Chapter 4
FOUR
DARIO
The bass rattles the VIP section's crystal glasses, sending ripples through hundred-dollar vodka no one's drinking. College kids pack the dance floor below, all designer labels and trust fund swagger, but my attention fixes on the entrance. Any minute now, Rafael's study group will drag him through those doors, thinking they've finally convinced their perfect classmate to "relax" for once.
They have no idea I've spent two weeks laying this trap.
A whisper in the right ear about the constitutional law study group planning to celebrate here. A few subtle threats to ensure the bouncers won't give him trouble about his name. Even the DJ's playlist is calculated: nothing too obvious, just enough old-school Italian songs mixed in to keep him on edge.
"Mr. Greco." The waitress appears with another bottle of sparkling water. Smart girl. She noticed I haven't touched the alcohol. "Will anyone be joining you?"
I smile, enjoying how she flinches. "Soon."
The VIP section offers a perfect view of the entire club. Mirror-backed bar along the west wall, emergency exits on either end, private rooms in back for more…discrete entertainment. But the real value is in the sight lines. Rafael won't be able to move without my eyes on him.
My phone lights up with a text from Marco, stationed outside: "Target approaching with group of 5. ETA 2 min."
I dismiss him with a quick reply. My own security detail blends with the crowd below, watching without being obvious about it. Unlike Rafael's cousins, my people know how to disappear in plain sight.
The door swings open, and there he is. Beautiful in his discomfort, shoulders rigid as his study group pulls him inside. Even from here, I see him cataloging exits and scanning faces, his shoulders tensing at the Italian lyrics floating through the speakers. He's wearing dark jeans and a blue button-down, trying so hard to look casual while every movement screams training and control.
"Your entrance fee's been covered," the bouncer tells him, just like I arranged. Rafael stiffens, that perfect jaw clenching as understanding hits. He looks up, straight at the VIP section, but the strobing lights mask me in shadows. Still, he knows. I made sure he would.
His study group clusters around him: three guys, two girls, all children playing at adulthood. They're celebrating something. Midterms, maybe, or a mock trial victory. It doesn't matter. What matters is how Rafael stands slightly apart from them, maintaining that careful distance he always keeps between himself and anything that might taint his precious legitimate life.
One of the girls touches his arm, leaning close to be heard over the music. He smiles politely, but I catch the way he shifts his weight, refusing to be boxed in. Always aware. Always ready. It would be impressive if it wasn't so goddamn entertaining to dismantle.
The bartender has their orders ready before they reach the bar—another piece in my choreography. Rafael's coffee order duplicated in an espresso martini, a detail that makes his shoulders tighten further. The group claims a high-top table with a clear vantage point to see all exits. His choice, though his friends probably think it's random.
I take a slow sip of water, savoring the anticipation. The night stretches ahead like a chess board, every piece positioned exactly where I want it. The private room in the back is ready. The regular college security guards have been replaced with my people. Even the temperature in here is perfect, just warm enough to make that buttoned-up shirt uncomfortable.
Time to see what it takes to make Rafael Valenti lose control in public.
One text sends the DJ transitioning into a Sicilian folk song, something old enough to hit bone-deep memory. Rafael's hand tightens around his glass, and I lean forward, hungry for every micro-expression that crosses his face .
Let the game begin.
The music shifts again, something modern but with an underlying Italian melody. Rafael might not consciously recognize it, but his body does. I watch his fingers tap against his glass, matching a rhythm bred into both our bones. His study group chatters around him, oblivious to the tension coiling through his frame.
The club itself is mine tonight, though none of these trust fund kids realize it. The owner—officially a respected Valmont alumnus, unofficially neck-deep in Greco family debt—was eager to accommodate my requests. Extra security, specific staff, particular bottles behind the bar. Every detail designed to dig under Rafael's skin.
A freshman stumbles near their table, splashing her drink. Not one of mine—just drunk college luck—but Rafael's reaction is perfect. He shifts his stance subtly, positioning himself between the potential threat and his group. Still playing protector even while pretending he's not what we both know he is.
