4. Delilah

4

DELILAH

" W hy are you staring at me?" I ask Vincenzo. His eyes are practically glued to me. I can see the wheels turning in his head.

Oh my gods, did he figure me out? Does he know who I am?

I knew I didn't act scared enough of the gunshot. A regular woman would have screamed or something. Fuck . My whole cover is blown now.

If I blow my chance to find my mother, I will never forgive myself.

"Because you're beautiful," he replies casually, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Butterflies erupt inside my stomach as a furious pink blush heats my skin. My fangs tingle, and I can feel them poking my bottom lip. His compliment would make me swoon if I were standing.

Stop it. Lock that shit down, I internally yell at myself.

I cannot afford to have butterflies over this man! He's my way into the Conti family, a means to an end to get this job done. A way to find my mother and bring her home—nothing more.

He is not my future husband. I am not having romantic feelings about him. Love can wait, because this mission is about something so much more important—finding Mom. And killing Mario so the guild doesn't come after me.

"I'm sure you say that to all the women you meet," I quip to lighten the mood. He's a mafia man, so he's probably a player anyway. Certainly not fated mates or husband material.

"So funny. Why do you think I used a dating service to find you, beautiful? Meeting women when you're as busy as I am is hard. Making them stick around is even harder. I barely dated."

Even without a pulse speed to key in on, I know he isn't lying. Something deep inside me just knows he's not a player. That same feeling keeps telling me I'm safe around him. That I can trust him.

I wish that inner feeling would shut the fuck up and stop being such a hippie dipshit. A man as dangerous as Vincenzo Conti can't be trusted. He isn't safe. He's the intended head of a vampire mafia clan that wreaks havoc on this city. A vicious criminal. A killer.

Aren't you a killer, too? My conscience jumps in, teaming up with that deep seated feeling against me.

While they're right, I'm more of a vigilante than a criminal.

"I'm sorry our dinner date didn't go as planned," he apologizes as he takes my hand, his thumb rubbing over my knuckles. "Unfortunately, we'll have to stay in one of the famiglia's safehouses until we know the threat is neutralized. I can have something ordered in, though."

"Our safety is important. It's fine." I mean it, too.

Spending time with this man isn't a hardship at all. It feels…easy, like I've known him all my life. And the longer I'm with him, the closer I'll get to taking out my target.

Vincenzo directs his attention toward his driver.

"Which safehouse are we going to?"

"The one in Astoria," the driver replies. "We should be there in about twenty minutes."

"Ah that's a nice one. It's a brick duplex on a quiet street. We rent the left side to one of our Capos , and the right side is a safehouse or a guest home when we have visitors. There's a great pasta joint around the corner we can order from."

"What's your favorite pasta?" I ask him, out of curiosity.

"Oh a tie between ravioli and carbonara," he replies. "You?"

"Same." It's strange that we have the same favorites, but probably a coincidence.

"What's your favorite dessert?" He gives me an expectant look, like this very question could make or break this fake engagement.

"Tiramisu."

"Mine too," he laughs.

We go through a few more questions and realize we share many favorite things. We both love hockey, prefer the shore to the mountains, hate jaywalking, and prefer pancakes over waffles.

Again, all coincidences. Everyone likes tiramisu. Pancakes are obviously better than waffles. It probably doesn't mean anything at all. I have no clue why I'm fawning all over him because we have the same favorite breakfast.

When we roll up to the duplex, the driver parks the car in the driveway. This must be an expensive piece of property to have its own parking space…

"Thank you," Vincenzo says before coming around to my side of the car to open the door.

He escorts me to the front entrance, pushing me behind him. Biting my tongue and acting like I have no clue how to defend myself is killing me, but I need to keep up appearances and the protective instinct is a little bit hot. He punches in a door code, then slowly opens it and turns on the light, his gun at his side.

We walk into a gorgeous foyer, with a long cherrywood console table. There are landscapes of the city hung on the walls in various metal-toned frames that work well together. As we walk through to the kitchen, he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine. Then he grabs a bottle opener from a nearby drawer and two wine glasses from a cabinet.

"My guard must have called ahead," he explains as he fills each glass with a crisp, citrus-smelling liquid.

I would have done an entire sweep of the house and had my gun locked and loaded. Something feels off here. Part of my banshee powers give me a sixth sense when something bad is about to happen, especially if it involves death. But how do I tell him that without giving myself away?

I slowly walk through the kitchen, discreetly peeking out the windows with my magnified vampire sight. I don't see anything suspicious. Nor do I hear anything. Vincenzo takes a seat at the table, and I sit next to him to keep up appearances, but I stay on high alert. The most important things my parents taught me in our line of work is to stay vigilant and trust your gut instinct.

"How long will we stay here?" I ask him to make conversation.

"A few hours? Possibly longer. As soon as I get the all clear, we can drop you off at your place. Then we can meet back up in the morning to go to brunch, buy a ring, and pick a date."

Fuck . My car is at the restaurant. I can't let him drop me off at my house—that's a dead giveaway of my real identity. I take a long sip of my wine to give myself a moment to think of a suitable reply, but am saved by another bullet.

I roll onto the ground, hiding under the table. Vincenzo stands up, scanning the room for the shooter. Another bullet whizzes through the air, followed by one that lodges itself into the table leg. I'd recognize that kind of bullet anywhere–a silver-tipped blood buster. If used correctly, they can kill vampires and werewolves. Lucky for us, whoever shot the first two bullets has awful aim.

A man dressed in a plain black suit with a gray shirt speeds into the room at superhuman speed, pointing a gun directly at Vincenzo. His short buzzed hair and regular stature don't look familiar to me. Judging by his flawless skin, speed, and pointed canines, he's a vampire. Of course I wouldn't have heard him, because he doesn't have a pulse.

