Duty doesn’t always fit comfortably.
—Shannon Hale
ARIANA DE LUCA
Screw this job.
Screw the FBI.
Screw L’Oscurità.
Screw Bastian.
I paced the length of my apartment, a nice but small flat close to the Wilton University area. The FBI had paid for it in cash for the year. If my legend ran over, I would be taking over the payments with the bartending salary.
It was two in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep. I was wired. The sight of Bastian’s cock was seared into my mind, and I didn’t know what to think about what had happened. I had walked in on him, but he could have at least stopped.
Or you could have walked away.
I stuttered to a stop, hoping the Devil’s advocate in my head wasn’t me, the real me, the one peeping its head out now that I had finally assumed my identity. If you could call it an identity since I’d shoved myself under so many covers for so long, I still didn’t understand who I was or what I wanted.
What if the real me turned out to be a horrible agent, a deviant person, and a sex-crazed woman with no boundaries?
Because I couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way his cock looked, hard and ready for me, pre-cum dripping past his piercing. And my goodness, his piercing. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about walking in on him.
My last legend would have taken advantage of the situation, and the one before that would have been pissed. But as Ariana? I didn’t know what to make of it all. Bastian had humiliated me all day, but I liked the challenge. I liked the thrill that accompanied defying him, and better yet, I liked how he pushed me.
Fire met each opposition. We were an inferno set to combust, and we had convinced ourselves we were fireproof. We were going to burn, but each flame was gilded, each blister worth the agony.
I knew deep down my lack of resolve was shameful. My lust—pathetic. But fighting Bastian felt intense, and no amount of logic could control my feelings. He was a potent high I couldn’t achieve with adrenaline, alcohol, or any other vice I could think of. And I recognized the signs of an impending addiction.
To make matters worse, I still hadn’t received a call or email or anything to tell me that I had gotten the job. Dread settled in my gut as I paced, paced, and paced some more. The phone rang, and I knew instantly who it was.
Who else would call at two in the morning as if I were at his beck and call?
I clutched the phone tightly, my fingers whitening from the pressure. “Hello?” My voice was breathless, but I didn’t have it in me to put on a façade.
Not after what had happened.
“Training begins Monday. Half past noon. Black dress. Sleeveless but not strapless. Cocktail. Mid-thigh. Cleavage light. We don’t want you looking like you frequent street corners at night. No heels. You’ll regret it. Hair pulled back. Make up light. Natural.” His voice dipped lower. “And Ariana?”
The way he said my name, like a horrible, reluctant caress, had me struggling to breathe. I wanted to argue, yell, whatever, but I didn’t have it in me in this moment.
Monday, I would be ready, but right now, all I could manage was a ragged, “Yes?”
“Don’t be late.”
If I knew what was best for me, I wouldn’t show up at all.
I didn’t know why I was surprised by his tardiness. But I knew I was sick of waiting. The doorknob taunted me, demanding I pick it. My hand pressed against the handle, and I swore I wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Like barging into L’Oscurità while it was closed. But I couldn’t resist the temptation. I twisted it slowly, testing the lock, and was startled when the knob turned all the way.
My legs stuttered to a stop at the sight of some of the most influential mafia figures in the country gathered at a table together. Giovanni Romano, Vincent Romano, Bastiano Romano, and Asher Black sat in one of the four-seat booths on the opposite side of the bar.
A young girl, who I recognized from my files as Bastian’s little sister Contessa “Tessie” Romano, ran around the bar, weaving between tables, bumping into chairs and sending them flying different ways. She laughed when one of the chairs she bumped into slid toward Vince, and he made a show of pretending to fall forward into the table’s edge.
I wasn’t surprised when Bastian was the first to notice me, his eyes connecting with mine as soon as I stepped into the bar. His lips curled upward in a sneer, an ugly twist of the mouth that only served to make him more devastatingly handsome.
I steeled myself, forcing my body to hide my apprehension. He wasn’t going to be nice to me today. I had no disillusions, but I needed him to know I wasn’t backing down. We were already at war, and I was prepared to win. No matter the cost. That brief moment of vulnerability I had felt after watching him touch himself was just that—brief.
I took a defiant step forward.
His eyes narrowed, and he stared me down like a race car driver gunning for the finish line. “You’re late.”
Four sets of eyes turned my way, including Tessie’s. She took off in a run toward me, her eager legs pounding on the floor with each step.
My jaw set, and despite the normal volume of my voice, it boomed in the empty bar. “I was outside.”
Waiting.
Always waiting.
His sneer hid thinly-veiled amusement, and I knew he’d had me waiting outside on purpose. “Why?” He drew out the syllable. “The door’s been unlocked the whole time.”
