The Hitman's Mark

9. Fury

VALENTINA

The doors clicked shut behind Val, and she took a moment to observe the hallway. Grand mirrors lined the walls and ceiling, keeping with the theme of Lo Specchio. Even the doors lining the long corridor masqueraded as floor-length mirrors, only their crystalline knobs betrayed them.

Although she was alone in the hallway, Val's own reflection brought an unsettling sense that someone watched her. Every time she moved, a dozen mirror-images followed, a stalker that she couldn't escape from. She picked up her pace, heels thudding against the dark red carpet, eager to get the hell out of that corridor.

When she neared the end of the hallway, she distracted herself by glancing at her illuminated phone screen. The time 10:58 PM stared back at her.

Shit, shit, shit.

Val practically ran the rest of the distance to the final door with the glowing orange "EXIT" sign above it. She could only pray that the back exit would lead her to the loading dock, where she assumed that the beverage company would drop off its supply.

When she reached the door, Val pressed her ear close to the mirror, listening for any conversations on the other side. To her relief, only silence greeted her. Either she had the wrong door, or the delivery truck hadn't arrived yet.

With careful, painstakingly precise movements, she turned the knob and nudged the door open an inch. Again, no sounds filtered through the new crack in the door, so she opened it further, inch by inch, until she could poke her head out. Relief swept through her chest when her eyes swept across a vacant warehouse, like a huge garage with boxes and supplies stacked on top of one another. She checked and double checked for any sign of movement within the warehouse before sliding through the door.

Her heels clicked on the concrete step, echoing against the expansive walls. In the quiet, the shoes were deafening. Val cringed and immediately stooped to unbuckle the strappy pumps. She could curse her own stupidity later. For now, she needed to find a hiding spot—quietly.

She wasted valuable seconds in unclasping the heels, but eventually freed herself from the four-inch prisons. Before she could bolt barefooted down the concrete steps to the main floor of the garage, the sound of an engine thrummed nearby. Val's eyes widened to the point of pain as a pair of headlights illuminated the driveway leading to the warehouse.

Now or never. Val's entire body started shaking as she careened down the remaining steps and threw herself behind the nearest stack of boxes. She crouched, just out of view of the incoming truck and the same door that she'd just come through. A glance at her phone revealed the time: 11:00 P.M.

She exhaled a soft, ragged breath and waited for voices.

Not even fifteen seconds later, the door swung open and heavy footsteps thudded against the concrete steps, slow and relaxed. Not Matteo, then. Meanwhile, the delivery truck backed into the garage, emitting a rhythmic beep, beep with every inch it rolled. Finally, the truck stopped and a car door opened and closed.

"Hey Joey," a familiar male voice called out. Mario.

Mario's words were casual enough that Val could guess that he knew the delivery driver well, but that proved nothing. She needed evidence. Irrefutable evidence that someone was stealing from her father's accounts.

With trembling fingers, Val unlocked her phone and clicked on the camera icon. She clumsily swiped until the camera switched to "video" mode, and her thumb landed on the red "record" button. She shifted onto her knees and peeked the phone's camera just around the edge of her box cover, tilting the screen until two figures came into view.