The girl from his study group—Laura, according to my research, daughter of a state judge—keeps finding excuses to touch him. Her hand on his arm, her body angling toward him as she laughs at something. She has no idea she's flirting with a weapon, a killer wrapped in expensive cotton and careful manners. The thought makes me bare my teeth in something like a smile.
My phone vibrates: another update from my people watching the perimeter. No sign of Valenti surveillance, which means Rafael hasn't called for backup. His pride won't let him admit he needs help, not even after our rooftop encounter. That same pride keeps him here now, refusing to show weakness by leaving early.
I signal the waitress. She appears instantly, fear and attraction warring in her expression. "Send a round of shots to that table," I tell her, nodding toward Rafael's group. "Sambuca. The bottle from behind the office bar." The one I had imported specifically for tonight, from the same region as Rafael's mother's family.
The song changes again. The DJ's good, weaving Italian undertones through modern beats, building a web of cultural triggers Rafael can't quite ignore. I see tension climbing his spine, the perfect lines of his posture going rigid as bone-deep memory fights with practiced control.
One of his study group—a wannabe prosecutor with more ambition than sense—raises the first shot in a toast. Rafael lifts his glass automatically, but I catch his nostrils flaring as the scent hits him. That specific anise sweetness that probably fills his earliest memories of family gatherings. Of power wrapped in tradition.
He doesn't drink, but his grip on the glass is white-knuckled now. Every element of this trap is closing in: the music, the liquor, the heat, the press of bodies. Chaos engineered to crack that perfect control.
Below, the dance floor writhes like a living thing, all grinding bodies and flashing lights. The bass vibrates through the leather of my booth, a heartbeat in sync with the pulse I can almost see hammering in Rafael's throat. He's a statue of tension in the midst of it, trying so hard to maintain his calculated distance while everything I've orchestrated pulls him back toward his true nature.
Time to start the next phase.
One text will set it in motion, unleashing another carefully planned series of events designed to strip away more of his defenses. My thumb hovers over the phone as I watch him take another measured sip of his drink, his eyes still scanning the crowd like the soldier he pretends he isn't.
Beautiful prey, thinking he can escape what's in his blood. What's in both our blood.
I press send. Let's see how long that control lasts when the real game begins.
The crowd parts as I descend from the VIP section, their animal instinct warning them away. Even drunk college kids can sense a predator in their midst. My security detail maintains their distance, watching without watching as I stalk my prey through the press of bodies.
Rafael tenses the moment I hit the main floor; he doesn't need to see me to know I'm coming. His study group has migrated closer to the dance floor, their legal discussions dissolving into drunken debate about some professor's grading curve. He stands slightly apart, that perfect posture screaming awareness of every movement around him.
A sports scholarship kid—linebacker, judging by the build—stumbles into my path. One look sends him scrambling back, useless apologies dying on his lips. Word spreads fast in places like this. Everyone suddenly has business elsewhere, leaving a clear channel between me and my target.
Rafael's shoulders tighten further as the distance between us closes. He keeps his back to me, a deliberate show of disinterest that only highlights how attuned he is to my approach. His fingers tap against his glass in that telltale rhythm, not in time with the pulsing bass, but an older beat. The same Sicilian folk song I had the DJ play when he walked in.
"Your friend doesn't party much, does he?" I ask one of his study partners. Thomas, trust fund, cocaine habit he thinks daddy doesn't know about.
The boy startles, recognition and fear flooding his face. Everyone in Valmont's criminal justice program knows the Greco name.
"I... uh..." Thomas swallows hard, looking between me and Rafael. "He's just focused. You know, with the Anderson case analysis due."
I smile, sharp and hungry, and he trails off. "Must be hard," I say, pitching my voice to carry over the music, "being friends with someone who's always holding back. Always hiding what he really is."