Simple words, but they made me feel foolish, even though I knew why I hadn’t checked the door—I wasn’t supposed to draw unnecessary attention to myself. Like entering without being let in. I’d knocked, no one had answered, and that should have been that.
Still, my neck flushed red, and the unwelcome heat of embarrassment traveled up and down my body. I hated the way he made me feel. The way he could have me loathing him one second and lusting after him the next. Or worse—at the same time.
I ignored his question, praying he’d spare me his onslaught given his present company. “Are we training or not?”
I was dressed like he had demanded me to.
I had arrived when he had ordered me to.
And I had waited when I had wanted nothing more than to leave him hanging, my duty to the FBI and this country be damned.
If he said no, I would march up to Wilks and demand a different assignment for all I cared. This time, I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Bastiano’s eyes had already returned to the stacks of paper on the table he sat at. “Wait at the bar. We’re just finishing up.”
They weren’t just finishing up.
I waited at the bar, on a stool facing away from them, for half an hour. I suspected that was on purpose, too. After all, everything represented a power play with Bastian. I tried and failed to study the men in the reflection of the frosted mirror behind the bar.
Judging by the size and color of the paper I had seen earlier, they were examining several blueprints. Of what, I didn’t know, but I was surprised to see Asher here. Word was, he had gotten out of the mafia a while back, yet here he was, sitting in a closed-door meeting with two iconic mafia figures and two other Romanos.
Granted, one of the two was eight years old.
Speaking of the younger Romano, Tessie perched on the bar stool two seats down from mine, her short legs dangling in the air, while her brother ignored my very existence from afar. Meanwhile, she stared unabashedly at me and had been for the past thirty minutes.
I kept silent, a tad ashamed that an eight-year-old girl could make me feel so uncomfortable. Finally, I turned to her, and from the corner of my eye, I caught Bastian lifting his head to stare at us.
I did what I did best and ignored him.
“Can I help you?” I kept my voice low.
As annoyed as I was with Bastian, I didn’t want to disrupt the meeting in the off chance I’d get any intel. Unlikely, given the distance, but I’d still try.
Gravity lined Tessie’s face, her brows pinched together as she matched my low tone. “Finally.” Her voice dropped even lower. “My brother is going to fire you if he finds out it took you this long to take my order.”
She said it with a nonchalance someone her age had no business possessing, but I wasn’t the least bit surprised. She was a Romano, and if she was anything like her brother, she was well on her way to developing a sharp tongue any politician would be jealous of.
A reluctant smile edged its way onto my face. “What do you want to drink?”
She scrunched up her nose, eyeing the selection of liquor on the top shelf. “Mommy says I can’t drink soda. She says drinking soda is like drinking diabetes.” She turned to me. “And I don’t want diabetes. Uncle Benny has diabetes, and he always has to prick himself with needles. I hate blood. And needles.”
By Uncle Benny, she probably meant Benedetto Rossi, the head of the Rossi crime syndicate. I hadn’t known about his diabetes, and I made a note to pass the info along to the FBI during my next check-in, along with the fact that Asher was here in a meeting with Vince, Bastian, and Gio.
I scanned the selection of drinks. Her non-alcoholic, non-soda choices were limited to water and the sugary juices L’Oscurità used for mixed drinks.
“Water or juice?” I made my way behind the bar, suppressing a shiver as Bastian’s eyes followed me.
I didn’t have to look at him to know he was staring. As much as I hated him, I was aware of his every move, and a part of me thought that sentiment was reciprocated.
“Mommy says I can’t drink the ‘manufactured sugary crap’ here either.” She sighed, dragging the sound out in a way which emphasized her disappointment and tugged at my heartstrings.
I felt for the girl even as I stumbled a little in shock at her use of the word “crap.” She was her brother’s sister, through and through, manipulating my every emotion in her favor. Glancing at her doe eyes, the same mysterious, dusky shade as her brother’s, I couldn’t help but cave.
“I think I see some lemons back here. I can make you some homemade lemonade if you’d like.” I grabbed a few lemons, sliced them in half, and began juicing them.
She furrowed her brows, and her eyes darted from side to side. When she spoke, I could barely hear her despite the silence in the air. “But lemonade has sugar in it.”
I wiggled my brows. A wide grin spread over my face. “So?”
Her responding smile whipped the breath from me, a smile so wide and gorgeous, it was a tragedy she wasn’t gracing the cover of a Gap Kids ad. “Now I know why my brother likes you so much!”
I froze, my hand halting on top of the sugar container. “What did you say?”
“Bastian. He likes you.”
She was wrong.
So wrong.
But I entertained her regardless. “Why would you say that?”
“Duh! He keeps staring at you.” She scrunched her nose up. “It’s weird. And creepy.”
And then she leaned forward, took the spoon from my fingers, added double the sugar I would have, and drank her lemonade like she hadn’t just left me reeling.