Chapter 5: Inside the Lion's Den

The given outfit fits me too nicely. Once more black silk, but this time sleeveless, tighter, more sharp something meant to divert and fool. Every strand in my curly and pinned hair is exactly in place. Not my makeup; dark, sexy is what I use.

I have nothing on tonight that I own.

Not the heels; not the knees. Not the ID name that shows on it. Not the strategy I'm currently following.

Only the razor concealed in my clutch still seems real.

Engine low like a beast ready to be unleashed, a car drags in front of the mansion. The door shuts with a hiss, so I crawl into the rear seat and curl into the leather.

Everybody stays silent.

The driver's eyes in the mirror do not cross mine. He knows my destination and the possible expenses.

I look at the burner phone in my purse as we move away from Gallo grounds. One sign bar. Should things go off course, one opportunity to ask for assistance is here.

But, by now, I know better that help isn't in demand.

Twenty-25 minutes later, we reach the site—a private club on the top floor of an ancient bank now turned into a playground for the rich and merciless. Crystal chandeliers hang like web-like spiders. Men in custom tuxedos move like sharks; ladies draped on their arms seem bored, affluent, or dangerous, sometimes all three.

I show the false ID at the security gate. The man carrying the scanner has eyebrows.

"Invitation?," he queries.

From my clutch, I slide the card from my palm across with a practised smile.

He scans it. Waits.

There came a flash on the green light.

"You're late." he replied without affection.

I grin gently and fashionably.

He didn't laugh he only let me pass.

Inside hums money and stress in the air. While low and jazzy, music plays, the conversations are sharp and quiet. I keep my head raised and my eyes open.

I need not hunt long until I come upon him.

Matteo Russo.

He is close to the balcony, glass in hand, velvet jacket fit as though it were sewn on him. He is younger than I had projected. Maybe early forties, straight-shaven. Like polished coal, eyes reflect this.

He is laughing with two other guys; one of them seems somewhat familiar. From among the pictures Ludwig showed me, I could identify him.

Confirmed target.

I gently negotiate the throng, letting my presence register but not take the front stage. I'm neither a prey nor I resembled a bait.

Matteo saw me before his intended arrival.

His eyes fix on mine midway through the sip, and his smile slightly bends.

A Hook.

He veered from his circle and walked over here.

"You're not on my guest list," he added with that kind of captivating arrogance that strong men can afford.

I answer coldly, "I'm on someone's."

He looked at me not lecheristically but more as a fresh variable in a game he already leads in.

"Name?"

"Alina."

He flashed a smile."Alina, who??"

I chuckled and swept the imagined lint from my shoulder. "Alina doesn't respond to pointless questions."

Raising his eyebrows, he seemed impressed "feisty."

He made a motion with his hand towards the bar. "Let's discuss."

Matteo guided me towards the bar with the kind of assurance that attracted attention wherever he went. He wore that attention like a crown and knew every pair of eyes in the room followed him. Not asked, the barman set two crystal tumblers on the polished counter. Matteo waved at the beverages, grinning.

"I don't drink with strangers," I remarked, retaining a light, under-control voice.

He laughed and swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Then Alina, we would better stop acting as strangers."

His use of my false name was not at all laid back. It passed from his mouth like a challenge. I held the glass in hand but did not sip. His eye turned to the unspoiled drink, but he said nothing. Rather, he leaned one elbow on the counter and looked at me the way one would approach a puzzle.

At last, his voice lower now, more threatening, he murmured, "You don't belong here."

"Is that your way of asking me to go?" I answered, grinning.

"No," he murmured, his eyes narrowing. "That's my manner of expressing my curiosity."

He raised his glass in a toast, and I mirrored him, wary of upsetting the flow of the game we were now playing.

He answered, "To surprises."

"To masks," I asked in response.

That caught my attention more thoroughly. His lips rounded slightly, but the laughter never caught his sight. They stayed cold, sharp, and totally concentrated.

He pointed at a velvet-rope door to a more private area. "Please stay with me tonight, Alina. I wish you stay close."

That statement had layers of complexity. On first look, it was an invitation. Underneath it was ownership, that is, monitoring. In any case, saying no would attract attention I cannot afford. I gave one nod.

