Chapter 2 #2
His mouth twitches, like he’s about to smile and decides against it. “Come tomorrow. You’ll see.”
Fuck. I don’t play games I don’t understand, and nothing about Enzo Valerio is simple. But refusing would raise more questions than I want to answer now.
I hold his gaze, weighing my options. But the more I consider it, the more I think this works in my favor.
Dinner parties mean mingling. People moving between rooms, stepping out for phone calls, wandering down quiet corridors. Valerio playing the gracious host, distracted by guests and obligations.
All I need is one moment. Catch him alone in an empty hallway, silencer muffling the shot, and I’m out before anyone realizes their boss is bleeding out on imported marble.
Hell, this may be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
“What time?” I ask.
“Eight. I’ll send a car.” He straightens, and I catch another wave of his scent—more potent this time, or maybe my suppressants are failing faster than I thought. “Dress well. My mother will be there, and she has opinions about appropriate attire.”
His mother.
Jesus Christ. I’m going to murder this man in front of his mother.
My stomach churns violently. What kind of person am I becoming?
The thought must’ve shown on my face because Enzo’s eyes narrow. “Problem? Need me to send something to wear too?”
I snort under my breath. Is this fucker serious?
“I don’t need you sending a car, and fortunately I own clothes,” I say, letting my irritation bleed into my voice. “I can get to your place myself.”
“How so?”
“I’ll take a cab.”
His brow lifts. “To my private estate? Where the address isn't exactly public information?” He shakes his head. “Not happening.”
“I’m perfectly capable of following directions to an address.”
“I’m sure you are. But my security doesn’t take kindly to unannounced vehicles on the property. The car ensures you actually make it through the gate.”
“You could just—”
“Mr. DaCosta.” He cuts me off smoothly with a raised hand, the maddeningly calm tone in his voice from earlier, gone. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
Right. There’s no point arguing when he’s already decided. “Fine. Send the car.” I meet his eyes. “But this doesn't mean—”
“It means you’ll arrive safely. Nothing more.” A beat passes between us, heavy with something I can’t name. His gaze travels down my body before returning to my eyes. “Unless you want it to mean something else?”
My insides do an uncomfortable flip.
Is he... is he flirting with me?
No. That can’t be right. My failing suppressants are making me see things that aren’t there. Or maybe I’m losing my fucking mind.
Either way, I need to get the fuck out of this office before I do something stupid.
“No.” I rise to my feet, better than sitting while he looms. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” He extends his hand.
I stare at it for a half-second too long.
Shaking hands means touching him. Skin to skin.
My suppressants are already struggling, and physical contact with an alpha is the last thing I need right now.
But refusing would be suspicious as hell.
They all think I’m a beta. A beta wouldn’t hesitate at something as simple as a handshake with an alpha.
I take his hand.
The contact shoots a thousand volts through my arm and pools all that shock below my belt. It takes everything in me not to yank my hand back, and even greater effort to keep my body from reacting. His grip is firm without being crushing, his palm warm and callused in unexpected places.
I pull away first, probably too quickly.
Valerio notices. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and I can practically see him filing the information away for later analysis. Adding it to whatever profile he’s building of me in his head.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. DaCosta.”
I walk out of that conference room with my composure barely intact and my heart trying to crack through my ribs. Esperanza is waiting in the hallway. I follow her in silence, mind racing so fast I can barely feel my feet moving.
Tomorrow night. His home.
It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I needed.
So why does my stomach feel like I’ve swallowed broken glass?
I make it back to my apartment right before another headache hits. I stumble to the bathroom, strip off my work clothes and stand under a scalding shower until my skin turns red.
It doesn’t help. I can still smell him. Still feel the ghost of his hand wrapped around mine.
I turn the water to cold and stand there until I’m shaking with my teeth chattering. The heat flaming under my skin finally, mercifully recedes.
When I get out, I check my suppressant schedule. I’ve been taking double doses for almost two weeks now. The recommended maximum is ten days. After that, the side effects start compounding—feverish headaches, nausea, hormonal instability. Push it too far, and the rebound heat can be catastrophic.
I’m already past the safe window. Have been for days. But stopping now isn’t an option. If my heat hits while I’m anywhere near Valerio, I’m dead.
I just need to make it through tomorrow, then everything else can go to hell.
I shake out two more pills from the bottle and swallow them dry, then lean against the sink, waiting for them to kick in. My reflection in the mirror looks rough—shadows under my eyes, skin blotchy from the heat spike.
Marco used to joke that I was the pretty one.
Said I took after mom’s light brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and hazel eyes, while he got Dad’s build and permanent five-o’clock shadow.
I was pretty enough that alphas looked twice.
Marco hated that. He’d been so paranoid when I presented as omega, worried I’d get claimed by some asshole who’d treat me like property.
