Page 9 of One Kill

“Yes?” My one-word answer is clipped and filled with venom. Fuck, I hate being touched.

“Your presence is requested upstairs.” My eyes fall to his hand that’s still on my arm and, without meaning to, I growl. His hand falls away quickly enough that I don’t have to cut it off.

Turning to fully face him, I place my flute on a passing waiter’s tray and stand to my full height, my shoulders back and my thighs pressing together so I can feel the comforting presence of my knife.

“Lead the way.”

Now, this feeling in the middle of my chest making my stomach vibrate, I recognize. Excitement, adrenaline. The smell of a potential kill.

As we near the door from earlier, I look up at the camera and wink. See, motherfucker? I don’t need to sneak in anywhere, I’ve been invited.

Taking my phone out of my clutch as we make our way down too many corridors for my liking, I notice the ten missed calls from Hallie and sigh. Fuck, I’ve been a parent for less than twelve hours and I’m already failing miserably.

Shaking off the defeat, I place a call to Marco, knowing he’ll pick up but won’t say a word, before dropping my hand to my side just as we reach our destination.

Fucking finally.

The door opens and I’m ushered in with a wave of the guy’s arm.

“Miss.” I push down the urge to roll my eyes. So formal.

“J… The Shadow,” a heavily accented voice calls out. My head turns to see who’s summoned me to the boys’ club.

“In the flesh.” My tone is bored; my eyes, however, are hawk-like as I study every man present in this large, rectangular conference room.

There are a dozen men, each looking more regal than the last, but all of them smelling like money and mob hits.

“What brings you to our humble casino? Are you a gambler?” Turning my entire body to face the man speaking, his thick Greek accent telling me everything I need to know, I cock my head to the side and grin like I’d imagine a psychopath doing.

“Zavier Galanos. How… predictable.”

Chapter Five

J

“Youhavemeata disadvantage.” Pushing his chair back, he rises to his full height and I grit my teeth when he uses the three or four inches he has on me as an intimidation tactic. “You know my last name but I do not know yours.”

Is there some kind of testosterone school where all boys go to learn the tricks of silent misogyny? Like, okay, we get it… you’re taller. Doesn’t mean you’re smarter, you fuckhead.

Unfortunately for him, I skipped school on the day they taught girls how to be shy and demure. Instead of stepping back, which is clearly the show he wants to put on in front of his hounds as they all sit with baited breath, I stepintohim. Our chests are nearly pressed together, the plunging neckline giving him a direct view of my cleavage.

Huh… his eyes stay on me, never dropping to my exposed skin. Well, well… this man has self-control, let’s give him a brownie for effort.

Ignoring his question, I cock my head to the side and frown like a teacher chastising an unruly student. “Don Mancini did not authorize this meeting. You…” I straighten to my full height and narrow my eyes, one hand at his neck tie, squeezing. “Are not allowed on his turf without permission.” Galanos doesn’t even try to push me away. In fact, I’m surprised by the sudden appearance of laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and the genuine smile on his lips exposing a row of straight teeth, white like innocence; of which he has none.

“Marco Mancini.” There’s no anger in his voice, only amusement as his eyes drop to my hand holding my phone before he cocks a brow at me in question. “May I?”

I shrug, figuring if Marco wanted to listen in on the conversation then he wouldn’t mind speaking to this cocksure asshole. As I lift the phone to his face, I lower my voice a mere octave, “Disrespect him and I’ll cut off your balls then have them made into a keychain.” His face scrunches up, a normal reaction men have to this mental image, and it gives me a great sense of power. Especially since I’m not bluffing and every fucker in this room should already know it.

There are a variety of responses around the room, ranging from surprise to shitting their pants. I don’t need to see their faces to know, I can hear it in the gasps, breaths, and semi-silent gulps. Galanos, however, morphs his face into a charming smile and scoffs, with a small shake of his head.

“Don Mancini. Let me extend my sincerest apologies, your invite must have been lost in the mail.” His hazel eyes remain glued to mine as he speaks into the phone, like the smug bastard he is.

“Don’t insult me further with lies, Mr. Galanos. Be a man and admit you fucked up. You’ve been caught. If you can admit to that, I’m willing to hear you out.” Marco sounds calm and collected through the speaker, but I know him well enough to guess that he’s pissed.

The problem is, Zavier Galanos has some out-of-state connections that the New York mafia would ideally like to stay on good terms with for business purposes. We’re just not quite sure how deep those connections go right now, which is why he’s still breathing. I called my Reapers tech guy, Glitch, after Marco handed the job over to me, and he’s been trying to dig up what he can on Zavier all day. An unknown player in our territory doesn’t usually receive a warm welcome, especially when they neglect to follow protocol and pay the ruling don a healthy percentage of their casino’s earnings.

“Okay.” Zavier laughs once, but it doesn’t reach the eyes still glued to mine. “We can meet in person tomorrow afternoon. I can schedule you in for two.” He’s trying desperately to control the situation, to gain the power I can see he wants. To everyone else in this room, he might be pulling it off, his domineering alpha attitude is commendable, but that shit doesn’t fly with me. There’s a miniscule twitch to his left eye as Marco’s booming laugh flows through the speaker on the phone.

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