Last Shot

Chapter 1

1

Grey

A woman’s scream filled the hall, and Greyson’s hand shot to his firearm. A movement he quickly disguised as a shoulder stretch when it became clear the only gun threat was the two bulging through Luca Barbarani’s shirt as he rolled up his sleeves. Earthquakes and violent beheadings had received calmer reactions.

The screamer was one in a crowd of too many for Grey’s liking. He could barely see Luca through the stiletto and satin thicket of ravenous ticket holders.

The people of Ancient Rome had a traditional torture method called poena cullei . Normally reserved for murderers who’d knocked off a father or a spouse, the accused was forced into a bag filled with a monkey, a rooster, a snake and a dog, and tossed into a river.

Some might argue hosting the inaugural ‘Battle of the Strippers’ in your father’s winery was not exactly on par with murdering a family member. But unfortunately for Luca, his father – wine mogul Giovanni Barbarani – was not ‘some’. What Giovanni was came down to two things: traditional and Italian.

So, instead of a river, Luca had been tossed into the Bindi Bindi Town Hall, and instead of a mixture of starved, violent animals, he was facing a prison of horny, single women with sharp acrylic nails, all writhing and scratching to place the winning bid at tonight’s bachelor auction. Grey was not allowed to have opinions on matters like this but having served the Barbarani family since he was a child, he had enough insight to know that given the choice, Luca would have gone with the bag.

Luca shot Grey a fleeting look of pain from the centre of the hall as his perfectly straight bowtie was ‘fixed’ yet again by a set of shimmery talons. But whatever Grey’s opinions were about Luca’s expert straddling of the barbed-wire border between empowerment and objectification that had landed him in this position, his job was to make sure those opinions – and any lukewarm sympathy that may be bubbling up – were buried with him. A burial that might be happening sooner rather than later if Grey failed to get Luca to cross the finish line of Giovanni’s auction punishment.

Grey picked a scale of glitter from under his nail. The floor and all other porous surfaces back at the Barbarani Winery would be shimmering for weeks following Luca’s stripper dance-off the previous night. Giovanni had likely already ordered the floors to be lifted and replaced with new ones. The funds would be deducted from Grey’s next pay cheque.

He followed the orbiting women as Luca rotated through the crowd like the sun, Grey taking his natural position as the omniscient non-denominational observer. It did give him some satisfaction to see Luca so clearly uncomfortable. After all, it was Grey’s night off, and here he was, stalking a 24-year-old Italian man with a biological affliction that made every straight woman within a fifty-mile radius ruin their underwear.

The lesson Grey was meant to take from his loss of vacation privileges was that he should have foreseen the desecration of the winery and put a stop to it. After all, as the ‘Fixer’ it was his job to save the Barbaranis from external threats to their reputation and their lives (in that order), but also from themselves.

As he leaned back against the wall, his phone vibrated, likely at his audacity to angle his body in any position that could be considered the beginning stages of relaxation. Incoming call: Tomaso Barbarani.

Ignore. He wasn’t subjecting himself to the aTOMic bomb until he’d done his research. Stories like the one infecting certain corners of the internet right now usually didn’t go much further once the Barbarani Fixer cut them out; it was his job to deal with them before they metastasised into a full-blown PR emergency.

The facts:

a) Poppy Raven, a university student, drank from a bottle of Barbarani Wine at a party.

b) Poppy Raven was now in ICU at Joondalup Hospital.

Leave it to the keyboard warriors and the Barbaranis’ enemies to form a military alliance to fill in the gaps with dangerous false narratives. The headlines sliced through Grey’s head as he watched Luca pose for a selfie, looking like a kidnap victim staged for a proof of life photo.

Kiss of Death: Barbarani Wine Puts Victim in ICU.

Fined Wine: Giovanni Barbarani Could be Forced to Pay Millions in Compensation Claim to Victim of Poisoned Wine.