“You’re too smart for that,” he’d said once, after he scared off an alpha who’d been sniffing around me at a bar. “Too good. Promise me you won’t let some knot-head ruin your life.”
I’d promised.
Our parents died when I was fifteen. Food poisoning, of all things.
One bad meal and suddenly Marco, who was barely twenty himself, was all I had.
He could’ve resented it, could’ve dumped me with relatives and lived his own life.
Instead, he worked odd jobs, and did anything that would bring in money, even getting entangled with people like Valerio, so long as that paid well enough to put me through school.
He’d sacrificed his own future to provide me with a better one.
And now he’s dead, and here I am standing in a shitty bathroom in a shithole apartment I rented for this mission, fighting off heat symptoms because I’m about to walk into a mafia boss’s home tomorrow night with murder on my mind.
Pretty sure this counts as letting my life get ruined.
The pills finally kick in, dulling the headache to a manageable throb. I splash cold water on my face and head to my laptop.
I grab the encrypted drive from my jacket pocket and plug it in. The surveillance footage I copied today loads, and I start scrubbing through, frame by frame, looking for anything that proves what I already know.
Three hours later, I find it. The loading dock. On the day Marco did the pickup.
A truck pulls in. Unmarked. Three men get out, and even through the grainy footage, I recognize one of them: Viktor Sokolov. He’s talking to someone off-camera, gesturing toward the truck.
The cargo doors open, and I see boxes. Lots of them.
I lean closer, trying to make out details, squinting at the timestamp, the angles, looking for anything that might help.
Another figure enters the frame, and my heart stops.
Marco.
My brother. Alive and whole, wearing the jacket I’d bought him for his birthday, the dark green one he’d joked made him look like he was trying too hard to be cool.
He’s talking to one of Sokolov’s men, and he looks so fucking young.
Too young to be dead. He was only thirty-three but could have passed for twenty-five.
I watch him help unload boxes, completely unaware that he’s signing his own death warrant. He’s smiling at something one of the other guys says, shaking his head. That was Marco. Always trying to lighten the mood and make friends even in shit situations.
Sokolov appears again, this time looking directly at Marco. He says something. Marco’s expression shifts from confusion to worry. He sets down the box he’s holding and follows Sokolov out of frame.
I want to reach through the screen and yell at him to run. Not to trust the bastard.
The footage continues. The truck gets unloaded. The men leave.
Marco never comes back into view.
Three days later, cops kicked in our apartment door at three in the morning. I woke up to guns in my face while they dragged Marco out in cuffs. He didn’t even fight. He kept saying “There’s been a mistake” over and over while they shoved him against the wall.
This footage, this moment right here, was part of the last hours my brother walked free. The last time his smile was bright.
I sit back only to realize my hands are shaking. This is proof that Marco was there, that he saw something. But it’s not proof of what happened after. It doesn’t prove that Sokolov framed him, or whether Enzo knew about the setup.
It’s not enough to justify what I’m about to do.
Except Marco is dead. Still buried in a grave I can’t bring myself to visit because seeing his name carved in stone will make it real in ways I’m not ready to face.
While Enzo Valerio and Viktor Sokolov are still breathing and conducting business, as if my brother’s life meant absolutely nothing.
Like he was just another loose end they tied up and forgot about.
And now Valerio has the fucking audacity to invite me to dinner.
Welcome me to the family, my ass.
Fuck him. Fuck all of them.
I close the laptop and pull out the gun I’ve kept hidden under the mattress.
Check the magazine and the safety. It’s a familiar weight now, fits my grip perfectly.
Six months ago, I would’ve freaked out about owning a gun, but months of practice before sunrise and in abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the city have burned the hesitation out of me.
I’m not a natural, but I’m good enough. At close range, good enough is all I need.
Tomorrow night, I’ll walk into Valerio’s home. I’ll smile at his mother, make small talk with his associates, and when the moment is right, when he’s distracted and vulnerable, I’ll put a bullet in his skull. And if his guards kill me for it, fine. At least Marco won’t be alone anymore.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unknown number.
Car will pick you up at 7:15. Address: 1847 Blackwell Drive. - Enzo
Enzo. Giving me his home address. Trusting me.
Stupid. He should’ve done more research, pushed his team to dig deeper into David DaCosta’s background. If he had, he might’ve found the holes I couldn’t quite patch, the references that would crumble under real scrutiny.
But he didn’t. Because I’m good at this, and he’s too confident in his ability to read people.
Tomorrow night, that confidence is going to kill him.
I take another suppressant, dosing schedule be damned, and try to sleep.
I dream of cedar smoke and dark eyes and my brother’s laugh, all tangled together in a nightmare that makes me wake up gasping.