing – I can keep an eye on our girls here.
Well… one in particular.
I don’t know her name, but I
know how my brain races with the way she dances. I often wonder what a beauty like her did to wind up working at a club like this. I guess the scars across her shoulder and chest and the one just under her ribcage have something to do with that. For that, I don’t see her as I do the other girls in the club because she’s different. She holds a different strength, a certain level of courage that the others don’t quite possess.
I know Jackson created our bars with the idea of a sanctuary. He wanted a place where lost souls who needed a chance could come. We were the place of solace for those who needed a helping hand, and we would continue to do just that.
With my devotion to my grandfather, my commitments are thin and I don’t hold the same intent that Jackson does. It’s sad, I’ll admit, but when my main occupation is to kill people in any way possible, it leaves me very little desire to save people.
So, I don’t. I leave that to Jackson. I remain a silent partner and step in and out when needed. I know better than anyone how feelings complicate matters, and Jackson should, too. However, he was brought up seeing the atrocities my family delivers to people, but never had to get his hands dirty. He was saved by my grandfather, brought up as a brother, but was spared the evil as if he were still a stranger. I’m pleased with it because while he sticks by my side – regardless of what I’ve done – he knows that one day I’ll be free.
We’re still stupidly waiting for that day.
So, while I wait, I watch and I do what I need to – which includes watching the brunette beauty as she grinds the fuck out of that pole.
I continue to keep my eyes fixed on her as she ends her set. My eyes remain trained on her as she walks off the stage to waltz over to the bar on the far side of the club. Every step she takes is as breathtaking as the last. I don’t know why she enraptures me, but I never want to rid myself of this addiction.
The mood quickly changes as her hand is torn from her side and she’s spun around on the spot. I sit up, my back straightening as I watch her fight for freedom. However, the bastard pushes her away from the bar; clearly not listening to a word, she fights him with all her strength. I start to move without even realizing that I’ve commanded my body to do so. It’s instinctual and I bolt from my booth and march across the room.
As I advance, I hear her speak and it’s far from the sweet, ethereal voice my mind conjured up after watching her dance. She’s fierce, unrelenting in allowing a man to manhandle her without her permission, and if I wasn’t feeling it already, the throb in my pants is becoming undeniably uncomfortable.
“You want to touch and not pay?” she asks, her stature squared up to his six-foot build. “You think I’m a piece of meat waiting for your hands to grope me?” she asks and laughs mirthlessly. “I’m here to make sure men like you get your kicks. But that doesn’t mean I’m here to be your object, and I certainly don’t do it free of charge!”
“Now, love, I paid a high price to be here. Don’t deny you don’t know that,” I hear him say to the brunette as he advances toward her. I can see now that he’s preparing to trap her between his body and the wall. I’ve had that fantasy, but it involved neither him nor this amount of publicity. I’m not about to allow him to think he has free access to what Jackson and I allow. “I think I get rights.”
“Hey, cunt,” I shout, my hand reaching out to grab his shoulder. The moment my fingers can dig into his skin, I tug him backward, twisting him to face me. As his body swings around on the spot, I release him only to land a punch directly to his jaw. “You touch my girls like you just did, and you’ll be wishing it were just stars you were seeing!”
As I shake my hand in an attempt to forget the pain rippling through my knuckles, I look up at the mystery girl I’ve watched on many occasions. Currently, she’s mimicking a beautiful fucking deer – one frozen in the headlights of a fast approaching car. While her eyes are wide, her mouth is slack in shock and her stare is transfixed on me.
“You okay?” I ask, trying in vain to hide my amusement.
She nods, albeit remaining quiet, so I take my chance to deal with the bastard who stepped over the mark.
“Get up,” I say, focusing my attention on him. He’s still on the floor, nursing his jaw. He looks at me as if he’s prepared to unleash his fury on me, but I only offer him a deathly glare. “I said get up. Now get the fuck up!” I wait for him to stand before I continue. “If you come into any of my clubs again and think you have a right to touch what isn’t yours, then I promise that the resulting punishment will be far worse than being thrown out in front of a crowd.” I sense security heading toward us and I lean in. “Greedy, desperate men like you deserve more than a bit of fucking public humiliation. Now, get him out!”
“On it, boss,” Jonathan mutters, going for our unwanted guest.
He and his co-worker, Sam, make quick work to get him out of my sight, which is good because I’m more interested in the brunette who still hasn’t moved an inch.
“You sure you’re good?” I ask, tickled by her still silent behavior.
