The Savage (The Inferno #2)

Chapter 1 Stefan

I STARED AT my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized myself.

The black wig covered my naturally brown hair, making me look severe in a way I'd never managed naturally.

Colored contacts turned my green eyes an unremarkable brown—the kind of eyes that slid past people without leaving impressions.

Makeup contoured my face into sharper angles, hiding the softness my father always said made me look too young, too delicate, too much like my mother.

I looked like someone else entirely.

Which was exactly the point.

My father Giuseppe had sent me on this mission three days ago, calling me into his office with that expression he wore when he was about to test me.

"Infiltrate Inferno nightclub," he'd said, sliding a folder across his desk.

"Gather intelligence on the Vitale operations.

Find evidence we can use to destroy our rivals before the RICO trial destroys us all. "

I'd spent twenty-three years being paraded around like a trophy at family functions. Twenty-three years of "This is my youngest, Stefan" and "Doesn't he clean up well?" and "Such a shame he's not interested in the family business." Twenty-three years of being decorative. Ornamental. Useless.

Tonight I finally got to prove I was more than just a pretty face.

The silk shirt I'd borrowed from my cousin Dante clung to my body in ways that made me self-conscious.

It was tighter than what I'd normally wear, cut low enough to show collarbones, designed to help me blend in with Inferno's crowd of beautiful people who wore their sexuality like armor.

I'd paired it with dark jeans that Dante swore made my ass look "fucking criminal" and boots that added two inches to my height.

I looked like I belonged in a club where sins cost extra and everyone had something to hide.

I'd memorized Inferno's layout from blueprints my father had acquired—probably illegally, but I'd learned not to ask questions about Giuseppe Romano's intelligence sources.

I knew where the security cameras were positioned.

I knew the blind spots. I knew which employees could be bribed and which ones were loyal to Matteo DeLuca, the enforcer whose reputation preceded him like a storm warning.

Matteo DeLuca.

I'd heard stories about him my whole life.

The man was brutal, efficient, and completely loyal to Sandro Vitale.

He'd grown up on the streets with nothing but his fists to keep him alive, and he'd turned that violence into an art form.

People whispered about him at family gatherings—about the creative ways he extracted information, about the bodies that disappeared when he decided someone had become a problem, about the scars on his knuckles from fights he'd won against impossible odds.

He was also devastatingly attractive in the photos I'd seen, which was inconvenient and irrelevant.

I wasn't here to admire the enemy. I was here for information.

I took one last look at my disguised reflection. The stranger looking back at me had hard eyes and a set jaw. Someone capable. Someone dangerous. Someone my father might actually be proud of for once.

I grabbed my keys and left my apartment.

***

The drive to Inferno took twenty minutes in my cousin's car—a BMW that was flashy enough to fit in at the club but not so expensive it would draw unwanted attention.

My hands were steady on the wheel. My breathing was calm.

I'd practiced this in my head a hundred times: walk in confident, blend with the crowd, gather intelligence, get out clean.

Simple.

The club was packed when I arrived, the line stretching around the block.

Beautiful people in expensive clothes waited behind velvet ropes, hoping the bouncer would deem them worthy of entry.

I bypassed the line entirely and walked straight to the VIP entrance where my cousin's name was on the list—one of the perks of having family connections even Giuseppe's rivals couldn't completely ignore.

The bouncer barely glanced at my fake ID before waving me through.

Music hit me like a physical force the moment I stepped inside. It pounded through speakers, the bass thrumming in my chest like a second heartbeat. The club was all shadows and velvet and strategic lighting that made everyone look like they were starring in their own private fantasy.

Beautiful people danced and drank and conducted business in shadowed corners. This was where real power lived in our world—not in boardrooms or family estates, but in places like this where deals happened under cover of music and darkness and plausible deniability.

I moved through the crowd carefully, letting my body sway slightly to the music so I'd blend in. The watch on my wrist had a hidden camera. The pen in my pocket was actually a voice recorder. Both were expensive toys my father had acquired from someone who specialized in corporate espionage.