"Lead the way."

Benevolent behind the curtain was a small, poorly lighted lounge. It smelt like ancient secrets, scotches and cigars. Among several males dressed in nice suits seated at low tables was one woman.

My blood was frigid.

Isabella.

Laughing at what a man murmured in her ear, she wore red silk. Her look was contemptuous and her hair was twisted in a beautiful knot. I briefly dipped my head to change my posture so she wouldn't be able to clearly see my face.

My insides turned over with panic. Should she see me? Should she identify me? This entire mission would collapse. My cover would be exposed, and I would not reach the lift, let alone the exit.

"Something wrong?" Matteo asked while sipping his beer.

I forced a grin to cover my panic. "I just appreciate the business."

He bought the falsehood or claimed to. His hand stroking the small of my back as we moved guided me to a seat towards the rear. I participated even as I tallied the distance to the closest exit.

"Tell me something," he asked after we sat. "What does Ludwig Gallo see in you?”

The question stopped my blood flow. He was informed.

"I'm sorry." Tone cool but nonchalant, I asked.

He said, "I saw you." "Three days past, first class. In the same row as Gallo. He flies commercially only in cases of strategy involved."

He squatted in closer, his voice a whisper.

"Tell me precisely, then, what are you?"

I fixed his eye. Denial was the only response that would not have killed me. "You must be mistaken." I have never actually met him.

Matteo grinned once more, but this time it was accompanied by something nasty. " Is that so?"

The room's air started to get closer. He looked away, grinning as though we had just cracked a joke, after briefly studying me. Still, I could sense the change. The game was questioning rather than merely flirting.

An accident broke the tension before he could move ahead.

The glass shattered behind the lounge somewhere. Italian voices screamed. Chairs squeaked. Matteo's head shot towards the entrance as the guards hurried towards the ruckus.

He stood up and yelled an incomprehensible directive. Then he disappeared, travelling with the intensity of someone whose operation had just revealed a leak.

I never waited.

With heels clicking quickly against the tile, I slid past the velvet curtain into the hall. Deadweight was my burner phone. I needed assistance, but I already knew Ludwig was not observing.

I shoved open a side door at the end of the corridor and crashed into someone's chest.

First, the familiar smell caught me: leather and power.

"Leaving so soon?" Ludwig asked, his voice low and lethal.

I started to back off, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

Grasping my wrist, he took me down a dark stairway closing the door behind us. In the subdued light, his eyes gleamed.

"Saving your life," he said quickly.

"You were not supposed to be close to Isabella," I snarled.

"You knew she would be here? My voice got higher in incredulity. And you still send me in?"

He held no flinches. "You mentioned that you sought retribution."

"Not a bodily bag!"

From his coat, he took a folded slip of paper and thrust it into my hand.

“Deliver this to the man wearing the green tie over at the bar. Do not say anything and wait for my signal after that."

"What signal?," asks Demanders.

You will know it when it happens.

He left then.

The man was wearing a green tie and leather gloves and stood close to the bar as if he owned the air around him. I let him have the note. He turned once, read it, and vanished into the throng.

Five minutes ran by. Ten follows then.

The fire alarm screeched just as I began to feel I had been abandoned once more.

Flashing strobe lights. From vents, smoke unfolded. Like wildfire, panic tore across the room.

I wasn't waiting to find out what brought about it.

I dash.

I shoved through the tumult and ducked out a side exit; heels are cursed. My legs roasted. My lungs hurt. Still, I kept on till I came across the street.

Beside me, a dark vehicle drew up.

The window opened and closed.

Ludolph.

I hurried in and slammed the door behind me without thinking. He was on the phone, speaking softly and clipped.

I just captured two: bomb and Matteo.

He hung off the call and then looked at me.

"You worked on something?" I enquired, panting.

"No," he responded gently. "I told them."

He rolled his sleeve slightly back off. Blood marinated the cloth close to his wrist.

"Whose blood is that?" With a trembling voice, I asked.

"Not mine."

The vehicle rushed ahead, and he turned his face back to the road.

Stunned, I fixed my gaze on him.

"What on earth just happened?"

He said nothing.

He uttered just one word cold and definitive.

"War."