Page 20 of Phantom Mine

“As needed. Our behavior can’t change. My father and brother aren’t entirely stupid. They’ll notice if we’re suddenly seen together after two years of ignoring each other.”

He nods. “Of course.”

Emiliano walks off, his security in tow. His journey back to the door is illuminated by hundreds of hanging twinkle lights, adding a fantasy-like quality to his departure.

He stops halfway to the door and turns back towards me, giving me one last appraising look.

“I haven’t seen this side of you before, Matteo. I may have misjudged you.” He tips his chin at me. “Welcome to the game. It’s about time you joined.”

Unlike my father and brother, I’m not a brutal killer. I don’t relish in wreaking public pain and humiliation. I stay to the side and play up my disarming smiles to look as nonthreatening as possible.

I’m regarded as the second, forgotten son, and am largely overlooked. That’s played in my favor.

But I lived in a home with two sociopaths and I grew up in the middle of a violent, bloody, criminal organization.

The harmless exterior isn’t a reflection of the man on the inside. The ruse is up and they’re all about to see the real me.

Chapter Seven

Valentina

Once Matteo and his grim-faced acolyte leave, the host from earlier appears, announcing that his name is Amadeo and that he’s been tasked with taking me to meet the rest of the dancers.

I follow him quietly, stewing in my head in a mess of my own making. I’ve successfully infiltrated the viper’s nest and it’s suddenly all too real. Until I walk back out the door through which I came, there’s no one I can rely on, no one I can trust except myself. I look into the faces of the staff we pass on our journey to the dancer’s changing room and all I see is their potential guilt. I’m deep in enemy territory; I have to be vigilant and constantly on guard, holding my breath like I’m setting off on a marathon swim.

Being here isn’t easy. There’s been a constant pressure on my chest since I realized who Matteo was. It feels like an elephant is sitting on me; my breaths come in progressively shorter spurts as we near and finally walk through the familiar maindancefloor. Dread slithers through every inch of my body. It takes everything in me not to hyperventilate.

This is the last place I ever saw Adriana alive.

If I think about it, I’ll lose it.

We approach a door marked ‘changing room’ and Amadeo bursts through without knocking. The sound of the door banging against the wall doesn’t startle any of the girls inside, even though most of them are in various states of undress. It tells me that they’re used to men barging in like they own the place with no regard for common decency.

My jaw tightens. I didn’t consider all the ways in which this mission of mine would be difficult.

The changing room is unremarkable in every way, except it appears well lived in. Standalone vanities lined with bright bulbs grace all four walls, each with its own locker next to it. Hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of makeup and brushes cover every available inch of the countertops. Racks of clothes are congregated in the middle of the room. Beneath them are bins of wigs and a selection of the highest stilettos I’ve ever seen. Girls move between the racks and vanities, pointedly ignoring our arrival.

InfiltratingFirenzeas a stripper was a tactical decision. I’d wager there’s no freer exchange of information in this entire place than the women’s changing room.

“Arabella,” Amadeo purrs, his voice taking on a sweetly seductive lilt that he hasn’t used with me, thank god. “Come here.”

A blonde woman sitting at the vanity in the far corner, surrounded by six other girls fawning over her, stands. She walks over to us in a very skimpy blue lingerie set worn underneath a loosely tied Hollywood-style silk bathrobe with long, flowing sleeves, looking more elegant than I ever have.

As beautiful as she is, I see up close that it’s surface level. She comes armed with a sneer, her eyes raking judgmentally down my body, and I instinctively know she’s the kind of queen bee who belittles the hive instead of uplifting it.

Not my kind of girl.

“Yes, darling?” she simpers, batting her lashes at him.

“This is…” He turns to me, seemingly only now remembering that I’m a sentient person. “What’s your name?”

“Melody.”

“This is Melody. She’s new. Set her up with a station and show her the ropes for me, will you? Explain to her what’s on the menu.”

“Melody?” she scrunches her nose in distaste, speaking to him and ignoring me. “She’s not Italian.”

Amadeo squeezes her cheek. I send up a quick thanks to whoever’s watching over me that I’ve been spared that particular attention.

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