Rafael's spine goes rigid. The rest of his study group shifts uncomfortably, sensing the undercurrent but not understanding it. Laura’s hand slips from his arm as she edges away, her social instincts finally kicking in.
"Maybe we should get another round," one of the other guys suggests, already retreating toward the bar. The group follows like silent sheep, leaving Rafael alone in their wake. Smart kids, finally reading the room.
He still hasn't turned to face me, but his reflection in the mirrored wall shows the muscle jumping in his jaw. The strobing lights paint his face in alternating shadows and harsh colors, highlighting the warrior bones beneath his civilized veneer.
"Subtle," he says, voice carrying that slight accent he can never quite hide when he's angry. "Threatening my classmates now?"
I step closer, enjoying how the movement ripples through him. "Just making conversation. Isn't that what normal college kids do?"
His humorless laugh rings hollow. "Is that what this is about? Playing college student?"
"No." I move to his left, knowing he favors that side for defense. "This is about watching you try to play normal while everything in you screams for something else."
The dance floor churns around us, but a bubble of space has formed. Even drunk young adults can sense the violence building between us. The DJ transitions into something with a harder beat, bass thumping like artillery fire.
"I told you to stay away from me." He finally turns, and fuck, the raw fury in his eyes is beautiful.
"You did." I let my smile sharpen. "But we both know that's not what you really want."
His fingers tighten on his glass, tendons standing out like wire under skin. One wrong move and that crystal becomes a weapon. We both know exactly how many ways he could use it.
"What I want," he says, each word precise despite the growing Italian lilt, "is to finish my degree without complications."
"Liar," I growl and step fully into his space now, close enough to catch his scent: expensive cologne barely masking the killer underneath. "What you want is to stop pretending. Stop holding back. Stop playing at being something you're not."
The bass drops, and in that momentary silence, I hear his breath catch. Got him.
The music shifts again, something with a Sicilian baseline twisted through modern beats. Around us, the dance floor moves like a tide, but our bubble of space remains untouched. Sweat and perfume hang heavy in the air, mixing with top-shelf liquor and desperation. The kind of place that pretends at elegance while hiding darker purposes. Like Rafael, wearing his expensive clothes over a practiced killer's instincts.
A bottle shatters somewhere behind us. Rafael's shoulders tense, but he doesn't look away from me. Doesn't break eye contact. His training's too good for that, no matter how much he tries to bury it.
The strobing lights catch the gold chain at his throat, a family piece he probably tells himself he wears out of tradition rather than allegiance. Each flash of light reveals another detail I want to destroy: the careful way he holds himself, the precise distance he maintains, the controlled rhythm of his breathing.
College kids crush in around our pocket of space, driven by the pulsing music, but none dare enter the invisible boundary between predator and prey. The heat rises with their movement, and I catch the first bead of sweat tracing Rafael's neck, his perfect composure beginning to crack.
"You're not fooling anyone," I tell him, voice pitched under the bass. "I can feel the violence in you begging to surface. To breathe. To remind you exactly what you are."
His throat works as he swallows, that gold chain shifting against his tanned skin. Above us, my security detail watches from the VIP section, ready to ensure no one interrupts what's coming next. The private room in the back waits, equipped for whatever form this breaking point takes.
Let's see what it takes to make him break.
The bar's polished mahogany gleams under artfully dim lights as Rafael retreats, maintaining that precise distance between us. His study group has disappeared completely, spooked prey abandoning one of their own to the predator. He orders water, his voice steady despite the palpable tension thrumming through him. The bartender's hands shake slightly as he pours, picking up on the dangerous current in the air.
The crowd around us shifts and flows like a tide, but maintains that instinctive buffer of space. Even these drunk college kids know better than to come too close. A bass line pulses through hidden speakers, heavy enough to rattle the crystal glasses behind the bar.
"You're slipping," I say, claiming the space next to him. "Your little friends noticed. Did you see how quickly they ran when they sensed what you really are?"
