Chapter 3The Don’s Favorite Assassin

Before I left LA, I hacked Tristan’s encrypted accounts.

The oh-so-righteous politician was washing all his campaign money. Through the Irish mob in New York.

Marcello’s mortal enemies.

If I was going to get revenge, I was going to go big.

Three days later. Late night. A penthouse in Manhattan.

I slipped past layers of security and broke into Marcello’s private bathroom.

The shower stopped.

The frosted glass door opened. Steam billowed out.

Marcello stepped out from under the water.

Droplets traced paths down his broad shoulders, his hard chest, and disappeared below his V-cut abs.

I had to admit it. The tailored monster was perfect under his suit.

Soundlessly, I closed the distance and pressed the tip of my dagger against his wet stomach.

“Good evening, Don.” My lips curved into a smile.

Faced with a dangerous woman holding a knife to his gut, Marcello didn’t even flinch.

He didn’t hit the alarm. He didn’t call for Rocco, the guard outside.

He just grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. He looked down at me, his deep gray eyes glittering with predatory amusement.

“A year, and your assassination attempts are getting lazy.” His voice was a low growl in the steamy room.

“This isn’t an assassination. It’s a gift.”

I pressed closer, unashamed, feeling the heat radiate from his body.

I slapped the folder of evidence against his wet chest.

“The complete money laundering records for California’s Governor-to-be, Tristan. Ruin his cash flow, and you cut off the Irish mob’s lifeline.”

I tilted my head up. “Wipe out your rival with the snap of your fingers. It’s a good deal, right?”

My audacity—using his power for free—made him laugh. A dark, rough sound.

He didn’t back away. He stepped forward.

The sharp blade broke his skin. A bead of dark blood welled up. He didn’t care.

He grabbed my tiny waist. He lifted me with terrifying strength. He slammed me down on the cold marble vanity.

The dagger clattered to the floor.

In the steam, our skin was flush against each other.

His aggressive, masculine scent surrounded me. He forced a knee between my legs, trapping me. I had nowhere to run.

“You use me as your personal hitman. And you dare point a knife at me.”

One hand gripped the back of my neck, forcing my head up. His eyes were dark pools of danger. “You’re getting bolder, Scarlett.”

I was crushed by his deadly presence. My heart hammered against my ribs. But I still shot back, “What? The Don of New York can’t do one small favor?”

Marcello stared at my red lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

Instinct won out over reason.

His lips brushed my cheek. Then he caught my earlobe between his teeth. A sharp nip. A punishment.

A shiver shot down my spine.

“Tristan’s hidden vaults will be gone by morning.” His hot breath was a caress in my ear, his voice rough. “But in exchange…”

His thumb pressed hard against my collarbone, sending another dangerous tremor through me.

“But break in here again,” he whispered, his voice a low threat, “and you won’t be leaving this room with your clothes on.”

I fought to control my racing heart. I deliberately pressed a bright red lipstick mark onto his chin.

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

Moving fast, I took advantage of his momentary distraction. I slipped from his arms, snatching the dagger on my way down.

Seconds later, I was gone, disappearing through the bathroom’s ventilation window.

Only the lingering steam and the faint scent of a woman’s perfume remained.

Marcello stood before the empty window.

He raised a hand. His thumb wiped away the defiant red stain I’d left on his jaw.

He picked up the waterproof comms unit by the sink and pressed a button. His voice was low and deadly.

“Take care of that bastard Tristan. And his vaults. Get it done tonight.”