Australian Horror Story: Dodgy Wine Could Destroy Barbarani’s Plans for Hotel.

Tom’s expectations would have Grey evaporating these headlines from the public’s consciousness within the hour. But Grey served Giovanni, and Giovanni’s priorities were:

1. Luca’s humiliation

2. Apply first aid to the attempted TikTok assassination of the Barbarani name.

‘I think he drugged me,’ a blonde girl called gleefully from the centre of the room. ‘Luca Barbarani drugged me!’

‘Hey.’ Grey pushed his boot off the wall and strode over to the girl, who was clutching the arm of a tall woman with a pixie cut, swaying like she’d just hopped off the Turbo Spin ride at the Royal Show. ‘No one drugged you. If they had, you’d know because they’d be dead.’ Her eyes lowered to his holster.

‘I was just joking .’ She rolled her eyes. They didn’t quite make it back.

‘I don’t get it,’ Grey deadpanned. ‘Is roofying women funny to you? Because it’s not to me.’

‘She’s drunk,’ Pixie-cut offered helpfully. ‘It’s the sangue talking.’

‘Yelling,’ Grey said. ‘It’s Italian. It’s strong.’

The blonde girl’s face drooped. ‘I didn’t drink that much wine,’ she said, blinking at the two empty bottles on the silver cocktail table next to them.

Grey raised an eyebrow at Pixie-cut, who appeared less affected by the combination of gravity and sangue.

‘About a bottle,’ she said.

‘Jesus.’ Grey held out an arm to help Pixie steady the swaying blonde girl. ‘It’s a wonder you’re still upright.’

‘I want to bet on Luca,’ she slurred, head swivelling to her right, where Luca Barbarani was surrounded by a fortress of high-heeled women, each hungry to make an impression before an hour of his time was sold to one of them like a prized goat at market. Technically the highest bidder should win, but Luca still had discretion – a rule Grey had invented. Otherwise he’d never have been able to rip Luca off the teat of his whiskey bottle to get him here.

A woman with long dark hair and tattoos defacing toned arms stood on her tiptoes to whisper into Luca’s ear. The expression on the youngest Barbarani’s face sent an alert through Grey’s bloodstream. But – one potential threat at a time.

‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ Grey said to the blonde. ‘No intoxicated persons on the premises.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, taking a step towards the Luca-herd and crumpling into Grey’s chest when her tiny Bambi-legs gave way. Between her newborn unsteadiness, the patchy fake tan and her uneven eyeliner, he surmised she couldn’t be much older than twenty.

‘Let’s get you home,’ Grey said, eyes on Pixie-cut. ‘Can you take her?’

The woman frowned, looking over at the crowd. ‘I ... well ... The tickets were really expensive ...’

‘She can’t stay,’ Grey said more forcefully. Keeping his voice politician-neutral in the face of situations that called for more bare-knuckle-boxer remedies was a skill he’d perfected as the Barbarani Fixer over the years. ‘Where does she live?’

‘Over on Manta Ray Rise – her licence is in her phone case.’

‘Thanks for all your help.’ Grey gritted his teeth and steered Bambi through the crowd as the booming voice of the auctioneer announced the first bids were starting in five minutes. Grey tapped two buttons on his phone while attempting to keep Bambi at his side. She was wriggling and twisting, trying to unlock her phone – most likely to take a selfie of her swift exit from the auction in the hope the hashtag #LucaBarbaraniCantHandleMe would go viral.

‘ Hey! ’

Grey looked up from his own device to see the woman with the tattoos who’d been whispering in Luca’s ear a few moments ago glaring up at him, blocking the exit to the car park.

‘What are you doing with her?’

Annoyance at her insinuation flared. ‘I’m obviously taking her to an alleyway to cut out her organs and sell them on the black market.’

‘She’s drunk.’ Tattoos had full lips that might have looked nice if they weren’t curled into an ugly snarl.

‘Yes, I’m familiar with the concept,’ Grey said.