His knuckles whiten around his glass. "They left because you're terrorizing them."
"No." I lean closer, dropping my voice. "They left because they finally saw through your act. They sensed the killer wearing student clothes."
The mirror behind the bar reflects his struggle, his perfect mask cracking at the edges, letting the violence bleed through. Under the designer shirt, his muscles tighten with barely suppressed anger. The bartender makes himself scarce, his animal instincts warning him away from what's building between us .
"Tell me," I continue, watching his reflection. "Do they know about your family's business? About what those hands of yours were trained to do?" I reach for his wrist, enjoying how he tenses in response but doesn't pull away. "About the blood in your veins?"
"Back off." The words emerge with that slight Sicilian accent he can never quite hide when he's angry.
Beautiful.
I trace my fingers along his pulse point, feeling it race beneath expensive cotton. "Or what? You'll show everyone here exactly what you're capable of? Break my jaw, maybe? Slam my head into this lovely bar?" My smile sharpens. "Go ahead. Show them the real Rafael Valenti."
The music shifts, the bass dropping low enough to vibrate through the floor. His breath catches as I step closer, eliminating the careful distance he maintains. Heat radiates off him—fury and something darker, something he's trying so desperately to deny.
"This isn't the place," he grits out, but his eyes betray him. They’re dark with violence and desire.
"Then let's find somewhere more private," I suggest as I gesture toward the back hallway, where the regular security cameras have been conveniently disabled. "Somewhere you can stop pretending to be something you're not."
Students press around us at the bar, ordering overpriced drinks with daddy's money, but none dare enter the charged space between us. Even the most drunk of the college kids can sense when they're too close to something dangerous. The bartender stays at the far end, pretending not to watch.
Rafael's control visibly frays as I lean in, my lips nearly brushing his ear. "Come on, killer. Show me what's under all that polish."
A muscle twitches rhythmically in his jaw as the light catches his face, highlighting the ruthless warrior beneath his carefully curated mask. He's never looked more like what he is: a Valenti trying to cage the violence bred into his bones.
"Fuck you," he breathes, the curse slipping out in Italian.
"There he is." I grab his wrist again, feeling the tension thrumming through him. "There's the real you. Don’t hide it."
The crowd around us thins further, sensing the building storm. A girl in a red dress stumbles nearby, catching herself on the bar before she falls on her face. Rafael's hand twitches toward her—always the protector—but he stops himself before he can blunt her contact with the solid wood bar. Can't risk showing those instincts here, not in his carefully constructed normal world. The girl's friend quickly pulls her away, both of them sensing something dangerous in our shared space.
"Private room's this way," I murmur, tugging gently at his wrist. "Unless you're scared of what might happen when you stop pretending."
The lights catch the gold of his family ring, the one he tries to pass off as simple jewelry to his classmates. We both know better. Both know the weight of legacy it represents. His eyes meet mine in the bar mirror, dark with promise and threat. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice.
Sweat darkens the collar of his expensive shirt, whether from heat or tension or both. The air between us feels electric, charged with violence and something darker. His pulse races under my fingers, betraying everything his careful composure tries to hide.
Then he moves, following me toward the darkened hallway where no witnesses will see whatever comes next.
Perfect. Let the real game begin.
The private hallway stretches dark and narrow, all sounds dampened to a distant thrum. Each step takes us further from witnesses and from Rafael's carefully constructed world of law books and normalcy. My security detail knows to keep everyone else away; this moment belongs to us alone.
Exposed brick catches the dim light from artfully placed sconces, casting strange shadows as Rafael follows me deeper into the club's restricted area. His footsteps are silent, his old training showing through despite his best efforts. Some habits can't be unlearned, no matter how hard he tries to bury them beneath designer clothes and legal texts. I lead him past locked private rooms with heavy doors until we reach the last one, specially prepared for tonight.
