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I ignored Dana and skimmed the room, forcing a look of indifference onto my face at the humbling sight of Bastiano Romano.
He nursed an empty glass between his mammoth palms while the bartender rushed to satisfy the crowd on the other end of the bar. The irritation lining Bastian’s face told me all I needed to know.
He was short-staffed at L’Oscurità, and I had a chance to weasel my way into the business.
A woman chattered beside him, the curves of her body angled toward him as she traced a suggestive finger down the swell of his bicep.
Light caramel skin. Waist-length raven hair. Dark eyes. Slender body. An exotic Mediterranean beauty, through and through, yet Bastian paid no attention to her.
Instead, his eyes glared holes into the back of the bartender’s head.
If it were only for the look on his face, I would have thought he was an alcoholic, but I knew better. Memorized his file. Heard the bureau’s advance team wax on and on about the Romano family.
This man possessed pure dominance, and dominant men didn’t have vices that weakened them.
The woman dipped her head forward and leaned her chin on his shoulder. He used that same arm to pop an ice cube from his glass into his mouth without acknowledging her.
She nearly fell when his shoulder moved and stumbled to right herself.
Still, he didn’t pay her any attention.
The urge to turn around and walk out the door seized my legs.
You’re not inexperienced, I assured myself. Okay, so maybe you could have more experience under your belt, but this is how you get it.
Judging from his mostly empty file, Bastiano Romano thrived on secrets.
As far as I knew, he—and his presence at L’Oscurità—was the reason the bureau thought there would be something worth getting out of this cover, but he also fostered my hesitation.
Even after studying his file for weeks, I had thought I’d been ready to see him. To go toe-to-toe with him and come out as the unrelenting victor.
I had been wrong.
Just one glance at him, and I knew I was utterly, unequivocally fucked.
He was a beautiful monster—mafia royalty wrapped in a fifty-thousand-dollar bespoke Desmond Merrion suit. The tailored fit did nothing to hide his towering build or the sheer muscled width of his chest.
His hair—so full and dark in its costly short gentleman’s cut—spoke of the hundreds he must have parted with to get it.
His eyes were dark, but the expression they held was darker, the variety of sinister I would expect from the Devil himself. Absent of emotion and horribly indifferent, they pierced my very soul and left me feeling irrevocably bereft.
His defined cheekbones were cut like the sharp edges of an executioner’s blade, and coupled with his perpetual, derisive sneer, he gave the impression that he knew just how much better he was than all of us and it amused him greatly.
Bastiano Romano looked expensive.
And dangerous.
But I still had a job to do, and that required approaching him.
I reached several feet away from him when, as if sensing my presence, he glanced my way, sparing me a second of fatal, arresting eye contact before he returned his attention to the bartender, quickly moving on from me as if I were nothing.
I faltered for a moment, both surprised and unsurprised by his reaction. His companion leaned forward, pressing herself against his arm, taking advantage of the split second of eye contact Bastiano and I had shared.
The top of his lip curled up in a scathing snarl. He said something to her that caused her to pout, but she stayed pressed up against him—defiance in her eyes and lust on her lips.
I took another step closer, cataloging the situation. This woman was hitting on him. The only difference between her plan and mine was that she had failed first.
Another step and I stood close enough to hear her shamelessly advertise, “I’m not wearing any panties. We used to have so much fun.”
