17

Valentina

One call to Summer to check on Midnight and Storm, and two smokes later, I’m strutting into The Pink Showgirls strip club dressed in my finest jeans and hoodie. The best time to drink a pink cocktail is when deliverance is hot on the menu. I take my carefully poured cocktail and set myself up in the back corner where I have a view of who’s coming in and out.

The décor in this place reminds me of Barbie’s dreamhouse. All pink and white leather lounges dotted around with matching table décor. The girls wear pink sequinned g-strings with matching shoes. I spot the young girl from the surveillance video and smile at her as she waltzes past my table.

It’s the early hours of the morning and the patrons are slowly thinning out. I’m hoping luck is on my side and the place closes early. It’s a strange feeling knowing I’m on the cusp of executing part one in my final revenge sequence.

I spot my target near the far bar, dressed in his fine suit, looking like he’s ready for his coffin. He leans over the bar and grabs the girl by her hair and yanks her closer to him. She looks terrified but nods in agreeance to what he has asked. My blood boils at the sight of him intimidating her but I stay seated and bide my time.

I’m finishing up the last of my cocktail when my phone screen lights up.

“Ricco.”

“Eyes on the prize?” he asks, cutting straight to the chase.

“Eyes on the prize,” I repeat, and hang up, blowing out a breath as my target moves away from the bar.

I track his movements through his beloved club, for what seems like fucking forever. My patience wearing thin as I count the last few customers finally leaving. The girl behind the bar packs up, dims the lights, and grabs the mop and bucket, heading to the stage area.

My victim disappears into a room at the end of the corridor leading to the bathrooms. Perfect. Got you cornered, fucker.

I slowly get up and gain the attention of the girl with the mop, she smiles at me, before she continues with her cleaning. Good, she’s not going to be a problem.

Scanning the area before slink toward the closed door, I slide my hand over my gun nestled against my back, the silencer already attached. Resting my hand on the door handle, I count down from three before I turn it and push the door open in silence. Sitting pretty at his oversized expensive desk is Bianchi. His head snaps up at my movement, and he eyes me with speculation, as I shut the door behind me.

“What can I do for you?” He clasps his hands on his desk and waits for me to answer. He stares at me like I’m an inconvenient stone stuck in his shoe, disrupting his end of business calculations.

“It’s more what I can do to you,” I answer, and keep my position by the only door, afraid the slimy fucker may want to run when I unleash my hell on him.

His twitchy eyes watch me carefully, his rat-like features making his face look screwed up. “You’re wasting your time, Mancini.” He dismisses me with a wave of his hand.

My veins feel as though they’re about to pop from the anger brewing in them. Striding to his desk, I remain calm and place my palms flat on the cool wooden surface, leaning down so I’m more at eye level.

“I’m sorry if you feel your time is so precious.”

“Did your father send you?”

“No one sent me, Bianchi,” I reply. “It’s just little old me and my friend called revenge.”

He chuckles in my face. “Go home, little girl, before you get yourself killed like your mother.” The vicious glint in his eyes turns my blood cold, and I leap over the desk in one bound, tackling him and his heavy leather chair, to the ground.

I land an elbow into his throat as we hit the floor, gaining a satisfying choked groan out of him. His wrinkled face turning a shade of hellfire as he gasps for air. His arms flail around trying to grab a hold of something to hit me with, but I jump to my feet and kick him as hard as I can in his balls, making him wheeze in agony.

“You’re weak like your father, Principessa.” He rolls onto his side, trying to get to his feet.

“What did you say?” I growl.

Smashing my boot into his face before he can get on his feet, I hear a low crack and know I’ve fractured something. I don’t give him time to blink, let alone allow him to get on even ground, before landing another boot to his face. He slumps to the ground, face down and groans, spitting blood.

“Aiutami,” he screams like a little bitch.

I squat down beside him, just out of his reach. “Nobody is coming to help you.” I smile down at him. “Where are all your soldiers, Bianchi?”

“Fuck you,” he spits.

“Every made man knows not to be alone at any given time. That’s when the enemy strikes, you silly old man.”

He manages to get his hands and knees, but I jump up and lay another boot into his gut. He crumples to the floor gasping for air.

“It wasn’t me you stupid bitch,” he screeches.

“You were there. You were involved. You will pay.”

“I didn’t fucking kill her.” He coughs and spits blood at me.

“Why did you kill her, Bianchi?”

“I didn’t. I never laid a finger on her!”