I focus on him, then unleash my wail. Not at full volume–I don't want to hurt Vincenzo–but it's loud enough that the shooter falls to his knees, screaming in agony as he tries to cover his ears. I can drive someone crazy, injure them, or kill them depending on the note and volume I use.

Once he falls to the floor, I stop. Vincenzo takes his belt off and uses it to restrain the man. It takes every measure of self control I have not to daydream about what else he can do with his belt.

"You only have about five minutes. The volume I used will only incapacitate," I warn him.

"Good thinking. Now I can question why one of my own soldiers is shooting at us," Vincenzo seethes. "Benito has worked for the Conti family for years, since my father was head of the famiglia ."

What the fuck? Why would one of his own attack him?

Vincenzo hoists Benito into a chair, then slaps him hard enough that his neck bends at an unnatural angle. He sputters awake, flinching when he sees Vincenzo's grimace.

His cold eyes, tight jaw, and dipped brows are a complete one-eighty from the playful expression he had at the restaurant, though no less attractive.

"Explain why you shot at me, now ," he orders with an air of authority I didn't think he was capable of.

Benito shakes his head. "No. I'll die before I talk to you. Fuck off."

He stands closer, crouching down so he's eye level with his captive. "You're going to tell me who sent you, and why, or I'll make my wife wail again. This time she'll kill you slowly. Make your ears bleed and your head split open. Your choice."

Vincenzo's compulsion is direct, and powerful enough that I feel it. Benito tries to bite his lips, but it's no use.

"Your uncle. He wants you dead so he can take his rightful place as Don."

"How many people work with him? Are you getting outside help?" I ask with a heavy compulsion before catching myself.

"Ten in the family. We got the blood buster bullets from the Furrocious werewolf pack."

So someone put a hit on Mario, who wants to kill his nephew for the top spot. He's getting support from a rival pack. And somehow this is all relevant to my mom. Interesting .

"I'll deal with the werewolves later," Vincenzo says. He takes Benito's gun, checking the barrel and narrowing his gaze when he sees the bullets.

He closes the chamber, locks and loads the gun, then aims at Benito's heart. "Now may be a good time to turn around, beautiful."

I comply to keep up my cover, praying that he'll forget my slip up.

"Enjoy the rest of your short life, Vincenzo. Your uncle is the true leader of the family, and he won't stop until you're dead," Benito cackles like a deranged maniac. "And you…" looks at me with a sneer on his face. "You're a dead woman walking."

I don't see the bullet hit him, but I hear it pierce his skin. I hear his screams of agony. I smell the coppery aroma of blood. Risking a peek, I see that Vincenzo shot him in the stomach.

Benito isn't dead yet. He's bleeding out, back on the floor and eyes staring straight into the ceiling.

"Change of plans. We're going to my house in the Hamptons," he informs me. "We need to go off grid for our own safety, lay low until I know who I can trust aside from my second and a few loyal guards. I'll arrange for them to have things delivered to the house for us."

He takes my hand, squeezing it tight enough that my fingers almost crack. He opens my car door and folds me in, fastening my seatbelt right across my chest. When he climbs in, he peels out of the driveway and furiously drives to the highway.

The first twenty minutes of our ride is spent in total silence. His hands grip the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. I can feel his anger like a pressure building in the car, pressing against everything until it explodes.

I hate to see him this unsettled and upset. All because of his usurper uncle. Now I'm doubly motivated to kill that bastard. For some crazy reason, the thought of this charismatic, handsome man being betrayed makes me straight up stabby .

"Vincenzo?"

"I'm sorry, beautiful. I'm so angry. How can my own family do this to me? He tried to kill me…to do away everything I worked for —my birthright. Threaten my wife."

He growls the last part, as if the idea of someone threatening me is the worst of all his uncle's offenses. If only he knew what I do for a living. Someone simply threatening me would be a light day.

"I'm not your wife yet," I remind him.

"Doesn't matter. You're mine. That's what counts."

If someone like Favian said that to me, I would wring their neck. I'm not into the whole alpha male, beat my chest bullshit. But to my surprise, it feels okay coming from him. It feels right.

I must be nervous about having to keep a cover. Or hungry because I haven't eaten yet. That has to be it. There's no way I'm developing feelings for this man. Feelings can't happen right now. I have to get my mother back.

He takes my free hand and holds it while he drives. The rest of the ride is silent, but it's a different kind of silence—a comfortable one. His house is nothing like I expected. While it's still ritzy and Hamptons-worthy, it's more of a beach bungalow than a mansion. The bushes and flowers in the front garden beds give it a homey feel.

He presses a series of numbers on a security pad on the door, then a biometric reader takes his finger print. When he leads me in, he immediately shuts the door, then activates multiple security programs from his phone. The whole process is high tech, but something still feels off.

He turns the lights on, and we conduct a full sweep of the house. I walk behind him as he clears every room, secretly checking every nook and cranny to make sure we're safe.

The house is elegant, yet understated. Simplistic. Vincenzo leads me to a living room, and sits in an oversized armchair, pulling me into his lap. The move is unexpected. I've never been the type to want to sit on a man's lap. He peers into my eyes, and kisses my forehead—another tender move that throws me off kilter.

Get your shit together, Delilah!

"We're finally safe," he exhales. "Want to watch a movie to pass the time? I have a few streaming services to choose from."

Despite his confidence and ability to relax, I'm not convinced. There's a deep unsettling in my gut, like before. Like a stomach ache that won't go away. This mess of feelings inside me has to be my banshee senses kicking in. There's no other explanation for why I feel so weird.

The best I can do though is stay vigilant. Hopefully we can go back to the city soon and I can find my mom.

"Yeah sure. How about a comedy?"