1. Valentina

Chapter 1

Valentina

I push open the door of Bloody Strike expecting a quaint little Irish pub, and instead find six shirtless, sweaty men staring at me, while two more try to pummel each other to death in a boxing ring.

The only sounds are the patter of feet on the hard mat and the grunts of the fighters. There’s a long bar on my left which is where all the guys are posted up, and half of them are looking right at me like I don’t belong.

And they’re right, I definitely don’t.

The boxing ring is set up in the middle of the wide-open space with seats and tables scattered all around, almost like it’s the main entertainment. But everyone inside this place looks like they belong to some kind of fight club meets gym situation, and I feel incredibly out of my element.

But I’m here for a reason, and if I weren’t so absolutely, pathetically desperate, I’d turn around and get the hell out.

Instead, I march to the bar and take a seat at the corner stool, and it’s like the guys decide to forget about my existence.

Low, murmured conversations restart, adding a nice soundtrack over the pained snorts of two beefy Irishmen trying to turn each other into meat paste with their fists.

The bartender brings me a glass of wine after I flag him down and leaves me alone after that. I drink it in a few gulps, just to give myself a little extra courage, which doesn’t really help.

This is a new low, even for me, a girl very used to lows.

But I’m in a bad spot and I really, really need to make this work.

I spent the last week coming up with this plan, mostly because I ran out of milk.

No big deal, I could buy some more, except my bank account is near zero and I don’t have a job. Since I grew up a spoiled mafia princess, only for my father to get murdered, I now realize I don’t exactly have a whole lot of employment prospects. I was working for my former best friend Marco for a while, except he’s a traitor and a piece of trash, so that’s over with.

Now here I am, no milk, no cereal, nothing in my pantry to speak of, unable to afford coffee or shampoo, and just about on my landlord’s last nerve. Which means if this doesn’t pan out, I’m going to be homeless.

I hear it’s not easy to get a job while living on the streets. Something about a permanent address? I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.

One of the shirtless guys pulls himself from the group and sidles over to me. He’s tall, white skin, tattoos on his chest and arms, mostly tribal stuff alongside the ubiquitous Celtic cross motif over his heart. He’s got a square jaw and tousled black hair. Ripped, athletic, and not too bad looking, all things considered. He leans against the bar next to me, tossing a very confident smile in my direction.

“The boys and I took bets. Half of them think you’re lost, and the other half think you’re here to find a date.” His eyebrows raise and his smile gets bigger. “I said you’re too pretty to be a hooker and much too smart to be lost. So, what are you doing here?”

I stare at the guy, not really happy about being compared to a prostitute, but he’s got me at a disadvantage considering he’s six-foot-two and I’m basically a foot shorter than him.

“I’m looking for Ronan,” I tell him, practically spitting the words from between my teeth, because this is obscenely distasteful.

His smile falters. “What do you need with my cousin?”

“Cousin?” I lean a little closer and run my finger down my glass. “Which one are you?”

“Niall.” His smile’s totally missing now. “What do you need with Ronan?”

“Tell him Valentina Santoro’s here.”

Niall stares at me. His eyes drift from my dark hair to my tan skin and linger on my mouth, which he seems to like, gross , before finally turning toward the boxing ring.

“Tell him yourself. He’s almost done.”

That’s when I follow his gaze and get a good look at the fighters.

One’s ripped like he lives in the gym. Muscles sprout from muscles. It’s almost absurd, except he’s got a square jaw and a shaved head, and his punches look like they’d break concrete.

And the other one’s Ronan.

He’s big too. I’ll give him that. He moves quick enough to evade the worst of his opponent’s blows, and he strikes back hard and viciously. There’s no ref and the two fighters seem hell-bent on murdering each other. I’m pretty sure one of them would be dead if they weren’t wearing mouthguards and gloves. Both their noses are bloodied and Ronan’s got a swollen cheek, but despite his massive opponent, he keeps pushing aggressively and going on the offensive.

