The Hitman's Mark

7. Dangerous Woman

MATTEO

Matteo spent the next five days following Valentina—or Val, as she'd requested—around New York. And it was hell.

God, it was hell.

Perhaps he'd gotten too accustomed to life as Leonardo Romano's notorious hitman, but every second spent trailing after Val felt like an eternity. He felt like a dog—or a cane, as the brat liked to call him—mindlessly following its owner. Completely at the mercy of another's whims. Demoted to the role of a simple bodyguard again, after three years of serving as the Hollowman's enforcer.

And he hated it. He was counting down the days until she'd be married off to Ezra McLeod and he could resume his duties as a hitman.

Unfortunately, Val seemed determined to prevent that from ever happening.

Every morning, she woke before the sun to work, and her obnoxious alarm blared throughout the entirety of her father's five-bedroom apartment in Midtown, preventing Matteo from sleeping past sunrise, too. By the time Matteo padded into the luxurious kitchen, without fail, Val sat curled on a couch, cup of coffee in hand, pouring over one of the business records she'd collected on their first day in the city.

By ten o'clock in the morning, Val consistently announced that she was ready to visit more of her father's business ventures across the city. Like a fucking chauffeur, Matteo drove the principessa wherever her heart desired. Then, when she'd finished sticking her nose in her father's business, he brought her right back to the apartment, where they ate dinner separately and retired to separate wings of the floor. Then, they repeated the whole process again the next day.

It was a monotonous, boring hell. Matteo almost wished that she'd try to sneak out or stir up trouble, if only for a change of pace.

On the fifth evening of their tenuous partnership, Matteo wandered from his side of the apartment to refill his decanter of whiskey in the kitchen. Before he reached the bar, however, his eyes snagged on Val's figure, hunched over her binders and folders at the glass table.

She'd thrown her hair into a careless bun atop her head, chestnut curls spilling out of the scrunchie and curtaining her soft features. In one hand, she held a highlighter. The other massaged her temple, repetitive and contemplative, like she saw the business records as a puzzle she wanted to solve. She didn't look up once as Matteo stepped into the kitchen.

Despite his urge to simply open the refrigerator and refill his glass with a splash of chilled Disaronno Riserva, Matteo leaned his hip against the counter and dared to start a conversation with the principessa. "Found anything interesting yet?"

Val's big, hazel eyes snapped up, as if she hadn't even noticed him enter the room. For the first time, he noticed dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping well.

"No," she admitted with a small laugh, smoothing a tendril of hair behind her ear. "Nothing interesting."

He almost felt bad for her. She'd been working harder than most of the men in the Cosa Nostra, and, as much as Matteo hated to admit it, she seemed to know her way around business. If she had balls and a cock, he guessed Leonardo would've handed over the Romano business years ago.

"But you don't want to give up?" Matteo prompted, casually tilting the ice at the bottom of his empty whiskey glass back and forth.

Val shook her head, setting the highlighter aside and directing her full attention to him. "If I still have found nothing by the end of the month, I'll give up. Until then, I've gotta keep trying."

"That's..." Matteo paused, searching for the right word. Sad as hell? Impressive? A waste of time? Finally, he settled on, "commendable."

She huffed, a small, self-deprecating sound, and leaned back in her chair, stretching. "Thanks. But I don't think my papà gives a shit about hard work."