One painful duty fulfilled makes the next plainer and easier.
—Helen Keller
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 experience 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.