The Hitman's Dancer: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Snake Eyes Book 2) (6 page)

He lets out a snort and tosses the briefcase back to me. “He’s good.”

I catch it with both hands, casting a harsh glance at the guard to urge him to back off. He does and returns to his spot by the door as I step forward and swing around Marty towards the stairs.

I feel him following me up but he keeps his pace slow. Marty Zappia, my constant shadow. Ever since the day I arrived in Chicago he’s given me shit. It’s easy to understand his hostility, though; he wants my job.

Daddy’s right-hand man? The family assassin? It’d be the perfect way to cement himself in the family business but the problem is his stomach.

He’s not a killer. Marty’s squeamish and his father isn’t patient enough to wait around while he develops one. Honestly, all he needs is one hard shove in the right direction. That’s really all it takes to cross that line and become a killer. Just one bad day and suddenly that spectrum between black and white is a pleasant shade of gray.

I rap my knuckles against Zappia’s office door and wait to enter until I hear his old voice bellowing out. “Yeah!”

The man himself sits at his desk. His shirt is as wrinkled as his aging face and just as blotchy. Must have been a rough night for business or the fresh wave of threats from the Lutrova family has his feathers good and ruffled.

“Close the door,” he barks. I cast a quick wink towards Marty’s perturbed face before kicking it closed behind me. “You’re late.”

I do a quick glance around for anything suspicious. It’s just the same old office with his cluttered desk, a dead plant, and an empty closet in the corner. The only difference is the brand new security monitors over his head; so new there’s not even a fingerprint on them. I lower myself into the chair across from his desk before speaking. That’s unwritten rule number one in the Zappia family: You never talk to Mr. Zappia above his eye line. “I apologize, sir. I was detained.”

“What’s this I overhear about the dearly departed Mr. Vaughn being not-so-departed as I want?”

My eyes bounce to the brand new security monitors behind his desk giving him a clear view of the entrance in splendid high-definition. The sound is low but individual voices stand out against the gentle hum of games. He must have seen everything — my tattoo included.

I keep a weak smile on my lips, making sure not to go too overboard while staring into his cold, dead eyes. “Mr. Vaughn came into some extra cash, sir. More than enough to pay off his debt.”

“So, you let him go?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he pay interest?”

“Yes, he did.”

“How much?”

“Forty-five percent.”

His brow bounces. “That’s
good
interest.”

“That’s what I said. I apologize if I overstepped and accepted his offer, sir. It seemed reasonable.”

Zappia reaches for his face and scratches his white beard. I pretend not to notice as little bits of old food come tumbling out of it. “You could have told me earlier. I have to cancel the flowers I sent to his family.”

“I will do that myself, sir,” I offer.

“Did you…” he pauses to chew on his old, chapped lips. “Did you, at least, cut his face or something?”

“I fucked his daughter. Does that count?”

Zappia pauses, staring back at me for several long moments until his lips curl into what I assume is his version of a smile. He points a finger at me. “I like your style, Hart. That’s good.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He brushes me away. “Get out of here. Leave the money.” I lay the briefcase on his desk and he immediately flicks it open to check inside. “Ahh, I love that smell…”

“Have a nice night, sir.”

“You, too, Hart. Oh, wait— I got a job for you.” I halt my stride and look back at him while he sifts through a stack of papers on his cluttered desk. “Tomorrow night. Enzo’s opening.”

Lorenzo Zappia. The eldest of the three brothers. I’ve never met the middle one, Giovani. He conducts shenanigans overseas with the home branch of the Zappias, possibly the only family I can think of that’s deadlier than my own.

“The restaurant?” I ask, recalling vague details of Enzo’s various business enterprises. All fronts for mob activities, of course.

“Yeah. Here—” Zappia finally finds a square flier and holds it out for me to take.

It’s printed on red card stock with gold lettering.
Enzo’s Fine Italian. Admit one, plus guest.

“I wish him luck, sir.”

He points a finger at me. “You’re going. He needs to fill up some tables and I could use the extra gun nearby, just in case.”

I cringe on the inside. Zappia family gatherings really aren’t part of my job description. “Sir—”

“Kidnapped cousins, dead presidential candidates…” he mutters quietly, ignoring my protest. “Damn Lutrova bastards wandering around my city again is the last thing I fucking need…”

I tap the card against my palm. There’s no getting out of this and it’s pointless to even try. “I’ll be happy to be there, sir. Of course.” I spin around and move to leave.

“And bring a dame!” he adds.

A spark ignites in my head and I flash a quick smile back at him. “I will…”

I smell him already, lingering behind the door before I even open it. Marty lurches out of the frame as I throw the door open and step out. “You know, kid,” I say, closing it quickly, “if you’re so desperate for attention, why don’t you try sucking his dick once in a while, eh? I hear it works for your mother.”

“Fuck off, Hart.”

He spins away, leaving a cloud of his stench behind as he drags his feet towards stairs to hit the casino floor. I know I shouldn’t say anything to make him hate me more but I just can’t stand his pathetic little face.

I glance at the blood-red invitation again.

Bring a dame, eh?

I know just the one.

Chapter 6

Lucy

I sit up and look around, lost and confused for several moments until I remember where I am.

Oh, fuck.

I’m in the bed of the mafia hitman that almost killed my father.

Fuuuuuck.

I fall forward to cradle my throbbing head in my hands. I swear I didn’t even drink that much. Just a few glasses of whatever the hell he kept giving me.

“Dan—
Mr. Hart
?”

Silence.

I look around his room. It looks so different than last night. Last night, everything was mysterious and covered in dark shadows. Now, the morning sun cracks through the blinds, illuminating everything from the books stacked on the windowsill to the small layer of dust coating his shelves.

