Page 1 of Dangerous Secrets

1

ROME

The club is quiet. I’m parked out back, half a block away and watching the back door. The man I’m hunting is supposed to be here tonight, at least based on the intel given by our detective friend. This bastard has it coming too. He’s killed at least seven of our men over the past year and just as his name suggests, he is a shadow. L’ombra is elusive and incognito. In fact, I don’t even have enough intel to judge whether I’m hunting a man or a woman, though with his stealth and accuracy, and the strength he has displayed when seen on camera, I can only suspect I’m facing one of the most dangerous assassins in the world.

I light a cigarette, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, watching as the smoke dances in front of me. The night is still and the only sounds I hear are the faint whispers of cars a block or more away. I check my watch; it’s almost ten, and the club will be overflowing soon. I know I need to make my move before my target slips away again.

Suddenly, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. A figure in all black emerges from the shadows, swiftly followed by several others. My hand automatically reaches for my gun, but I pause when I see their faces. They’re not here to attack me; they’re paying customers, dressed in suits and dresses. They laugh raucously as they cross the dark alley and hug the side of the building, vanishing around the front.

I exhale the last puff of my cigarette and flick it onto the pavement. My nerves are on edge, and the sudden appearance of a van makes me more suspicious of my surroundings than ever. I’ve been tracking L’ombra for months, and he’s never been so careless as to let anyone get close without knowing exactly who they are. The panel van has no windows; it's an early model too. It turns into the alley and stops near the back door, exactly how I’d suspect an assassin to travel.

I wait a few more minutes, scanning the area for any other signs of movement. When I’m convinced that the coast is clear, I slide out of the car and make my way to the back of the van, hand on my gun. If I can take the assassin out quickly and quietly, I will, but if not, I can at least catch a glimpse of his face, find out what he looks like. So, I make sure no one can see me, then peek around the end of the van. Two men, large and black-clad, escort a third, smaller person toward the door. My chance is now, and if I don’t take it, I may not get another.

I leap out from behind the van, gun drawn and aimed at the trio. "Freeze!" I order them, my voice carrying through the silent night. The two men turn to face me, their hands reaching for their own weapons. But the smaller figure, the one they're escorting, freezes in place. I can see their shoulders square. They're waiting for a signal, waiting for my move.

I keep my gun steady, finger on the trigger. "Who are you?" I demand, keeping my eyes trained on the two larger figures. They're both well-built, with muscles straining against their clothes. They're henchmen, no doubt, but I'm not afraid of them. Both of them have anger scrawled over their faces, furrowed brows, narrowed eyes.

"You need to walk away, buddy," the taller one says, and in barely perceptible movements, the third one takes a step toward the building.

"You're going to find more than you bargained for if you don't get lost." The second one draws his weapon. I'm not looking to make this war any worse than it already is. I’m not here for the goons, I’m here for L’ombra and if my suspicions are correct, the smaller third man is the assassin.

“Just step away from your friend there, and we won’t have a problem.” I flick the tip of my weapon in a gesture to indicate they need to leave, but one of them lunges at me. I fire off a round that slices into his shoulder, but he keeps coming like a freight train. He’s fast and he’s hurt, but when he slams into me, I find myself being smashed between his refrigerator-sized body and the side of the van. My gun discharges again before I realize I’m still gripping the trigger. I bring my hand around in a right hook and clock the guy on the jaw. His buddy charges at me too, both fists bared.

I hear the distinct bang of the door slamming shut as the first man drops to his knees, leaving space for his friend to come in with the butt of his gun. It comes down hard on my head, and I clench my eyes shut as I swing my left hand out, grasping for him. It’s a miss; I can’t make purchase, and I can’t open my eyes. Pain shoots down my neck into my shoulders and I drop to my knees next to the injured goon.

“I said you should leave. You didn’t listen,” the second man says, giving me a swift kick to my gut. I catch his foot and pull, toppling him, then quickly stand and return the favor of a boot in the stomach.

If the assassin was here, he isn’t anymore, at least not in this alley. Neither one of these idiots fights like a trained killer. They’re hired muscle and nothing more. I stare down at the one who is bleeding while the other coughs and sputters, rolling on the ground. I’ll never get in through the back door, so I head back to my car to gather my thoughts and make a new plan.

Bianca is in that club right now, maybe even starting her set. The problem is, I can’t very well hunt an assassin under all those lights, and she’ll have her eyes on me the instant I walk in. Any more work tonight will only be reconnaissance, but it’s all I can do. My oldest brother and leader of our family, Dominic, won’t be happy. That’s a tomorrow problem.