‘Are you familiar with the concept of consent ?’

‘Intimately. Which is how I know you are in my personal bubble and need to respect my request to kindly move out of the way.’ He started forward.

‘I’m not letting you take that woman anywhere.’ She folded her arms, her stance widening like it mattered at all. She was so short he could pick her up with one arm, the other still firmly around Bambi, and lift her out of his way. But the look on her face made him pause. He took her in like a shot of absinthe: quickly, painfully and leaving a scalding tang in the back of his throat. Her dark hair was glossy yet hanging loose, unpinned and unsprayed, and her denim shorts were cut off mid-thigh, exposing strong, shapely legs that looked like they ran triathlons or kicked the shit out of people in a sparring ring.

It was his job to notice details. Which is why his eyes rested perhaps a moment too long on her not-quite opaque white singlet that stretched over a chest far too big for it. Her bra was black. Again, it wasn’t his job to know what details might be important, just his job to catalogue them. Her black, scuffed Doc Martens were at odds with Bambi’s strappy wedge heels and, for some reason, that flicked his internal warning switch to ‘high alert’.

‘Do you suggest I leave her here in a puddle of her own vomit?’ he asked.

‘I’m suggesting you step the fuck away.’

‘Sure.’ Grey had reached his threshold. ‘As you wish.’ He let go of Bambi, who swayed and then plummeted fake nails first into Tattoos. She reached out instinctively to grab her.

‘ Oomph! ’ Instead of crashing towards the window, the woman stepped a boxer leg back, balancing Bambi mid-fall.

Grey checked his phone.

‘Hello?’ Tattoos snarled, slowly folding under Bambi’s weight. The drunk girl was basically comatose, her glittered eyelids fluttering like wounded bugs.

Grey held a finger up as he read Jett’s message.

‘A little help?’

‘Help?’ he repeated, as the sound of Jett’s horn blared through the glass. ‘From an opportunistic rapist?’

‘I didn’t say you were – she’s hurling! ’

Grey shoved Tattoos just in time for her Doc Martens to avoid being splattered by the famous Barbarani Wine mixed with Bambi’s stomach acids.

He expected her to gag or run away with her fingers pinching her nose, but apparently her disgust at the thought of a thirty-something-year-old man being left alone with a drunk girl outweighed the current smell in the air.

The fairness of that assumption irritated him more than it should.

‘Can I get her in a taxi now?’ Grey asked.

The woman glared, her green eyes flashing, but didn’t try to stop him. He hooked his hands under Bambi’s armpits but she was too heavy.

Fuck this. He scooped Bambi up like an 1800s bridegroom carrying his new wife over the threshold.

‘That’s not a taxi.’ The angry voice followed him outside into the car park, where the red Barbarani Porsche – Bessy – waited, rumbling with a mix of irritation and cockiness.

‘Does Mensa know about you?’

Jett got out and came around to help Grey get Bambi into the backseat. Tattoos stepped protectively in front of the passenger door, blocking them from lifting Bambi inside.

‘It’s a Barbarani Taxi,’ Grey explained.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You work for the Barbaranis?’ Something in her voice made his stomach clench. Why?

‘Well, I’m not here to bid for an hour with Luca Barbarani, if that’s what you were thinking.’

He half-expected her to say ‘me neither’, but all he got was stony silence, and his brain began to flare. There was something about this woman – and no, it wasn’t that tiny singlet. It was the glint in her eyes, like a knife sheathed behind a cloak. She wasn’t here for the auction. He was trained to spot these things. And after the last time he’d got it wrong – well , he wasn’t making that same mistake again.

What had she whispered to Luca, back in the hall?

‘She coming too?’ Jett asked as he typed Bambi’s address into the GPS, the blue of the screen illuminating the jagged scar that cut down the middle of his face.

Grey raised an eyebrow, half turning towards her.

‘I’m going back inside,’ the woman said, ‘as long as she’s all right.’