“Mr. Hart?”

I search for my clothes as my memory comes back. Wherever my shirt is, I don’t think I’ll be wearing it anytime soon. I definitely remember him ripping it open and the buttons snapping off. There’s no way I’ll ever find them all so I can pretty much assume it’s trash.

My eyes fall to the foot of the large bed and I see a silk, blue robe lying near the edge. I reach for it and throw it around my naked shoulders, feeling the gentle ache in my wrists. Fresh, red and purple lines mark my skin where his tie bound me to the headboard. I bite my lip, forcing the memory down to keep it from exciting me too much.

I step off the bed and my feet sink into the thick carpet. As I move across the room, my sore muscles remind me of the night before. Every bend and thrust come back to me, along with every kiss and bite of his teeth.

Where the hell is he?

I move down the stairs with silent feet, inching slowly to keep from making noise, and slink through the main floor. Living room. Dining room. Kitchen. He’s nowhere to be seen or heard.

Dante Hart abandoned me in his house.

What a fucking jerk.

I step down the hall, noticing that my broken glass from last night has been picked up and the mess is gone. Even the kitchen has been abandoned. Not one dirty fork or half-drunken cup of coffee remain as a clue.

I spin around as the front door opens and closes. “Mr. Hart?” Thick steps drift down the hall towards me and I lean against the counter until he comes into view.

My heart lurches. This isn’t Dante. I hold my robe tighter around me as the man steps into the kitchen. He’s old, but not quite elderly, with hard features and sharp, golden eyes. Black hair, matching suit. White gloved hands.

“Good morning, Ms. Vaughn.”

He nods at me with a pleasant face, like a host of a television show for children, and sets a few shopping bags down on the counter beside me.

“Hello…”

“Spencer.”

“Hello,
Spencer
,” I repeat.

He pauses, leaning in closer with a wink in his right eye. “I’m Mr. Hart’s butler.”

“Oh!” I shake my head, feeling more embarrassed than ever.

“Mr. Hart tells me you might be in need of some clothes.”

My face burns some more. “Yeah…”

He maintains his smile and slides the bags closer to me. “Please pick out what you like. I’ll be more than happy to return the rest.”

I peek inside the bags with a furrowed brow, my eyes immediately falling on the triple digit price tags attached to every item. “I
can’t
accept these…” I laugh.

“Mr. Hart insists, madam.” Spencer walks around the counter and pauses next to the refrigerator. “Or would you rather go home in
that
?”

I look down at my robe, still clutched closed with one hand. “No…”

He grins, accentuating the proper wrinkles around his eyes and lips. “Are you hungry, Ms. Vaughn? I’ve been instructed to make you anything you like — but I will warn you, I can’t scramble an egg to save my life.”

Another laugh falls from my lips. “No, thank you.” He lays a coffee mug down in front of me and he reaches for the pot on the counter. “Where
is
Mr. Hart?”

“I’m afraid he had some business to attend to.”

“It’s six in the morning.”

Spencer pours some coffee into the mug and nudges it closer to me with his palm. “It is not unlike him to come and go without notice,” he explains.

“Uh-huh…” I let my fingers warm up against the steaming coffee mug.

“If you’d like to stay and wait for him, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind,” Spencer offers.

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “I have to get back home.”

“I will be more than happy to drive you, Ms. Vaughn.”

“I’m sure I’ve wasted more than enough of your time,” I say quickly. “I can manage.”

“Well, if you insist—” he points at the bags, “please take the jacket with you. It’s quite stylish and very warm, or so the adorable young lady behind the counter told me.”

I give him a polite smile. “Thank you.”

“Oh— and…” He wanders over to the writing desk in the corner and grabs a small, white envelope. “Mr. Hart mentioned that this is for your father.”

I hold out my hand and he slides it between my fingers.
Mr. Terrance Vaughn
is spelled out on the front with a thick, red pen. Daddy’s adjusted debt, no doubt. I guess I played my part well.

“Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to assist you, Ms. Vaughn,” Spencer says, taking his own mug of coffee in hand. “I will be in the back garden enjoying this wonderful weather we’re having this morning.”

I watch him go, still stunned and confused. “Okay.”

Once he’s gone, I reach for the bags again. There must be over a thousand dollars in merchandise here…

I grab the cheapest items to slip into upstairs, along with the stylish jacket, and bolt out the door as fast as I can to catch a cab.

***

“Lucy?!”

Ugh. Crap.

His voice calls to me the second I walk inside the apartment.
My
apartment. I kick the door closed behind me. “You know, Dad, I gave you a key for
emergencies only.
”

My father steps into the living room from the kitchen. There are dark sacks under his eyes like he’s been awake all night. “I’d say this qualifies.” He looks me up and down. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.”
I toss the jacket off my shoulders and let it fall onto the chair by the door.

His mouth fidgets on his contorted face. There must be a million questions on his tongue right now and not a single one of them would be inappropriate for a man to ask his daughter.

I hold out the envelope as I pass by him. “This is for you.” It slips from his hands as I drop it but he quickly snatches it off the floor.

“He didn’t break any toes?”

“Is that all you care about?” I scoff. “God forbid your star dancer takes the season off.”

“That’s not—”

“Look, Dad… I appreciate the concern. It’s sweet, really, but… I kind of just want to be alone right now.”

He stares back at me with a furrowed brow. “What did he do to you?”

I fall onto my sofa and rub the bridge of my nose where a headache is slowly forming. “Do you
really
want me to answer that question?”

“I mean… did he hurt you? Because if he did, so help me—”

“No. He didn’t hurt me. We had a…
decent
time.”