I use the dome light and the rearview mirror to assess my injuries. There is a gash near my hairline that has left a trickle of blood down the left side of my face, and I feel tender on the chest where the first man’s shoulder hit me hard. Other than that, I’m no worse for wear. I use my handkerchief to dry the blood and pour some water on it to wipe the dried blood off my cheek. When I’m presentable, I safety my weapon and slide it into my glovebox. I have to get in that club and scout the place, even if all I do is memorize faces.

Inside I make my way through the crowd, scanning faces and trying to remain inconspicuous. I don’t want to draw any unwanted attention to myself. I spot a booth in the corner and head toward it, slipping into the seat and ordering a drink from the waitress. I watch as the crowd grows larger, people pouring in from the street and filling up the tables and booths. The spotlight on the ceiling is directed at the pianist playing a little tune.

There’s no sign of Bianca yet—I must be early—or the assassin. So, I sit and sip and watch. Waitresses clad in short black skirts and low-cut white tops carry drinks and drink orders. A few men stand around the bar, blocking my view of the bartender, but I know him. He’s been here for years and he’s not harmless, so my eyes refocus on the crowd. I ignore the regulars, whom I see every week, and I pay particular attention to a table where there are four men seated. I easily see two of their faces; one of them I can only see the profile, but one of them has his back to me.

If only they were sleeveless. I know L’ombra has a tattoo on his arm—a triangle with an all-seeing eye inside of it. It’s his trademark and he leaves his calling card nearby whenever he claims a victim. But I can’t just walk over there and tear their suits apart.

Lights begin to dim, and a hush begins in the front of the dining room nearest the stage. The red velvet curtains are drawn as soft jazz music replaces the sound of acoustic piano. Bianca is on now. Any second they will open those curtains and she will be staring back at me. My window for finding the assassin tonight is closing quickly, and I have only put a few faces to memory now. Without thinking, I draw my phone from my pocket and ensure the flash feature for its camera is turned off, then start snapping pictures. Our tech guy, Lenny, will be able to isolate faces and run them through his facial recognition software. At the very least, we’ll know who frequents the club.

When the curtains’ part and the spotlight grow bright, I am forced to put my phone away. It’s so dark in here, except for the stage, that no one can get a picture. The warm melodic tones of the piano are joined by a hiss and tap of some drums and Bianca takes the stage dazzling everyone.

Jet-black ringlets drape across her creamy shoulders, bared all the way to her plunging sleeveless neckline. Long white gloves rise all the way past her elbows; her dress sparkles with each of her movements. Her voice rises in a husky alto, sending goosebumps across my flesh. Every eye in this place is on her, and so is the spotlight, as she belts out her song and sways her hips.

Her gaze scans the crowd as she sings the love song—a ballad about a woman who has to seduce her man to bring him home from a bar. It’s a signature song, and she is a classy woman. She spots me, a half-smirk quirking her lips. Then she steps down from the stage carefully and works the crowd as she heads my direction. Her hand drapes across shoulders, smooths down backs, and cups a few cheeks as the spotlight follows her, and when she gets to me, she goes all out.

Her arms wrap around my shoulders, careful to keep her microphone in range of her breathy voice. She straddles me and the slit on her dress rides up, revealing the garter belt high on her right thigh. I’m tempted to touch her, hold her as if she belongs to me because in my mind she does. We’ve done this very tango alone in her dressing room dozens of times. But tonight, she is just a singer entertaining the crowd as she fusses my hair and leaves lipstick stains on my cheek.

And then she’s gone, headed to the next poor schmuck who thinks she’s flirting. I know it’s all an act, but some of these men think they have a chance with her. The only thing they have is the right to fuck off and keep their dirty fingers away from my property.

I straighten my tie and smooth my hair, but before I can even have another sip of my drink in hopes that the raging erection swollen within the confines of my trousers will go away, the two goons from out back are here. One of them grabs me by the bicep and hauls me to my feet while I raise my hands in surrender. The other pulls a gun and puts it in my ribcage.

“I thought you learned your lesson, fellas,” I snicker but I’m forced to comply with them. I can’t blow my cover if L’ombra is watching. To him and anyone else watching, I am an unruly or unwanted patron at this establishment, and I have to obey the hounds.

They walk me toward the front entrance and one of them opens the door. They smell like body odor and pipe tobacco. The man holding me gives me a hard shove, while the second one strikes the back of my knees collapsing me on the pavement.

“Stay the fuck out. Don’t even think about coming back.” The door shuts behind me and I push myself off the walk, then dust my hands. I may not have gotten very far in my pursuit of the assassin tonight, but I learned one interesting thing. An assassin needs bodyguards, or at least some extra muscle now and then, and he is comfortable enough with this club that he enters the rear exit without even so much as knocking, which means he is somehow connected to this business.

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