‘She’s more than all right with Jett,’ Grey said. ‘He could handle that car with his eyes closed.’ At the look on her face, he added, ‘He won’t though.’ He had no idea why he felt the need to reassure this woman of the Barbarani driver’s law-abiding nature.

‘I’m cold!’ a voice whined from Bessy’s cream leather seat.

‘Seat warmers are on,’ Jett said. ‘Soon you’ll be complaining your butt’s being eaten by a dragon.’

‘She’s shivering ,’ Tattoos said with the inflection of she’s bleeding out from multiple stab wounds.

‘That’s why shops sell coats,’ Grey said, shrugging out of his own, glaring at the woman’s arms, their layer of ink the only defence against the wind. He opened the passenger door, annoyed to find Bambi actually shivering. The potential hashtag disasters circled his mind like sharks.

Hypothermia Victim Blames Barbarani Bachelor Auction.

Cold-hearted: Luca Barbarani Tosses Dying Woman Out into Streets.

‘Take this.’ He threw the coat at her; it swallowed her whole.

‘Luca can look me up,’ she slurred. ‘My handle’s @freedom_girl. I’m an influencer – I review hotels. I can get him a decent collaboration.’

The last time Luca stayed at a hotel, Grey had to organise the complete refurbishment of the penthouse suite. Alpaca poo, funnily enough, did not come easily out of carpet.

‘I’ll be sure to let him know. Take care.’

Luca would not be looking her up. But Grey would. To ensure she left quietly, that there were no loose ends.

‘ Get my jacket back ,’ Grey mouthed at Jett as Freedom Girl snuggled into his jacket like a baby bird into its mother’s wing. The angry woman’s frown deepened in suspicion, trying to decipher their top-secret morse code.

As they walked back through the car park, the woman adjusted her bra straps in a way that made Grey avert his gaze, her breasts now pushing up and over the tiny singlet as though the world needed more evidence of their existence.

‘Wouldn’t get your hopes up,’ he said as they returned through the glass doors to the hall. ‘Stiff competition tonight.’

‘As far as I’m aware, the only criteria Luca Barbarani has for women is alive , and even that could be narrowing it too far.’

‘You seen the women on his Instagram?’ Grey said. ‘You’re not exactly his type.’

Well, actually, Luca’s type was Northern Italian, curvy and forbidden. So, in his pursuit of antonyms, he had settled on a cliched rotation of supermodel, tall and low risk of exile from his family. But this woman fit none of those criteria. Sure, she was striking, in a terrifying, breath-stealing way, but she’d never be able to compete with the women in the hall tonight. Besides, she wasn’t exactly acting the way Grey would expect of someone with nothing better to do on a Thursday night than bid stupid amounts of money for an hour with Australia’s most coveted bachelor.

‘And what exactly does that mean?’ she asked. ‘What “type” am I?’

Not mine. Something primal inside him growled in resistance to that thought. But he muzzled it quickly, like he’d been practising ever since the last time he’d fucked it up so completely.

He didn’t like tattoos. Nope. He didn’t like bad girls.

And women who could hold their own in an argument and still take your breath away when you looked at them were definitely not his type. Not anymore.

‘Not Luca’s,’ was all he said.

‘I will never understand the male need to categorise women into boxes like we’re brands of cereal.’

‘You are literally participating in an auction of a live human,’ Grey snapped. ‘I don’t think you have the moral high ground here.’

She opened her mouth like she was going to argue – that seemed to be her default setting – but then the auctioneer’s voice called everyone to their seats, seeming to jolt her back to reality. If anyone could call this reality.

‘Who even are you to them?’ she asked, watching as Grey tracked Luca from the crowd of dispersing women to the stairs of the stage.

‘It doesn’t matter who I am to them ,’ Grey said, ‘it’s who I am to everyone who tries to hurt them.’

He hoped she tasted his threat. Hoped it burned all the way down her throat as she watched him walk away – to the shadows by the stage, where he belonged.