I watch her struggle to take a steady breath. As if she’s utterly confused by my bastard move to stop some man from putting his hands all over her like he fucking owned her. I know she’s noticed me before, but I’ve done well to evade ever meeting her personally. However, all it took was a cunt manhandling her and I was raining down on him like hell on earth.
She might be one of the girls who work here, but I’ve watched her around here, ethereal and beautiful. She captivated me a long time ago, but only because of the strength she exudes. She has scars that mar her otherwise perfect skin, but she isn’t afraid to allow them to be on show. She makes pain into beauty and displays it without fear.
I’ve wanted to know this type of woman my entire life – a breath of fresh air in my catastrophic life.
And while I crave her, I know I can never have her.
I have often sat and wondered if she would be able to endure what it is I do besides running bars. My grandfather has said on multiple occasions that I need a woman to make my wife, someone who will keep my bed warm while I’m out on jobs at all hours. A strong, Italian woman who will rival me. However, all the Italian women I have met have either annoyed me or lacked a sense of bravery that makes me hard. I don’t want a mouse; I want a survivor, a soldier, someone capable of handling a life with me. I want a woman who will shout when I bellow, one who will challenge my every move, and one who, unwittingly, will know my move before I do. I won’t settle for anything less.
Apparently, the brunette before me might not be Italian, but she’s surely able to captivate me and make me ask silent questions that beg for a multitude of answers. I want to know more. I want to know what forced her here, what made her hold such a strong will in her piercingly brown eyes. I want to know everything about her and find myself lost in her.
I chuckle but know I can’t keep the silence. It’s time to quit abandoning my want to meet her and finally meet her.
“Dante,” I introduce myself, putting my hand out.
She doesn’t take it. As a matter of fact, she point blank ignores it and just gawps at me. My first impression makes her uncomfortable, but I know, from past introductions, that I can be intense at times. I guess suddenly stepping out of the darkness has taken her by surprise. To the gentleman who just got dragged from my club, she was fierce, ready to argue, but I seem to have rendered her a weak morsel of herself.
That just adds to the wonder.
“Why haven’t I seen you before?” she asks suddenly. Her brow tightens with confusion as she questions me.
“You’ve never been looking. Well, not really,” I counter, offering her a small, ineffective shrug. “But I’ve seen you many times before.” I lean in, placing a firm hand on her jaw, forcing her to look at up me. I lean in, preparing to whisper to her. “What you do with your body up there, cara, is something I’d like to explore. Preferably, of course, while you’re on top of me.”
I watch a gracious blush creep upon her che
eks and I smirk. She’s fucking adorable.
“You don’t know me,” she utters. Suddenly, she’s become uncomfortable around me as she covers herself with her arms.
I shrug my jacket off and put it around her shoulders. Immediately, I watch her grab onto it to pull it closer to her bare figure. This woman, one who dances and struts around in nothing but her lingerie, suddenly becomes somewhat bashful discussing matters of sex with me.
“I know a damsel in distress when I see one,” I admit, knowing she’s anything but a damsel.
“I’m not a damsel in distress,” she’s quick to defend. “What the hell made you think that?”
“He had his hands all over you,” I state, merely pointing out the obvious to her.
“He’d have his hands over any one of the girls in this club if he had the chance!” she defends, shrugging my jacket off. There’s the girl I watched fight that pig. “You can stuff your damn jacket where the sun doesn’t shine. I don’t need charity from the likes of you!”
“Who said it was charity?” I ask, calmly folding my jacket together to drape over my arm. I raise my gaze, meeting hers. “I’m your boss. It’s not classed as charity if I help pay your wage.”
“You’re not my boss,” she admonishes, ripping me of my status. “You’re an egotistical, lonely bastard who gets his kicks from watching girls dance half-naked. You sit and ogle me every chance you get, and then swoop in like I need some sort of hero. Which I don’t, by the way!” She takes a moment to breathe, her face reddening from lack of breath. “My boss is Jackson St. Claire, the man who actually gives a damn. Not the one who charges in all guns blazing deciding to give a fucking damn!” She looks exasperated when I start to grin at her. “What are you fucking smiling over?!”
“You’re just incredibly cute when you’re angry.”
“I was right. You’re an asshole,” she offends me, adding to the insult by turning to walk away from me.
Ire gets the better of me at her disobedience. Most women want to know me, almost submit at my feet, but this girl is different. The thought forces a mirthless smile onto my face. I just fought for her honor, but apparently, that’s not enough for her. Or was my lack of chivalry after that the turn-off?
Trigger (Pericolo #3) Page 3