I positioned myself near the bar where I had a clear view of the VIP section.

Sandro Vitale's usual table was occupied tonight—I recognized Elio Marino from surveillance photos, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with the focused intensity of someone who saw threats everywhere.

Luca Romano was there too, charming a group of well-dressed businessmen who looked like they were trying very hard to pretend they weren't negotiating something illegal.

But no Matteo DeLuca.

I ordered a drink I had no intention of finishing and used the opportunity to photograph documents someone had carelessly left on a nearby table.

Shipping manifests, from the look of them.

I angled my watch to capture the pages, hoping the camera's resolution was good enough to make them readable later.

A couple stumbled past me, drunk and handsy. I shifted away from them and moved deeper into the club, toward the hallway that led to the private offices. According to my intel, that's where the real business happened. That's where I'd find something useful.

The hallway was dimmer, quieter. Two security guards stood outside a door marked "Private." I walked past them like I belonged there, like I was just looking for the bathroom, and they didn't give me a second glance.

Too easy.

I found a door slightly ajar—an office someone had left in a hurry, judging by the scattered papers on the desk.

I slipped inside and activated the voice recorder, photographing everything I could find.

Financial statements. Names I didn't recognize.

References to shipments coming through the port next week.

My father would be pleased. This was exactly the kind of intelligence he needed.

I was so focused on documenting everything that I didn't hear the footsteps behind me until it was too late.

"Looking for something?"

The voice was low gravel, rough like smoke and whiskey. It sent ice down my spine.

I spun around.

Matteo DeLuca stood in the doorway, blocking my only exit.

He was compact and coiled, muscle packed onto a frame that radiated barely controlled violence.

Dark eyes that saw too much. Scarred knuckles that told stories I didn't want to hear.

He wore all black—jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—like he was dressed for a funeral or a fight.

He looked exactly like his photographs.

Except the photographs hadn't captured the intensity of his presence. The way he filled the doorway like a promise of violence. The intelligence in those dark eyes that said he knew exactly what I was doing and found it almost amusing.

"I—" My voice came out wrong. Too high. Too nervous. "I was looking for the bathroom."

His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "With a camera in your watch and a recorder in your pocket?"

Fuck.

He moved toward me with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent his whole life learning how to hurt people efficiently. I backed up until I hit the desk, nowhere left to go.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I tried.

"Don't." He was close enough now that I could smell him—smoke and gun oil and something darker underneath. "I've been watching you since you walked in. You're good. Better than most of the idiots who try to spy on us. But you made three mistakes."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What mistakes?"

"First, you kept looking at the cameras. People who belong here don't pay attention to security." He reached out and plucked the pen from my pocket, examining it with professional interest. "Second, you photographed documents at the bar. Amateurs think they're being subtle. They're not."

He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. Could see the scar that cut through his left eyebrow. Could count the silver chain around his neck—the one the rumors said came from the first man he'd killed.

"And third?" I managed.

His smile widened, showing teeth. "You walked into my club wearing a disguise, and you thought I wouldn't notice."

Before I could react, his hand shot out and yanked the wig off my head. My brown hair tumbled free, and I felt naked suddenly. Exposed.

"There you are," he said softly, dangerously. "Stefan Romano. Giuseppe's pretty youngest son."

He knew who I was.

Of course he knew who I was.

I'd walked into a trap thinking I was the hunter, and all along I'd been prey.

"Matteo—" I started.

"Don't." His hand wrapped around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a warning. Like a promise. "You've got about ten seconds to convince me why I shouldn't break every bone in your hand and send you back to your father as a message about what happens to spies."

His thumb pressed against my pulse point. He could feel how fast my heart was racing. Could feel my fear.

But underneath the fear was something else. Something I didn't want to examine. Something that had sparked to life the moment he'd walked into the room and looked at me like I was the most interesting thing he'd seen all night.