“Liar!” I shout at him and pull out my hunting knife hidden in my sleeve, gripping the handle like my life depends on it.

“I didn’t fucking kill her.” He rolls onto his back, attempting to sit up when he spots the knife in my hand.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

He scrambles onto his hands and knees and reaches out for his desk, most probably trying to retrieve his gun.

Lunging forward, I stab him in the back, trying to stop him from moving. A loud shrill pierces my ears and he drops to the floor, squirming like a little bitch.

“I can make this quick. Or I can make you scream for your mom. Just tell me why they killed her?” I watch him pissing his dignity all over his polished wooden floors.

“I don’t fucking know,” he groans, reaching for his stab wound.

Swinging my leg, I kick him in his side and he crashes to the floor, landing in his piss. I stomp my boot on his wrist closest to me and squat down. His face resembles a smashed tomato, all sweaty and red. The funny thing when death stares you in the face, you either take it like a man or try to outrun it. This piece of shit is handling it like a big girl.

He swings his arm to get a hold of me, but I’m too quick for him, I snatch out my gun and aim at his hand. The bullet makes a dull fleshy sound as it shreds his hand to pieces, the blood splattering all over him and me. He cries out and thrashes his arm about, trying to escape me.

“Tell me why she was killed,” I whisper as I slice my knife tip over his skin until the blade hits my boot, watching the bright red blood pour out in mesmerizing patterns.

“Because she was a martyr,” he howls, the pain finally getting to him.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I press the gun to his head as his whimpers bounce off the office walls.

“I will never tell you,” he spits at me.

The moment is here and I put pressure on the trigger, savoring victory. “Who killed her, Bianchi?”

“Fuck you.” He glares at me, his breaths heaving in his chest.

“Wrong answer, fucker.” I pull the trigger and put a nice hole in his head.

Standing back up, I look at my handy work, dissatisfied with it. This was too easy and too clean a kill. I need to make a statement. I want whoever killed my mom to know I’m coming for them.

I turn the safety back on and tuck my gun in my jeans against my back. I look at my knife and then at Bianchi’s neck and the best fucking idea pops into my fucked up head. I squat back down and hack at his neck, slicing my blade through his flesh like butter. The first few layers are easy to cut through, but the fleshier parts are giving me trouble and I feel as though time is getting away from me.

I pull out my phone and text Leonardo to come help.

“The fuck are you doing?” He barges through the door and stops mid-step.

“Trying to make a point,” I huff. “This is fucking harder than it looks.” I stand up and survey my progress, wiping my arm across my forehead.

Leonardo closes the door behind him and strides around the desk to stand next to me. “Give me your knife.” He takes it out of my hand and squats down next to Bianchi.

In a few seconds flat, he’s severed the dead mobster's head straight off. I’m a little turned on.

“We need to get the fuck out of here.” He jumps back up and hands me my knife.

“I’m fucking impressed.” I look down at Bianchi’s head as it sits separated from his body.

“You just need to know where to cut, babycakes.” Leonardo winks at me, grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the door.

“Hold up, I have another idea.” I squat down and grab Bianchi by the hair and haul his head to the desk, dumping it in the middle. I collect the cash that he was counting before I rudely interrupted him and follow Leonardo out the door.

We emerge to see the two dancers still waiting around to lock up. “Here, take this and get out of here. Don’t ever come back.” I push the thousands of dollars into their hands and exit the building.

“You’re not getting into my car in those clothes.” Leonardo refuses to unlock his Lamborghini.

“Seriously?” I glare at him. “Fine.” I strip down to my underwear and hold my dirty clothes out to him. He dumps them in the trunk in one of the black garbage bags he has endless supplies of.

He unlocks the car and I climb in, watching him text on his phone as he revs the engine. He glances at me, taking in my lack of clothing, and waggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t even think about it. I need a shower.” I hold my hand up to him.

“Already thought about it,” he eyes me darkly.

“Who are you texting?” I probe.

“Enzo, to try to get the surveillance tapes before anyone else.” He exits onto the main road and floors it, making me hit my head against the headrest.


“Won’t he ask questions? I can get my brother to deal with it.”

“Let’s just keep me being involved out of the equation when it comes to your family.” He winks at me.

“As you wish.” I settle against the leather seat, its curves hugging me as we glide through the early morning light, and my thoughts shift to Bianchi and how satisfying it was killing him.

Four down.

One to go.