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I cringe at that thought. I've worked for years to gain control in my life. I've fought for it, even killed for it. Now I'm just supposed to give it away to play a part.
My uncle places his hand on my shoulder. “You can walk into that school one of two ways, my dear. The question is, who do you want to be while you’re there? Do you want to be a follower, or do you want to be the leader I know you are?” He squeezes my shoulder as he gets up to leave, letting it be my decision.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“I’m always here for you, Little Warrior. Will you be joining me for dinner?”
I look at my hands in my lap, my fingers picking at the skin around my nails. I have never once gone down without a fight. Even as an eleven-year-old who was outnumbered and overpowered. I wasn’t born to be a follower. I was born to make the world shake at my fingertips.
I look up at my uncle with a mask of determination sliding over my face. “Not tonight, I have a challenge to plan for.”
Chapter 4
Three days of planning led me to the Monastero Santa Rosa Hotel in southern Italy. After a little research, I knew exactly who my mark would be. A few months back, I was hired to take out the second in command of a notorious Italian clan. My uncle's organization has strict rules about not going after mafia leaders, but the smaller Italian clans are fair game.
While tailing the guy, I found that his brother, Santino Rivelli, was the one who ordered the hit. They had many heated discussions, and you could tell there was no love in the family. While my mark was a total piece of shit who used his power to traffic children, I found out his brother wasn’t all that different.
One night after the brothers got into a fight, I stayed behind to watch the man who had paid eight thousand dollars for someone to kill his brother. His wife and child were at the dinner table when his son accidentally spilled some of his food. Santino lost his mind yelling and screaming. He then turned and beat the shit out of his wife. So, it was just my luck that in my research I found that Santino owned a one-of-a-kind, electric red Bugatti Chiron.
The challenge requested we use a little flair in our quest, so I plan to slit his throat on the hood of his car before taking the keys from his dead body and driving away. The crimson blood mixed with the custom red paint job would make for a great piece of art. I had no experience with hot-wiring vehicles and honestly didn’t want to learn. So, of course, the next best thing was murder.
I'm in the hotel dining room, sitting in a black sequin dress with so much cleavage showing that men and women are openly staring. Santino comes here every weekend to hook up with different, random twigs of women. They always seem to leave his room in a hurry, looking like they got knocked around. Some leave with tears falling, some with mascara running down their faces and red marks around their necks. Others leave with shredded clothing or any combination of the vile evidence of his abuse.
Santino walks into the room right on time and takes a seat at the other end of the bar before looking my way. I make a point to look everywhere but at him. Powerful men, or men who think they have power that is, hate to be ignored. The air in the room changes when he notices me. Slowly, as if to get my attention with his prowl, he gets up and stalks close to me. I try not to cringe when I smile as he pulls out the seat next to mine.
He’s not bad to look at. I can actually understand why these women feel attracted to him. He has longer dark brown hair, styled just right so that it falls across his face when he leans in to speak to you. His teeth are perfect, the only real light in his dark persona. He’s built, strong enough to throw women around and put them at his mercy. Little does he know, I’m stronger.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks, pretending to be a gentleman. I make a show of looking around before answering.
“I haven’t seen anyone brave enough to claim it yet,” I tell him with one eyebrow lifted in a challenge as I bring my martini glass to my lips. It’s just water and olive juice. I paid the bartender last night to only bring me mocktails this evening.
The man eases himself onto the seat, smiling like he thinks he won a prize. “What's your name, Topolina?”
Little mouse? That’s what he’s going with? What an asshat.
“Daya,” I tell him in a fake Italian accent.
“I am Santino Rivelli. May I buy you another drink?” This time when I smile, it's genuine, because this man just stepped right into my trap.
Who’s the mouse now?
???
We are each five drinks in, and I’m pretending to be the drunk bimbo he thinks I am. It's honestly exhausting–laughing at all of his horrible jokes and pretending to care about what he’s saying.
“Come to my room with me,” he tries to command, holding me close and whispering in my ear. I have to hold back a gag.
“I have a better idea,” I say, pushing him off of me slightly. “You said you have a pretty car, I want to take aridein it.” I wink at him, and he doesn’t miss the double meaning.
He eyes me with suspicion, neither of us should be driving right now for all he knows. Yet, I have a feeling it won’t take this sleazeball much convincing. I lean into his body and whisper in his ear, “I want you to fuck me on the hood of your car.” I nip at his earlobe playfully causing him to melt into me. ”Just in case I wasn’t clear enough.”
“Whatever you want, Topolina, it’s yours,” he croons. I respond by batting my lashes at him and giggling. I make a show of getting up sloppy, flashing my thong and stumbling into him.
“I got you, Baby girl,” he says as he grabs me and pulls me into him. He isn't any better off than I’m pretending to be.
I slip the small camera out of my clutch and clip it to the strap of my dress, turning it on as we get into his car. It's small enough that no one would notice unless they were looking for it.
“This car is beautiful,” I say as I admire my prize. I make a show of rubbing my hands all over the white leather interior and then up and down my body. The leather is high quality, and the red stitching creates a beautiful contrast.
