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Oh fuck. I guess this is the plummeting toward my death part of my roller coaster morning.
“What do you want, Mr. Vitelli?” I cross my arms over my chest, not at all fond of the faint trembling in my hands. I’ve dealt with bullies like him all my life, I tell myself. This isn’t exactly new territory.
Except, it kind of is.
He remains silent, his gaze fixed on me, his eyes revealing nothing. But they don’t have to; I already sense that things are about to get very bad. I decide to provoke him the best way I know how—with words—to see if he will unravel. And maybe, just maybe, I could talk my way out of whatever he’s got in store for me.
“Since you can’t, or won’t, tell me what you want, Mr. Vitelli, I’ll hazard a guess,” I begin, keeping my voice steady. “Your wife—whom you love and cherish deeply, of course—has been here, telling me lies about all the bruises she’s ended up with.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have a wife.”
“Shall I keep guessing, or are you planning to enlighten me anytime this year about what you want from me?”
His eyes flash—a clear blue like the cloudless summer sky, perceptive, missing nothing. After a tense silence, his gaze hardens, and with a deft flick, he opens his suit jacket button.
Suddenly, those incredible eyes seem too close for comfort. As his jacket falls open, revealing the outline of a well-defined torso beneath his tailored shirt, I realize the chilling reason for his action: it’s to ensure easy access to his gun.
Great. The day just keeps getting better. What is it about Monday mornings?
Yet, I stand my ground, refusing to show fear. Bullies thrive on fear, but he’s mistaken if he thinks I’ll give him the satisfaction. He’s chosen the wrong target for his intimidation.
Finally, he speaks. “Maria Ricci is your client.”
It's a statement, not a question. With the mention of Maria’s name, any remaining doubts about who Nico Vitelli could be evaporate. He’s a criminal. A predator. Either involved with whatever Maria’s husband was entangled in or a member of a rival gang.
Nico steps closer, invading my personal space and forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, which only adds to my irritation. He’s too freaking tall. I grit my teeth as his scent—mingled hints of mint and vetiver—envelops me, and I fight the impulse to close my eyes and work out which part of the fragrance is uniquely his.
“Maria Ricci,” he repeats, emphasizing the name.
Maintaining a carefully neutral expression, I can’t help but picture Maria’s face now, her features marked by distress, her tears soaking the hair at her temples. I remember the conflict in her eyes, the blend of fear and hope, as she hesitantly agreed to my plan.
Summoning the most dismissive tone I can manage, I snap, “Who is or isn’t a client of mine is none of your business, Mr. Vitelli.”
Nico’s voice drops an octave and takes on a slight accent. “You are very wrong about that part, signorina.”
I can’t deny the allure of his voice. And that accent? If he meant for his tone to send deadly chills down my spine, it’s missed its mark by a mile. Instead, it feels like I’m being drizzled all over with warm honey.
Get a grip! I give myself a mental shake. “My psychology degree and PhD would argue otherwise. In this office and as it pertains to my clients’ wellbeing Mr Vitelli, I call the shots.”
He takes a few steps back, watching me as if I’m a foreign species. “You’re not afraid of me,” he observes, almost in wonder.
I am. In fact, I can’t recall ever being this terrified. Because I know a killer when I see one.
I chuckle. It sounds forced, but I like to think it serves its purpose. “I grew up with men who would eat you for breakfast, Mr. Vitelli.”
His eyebrows lift, turning his face into a canvas of surprise and intrigue. It’s hard to tell which one is winning out.
“Is that so?”
“Damn straight,” I assert, drawing a deep breath. “So, if you’re here to kill me, could you hurry and get it over with? Otherwise, if we're about done, I’d appreciate if you’d let me get back to my craptastic day.”
Every hint of humor wipes off his face, replaced by irritation as he surveys me anew. I don’t think he appreciates my tone. Good. He looks like the type who needs to have control. Riling him up might just disrupt his plans.
Quickly strategizing just in case Nico Vitelli decides to attack, I think of how fast I can wield the karambit dagger strapped to my thigh—a present from my dad for my sixteenth birthday.
The problem is, the man is armed. I know he has a gun holstered on the right side of his torso, which I absently note likely means he's left-handed. My gaze goes to his left hand. It’s large, tanned, and has blunt fingernails. There is a diamond signet ring on his left third finger.
With his eyebrows still furrowed in annoyance, Nico rumbles, “Listen carefully because I’m only going to say this once. Whatever Maria Ricci told you, it is imperative that you keep your mouth shut. Destroy your notes if you have to. You never met her. Do you understand me?”