A low vibration pulses through the floorboards, the club's foundation barely containing the bass from above. Down here, the air hangs thick with possibility and old secrets. The corridor narrows gradually, an architectural trap designed to create intimacy—or conflict, depending on the players.
"Having second thoughts?" I pause at the threshold, drinking in the way tension rolls off him in waves. "Your precious classmates can't see you here. No need to maintain the act."
He makes a noise that falls short of laughter. "You think you're the first person to try this? To push me into showing my hand?"
"No." I turn to face him fully. "I'm just the first one who knows exactly what buttons to push."
The hallway narrows here, forcing him closer than his careful boundaries usually allow. Light from the wall fixture catches his eyes, turning them almost amber. Dangerous. A timer clicks somewhere in the ventilation system, and the temperature notches higher—another detail I arranged, designed to make his expensive shirt cling against his frame just right.
Condensation beads on the exposed pipes overhead, marking time with each drop. The sound echoes in our private space, a countdown to something inevitable. His breath comes faster now, though he tries to hide it.
"You've done your research." His voice stays steady, but his accent bleeds through more with each word. "Studied my routines and habits. Tell me, does your father know you're obsessing over a Valenti?"
The question hits harder than it should. I close the remaining distance between us, backing him against the textured wall. The brick catches at his shirt, pulling the fabric taut across his shoulders. "Does your uncle know you still move like a soldier when you think no one's watching?"
His chest rises and falls with carefully controlled breaths. With us this close, I catch the scent of his cologne mixing with something darker—arousal or anger or both. The gap between us shrinks to nothing as I press one hand firmly against the wall beside his head. Paint flakes beneath my fingers, old red brick showing through like a wound.
"Someone's always watching," he says, but makes no move to push me away. "You should know that better than most."
"Let them watch." My other hand finds his hip, feeling the muscle coiled tight beneath designer denim. "Let them see what happens when you stop pretending to be something you're not. "
The music changes again, bass penetrating even these thick walls. A door slams somewhere above, the sound carrying through rusted ductwork. Rafael's pulse jumps beneath my fingers where they rest against his neck. One wrong move—or one exactly right move—and this explodes into violence.
"What do you want from me?" The question comes out rough, desperate.
I lean closer, letting him feel the gun holstered at my hip. "I want to see what's under all that careful control. The killer you keep caged. The Valenti blood you try so hard to deny."
His hands clench at his sides. Even now, he's fighting it, the urge to strike, to dominate, to show me exactly what he's capable of. The hallway feels smaller and charged with possibility.
"You're playing a dangerous game." His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. "Testing boundaries you don't understand."
"I understand them perfectly." I shift my knee between his thighs, trapping him more fully against the wall. "I understand that every fiber of your being is screaming to put me down. To show me exactly what those hands of yours were trained to do."
His breath catches. The space between us disappears entirely as I press closer, feeling the heat of him through layers of expensive fabric. His resistance wars with desire. The desire to fight, to prove himself, to give in to whatever this is building between us.
"You think you know me." His voice drops lower, dangerous. "You think you can read me like one of your targets."
"I know you better than you know yourself." My lips brush his ear, and I feel the tiny hairs stand to attention. "I know what keeps you up at night. What you dream about when all that perfect control slips away."
The tension peaks, then crystallizes. His hands finally move, coming up to grip my shoulders—to push me away or pull me closer, even he doesn't seem sure. I can feel the strength in his fingers from all the years of training he pretends don't exist. The moment stretches to infinity, live electricity rippling between us. Every point of contact between us burns with possibility or threat.
At this point, they're the same thing.
Steam hisses through an overhead pipe, adding to the suffocating heat. A door opens and closes somewhere in the maze of corridors, footsteps echoing then fading. But we remain frozen in our private war, neither willing to break first.
Then someone laughs further down the hallway, the sound breaking through our private darkness. Rafael's mask slips back into place, but not before I catch the flash of raw hunger in his eyes. His fingers dig into my shoulders once, hard enough to bruise, before he shoves me back.
Game, set, match.
For now.