Too easy.
I found a door slightly ajar—an office someone had left in a hurry, judging by the scattered papers on the desk. I slipped inside and activated the voice recorder, photographing everything I could find. Financial statements. Names I didn't recognize. References to shipments coming through the port next week.
My father would be pleased. This was exactly the kind of intelligence he needed.
I was so focused on documenting everything that I didn't hear the footsteps behind me until it was too late.
"Looking for something?"
The voice was low gravel, rough like smoke and whiskey. It sent ice down my spine.
I spun around.
Matteo DeLuca stood in the doorway, blocking my only exit. He was compact and coiled, muscle packed onto a frame that radiated barely controlled violence. Dark eyes that saw too much. Scarred knuckles that told stories I didn't want to hear. He wore all black—jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—like he was dressed for a funeral or a fight.
He looked exactly like his photographs.
Except the photographs hadn't captured the intensity of his presence. The way he filled the doorway like a promise of violence. The intelligence in those dark eyes that said he knew exactly what I was doing and found it almost amusing.
"I—" My voice came out wrong. Too high. Too nervous. "I was looking for the bathroom."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "With a camera in your watch and a recorder in your pocket?"
Fuck.
He moved toward me with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent his whole life learning how to hurt people efficiently. I backed up until I hit the desk, nowhere left to go.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I tried.
"Don't." He was close enough now that I could smell him—smoke and gun oil and something darker underneath. "I've been watching you since you walked in. You're good. Better than most of the idiots who try to spy on us. But you made three mistakes."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What mistakes?"
"First, you kept looking at the cameras. People who belong here don't pay attention to security." He reached out andplucked the pen from my pocket, examining it with professional interest. "Second, you photographed documents at the bar. Amateurs think they're being subtle. They're not."
He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. Could see the scar that cut through his left eyebrow. Could count the silver chain around his neck—the one the rumors said came from the first man he'd killed.
"And third?" I managed.
His smile widened, showing teeth. "You walked into my club wearing a disguise, and you thought I wouldn't notice."
Before I could react, his hand shot out and yanked the wig off my head. My brown hair tumbled free, and I felt naked suddenly. Exposed.
"There you are," he said softly, dangerously. "Stefan Romano. Giuseppe's pretty youngest son."
He knew who I was.
Of course he knew who I was.
I'd walked into a trap thinking I was the hunter, and all along I'd been prey.
"Matteo—" I started.
"Don't." His hand wrapped around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there like a warning. Like a promise. "You've got about ten seconds to convince me why I shouldn't break every bone in your hand and send you back to your father as a message about what happens to spies."
His thumb pressed against my pulse point. He could feel how fast my heart was racing. Could feel my fear.
But underneath the fear was something else. Something I didn't want to examine. Something that had sparked to life the moment he'd walked into the room and looked at me like I was the most interesting thing he'd seen all night.