All right, I don’t like it, but I have to hand it to the guy. Anyone else probably would have folded up by now, what with the way that massive beast is hitting, but Ronan’s taking it and dishing out just as much punishment. He’s strong, muscular and trim in an athletic and admittedly handsome sort of way, with a head of rust-colored hair and long, dark eyelashes. I’ve always liked those eyelashes—but I’ll never tell him that, not in a million years.

Because Ronan Hayes is the head of an Irish crime family, and he’s annoying as all fucking hell.

The fight ends when the big guy screws up his footwork and staggers. Ronan’s on him then, throwing punches like a madman, and finally the giant drops to one knee, throwing his arms up to protect his face. Ronan dances back until he’s in the far corner, and slowly his massive opponent gets to his feet. I think they’re about to start beating the shit out of each other again, but instead they’re laughing with their arms around each other. Both of them are bloodied and looking like shit, but acting like they’re best friends.

“You sure you want to talk to him?” Niall asks, sounding amused. He glances back at me with a shrug. “He might not be in the best mood.”

“Why not? Didn’t he just win?”

“Yeah, but Cousin Seamus nearly broke his face in, and Ronan really hates getting hit.”

I roll my eyes. Typical Ronan. He boxes, but he doesn’t like getting punched.

“It’s important,” I tell him.

Niall shrugs and walks off toward the boxing ring. He says something to Ronan, and both of them stare in my direction as Cousin Seamus climbs down and staggers over toward the waiting gaggle of shirtless behemoths. They cheer and pour him a drink, and they’re all throwing back whiskey shots as Ronan gets down from the ring and comes in my direction. Niall follows, looking more curious than anything else.

I regret this. I regret it immensely . If I had any other option, I would’ve taken it, but Adam’s dead and I don’t trust Dusan or Julien, and forget about crawling back to Marco. He can keep his freaking Bianco wife, the traitor, I don’t care. None of the remaining former Santoro Capos would help me, and I could take a loan out from one of the loan sharks I know, but that’ll just make things worse in the end.

Which leaves me here, on this cold metal stool, glaring at the cockiest, most frustrating asshole I know.

“Val, my darling, I’ve been thinking about you nightly and I’m so glad you’re here,” Ronan says. He bends down to kiss my cheek and I have to push him back. A bit of his blood drips onto my thigh, which is absolutely repulsive.

“Please don’t get near me. You’re leaking.”

“My most sincere apologies.” His eyes sparkle with amusement. He thinks this is fucking funny. He knows I must be desperate if I’m coming to see him, and he’s going to make me suffer. The bastard.

He gets a rag and I use it to wipe off my leg. He cleans his face, dabbing at his nose, while Niall gets him a beer and pours one for me, too.

“What is this place?” I ask, glancing over at the ring. “I thought it was a bar.”

“It is a bar, but also a boxing gym. We put on extremely illegal fights on the weekends and do a good business selling alcohol and taking bets.” He leans closer, speaking quietly. “The fights are all staged, but don’t tell anyone.” He winks and laughs when I stare at him like he’s the most horrendous man alive. I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

“This was a mistake,” I mutter and go to get up.

“Val, hold on.” His smile fades as he pushes the beer to me. “Don’t storm off. You came all the way here.”

I pick it up. I’m not really a beer girl but I know what he thinks of me, and I don’t want to give him any more reason to think it.

I’m Valentina Santoro. Daughter of a powerful former mob boss. Spoiled all her life. Useless, worthless, good for absolutely nothing more than a whole lot of headaches, with zero skills.

He’s not wrong: my father doted on me, kept me sheltered, and barely even let me graduate from a fancy private school. Forget college. Forget real world experience.

When my father died, I was left with nothing. My best friend— ex-best friend —Marco saved me, kept me from the Capos that wanted to marry or kill me, and paid me to be his assistant. That worked, up until it didn’t.

So I drink the stupid beer. I’m not about to be picky right now and give him another reason to think I’m a fussy princess.

“I have a job for you,” I say, not looking at him, because that’s very difficult right now. Say what you want about Ronan Hayes, and I’ve said a whole lot of unkind things, but he is very handsome, which is only compounded by his sweaty, muscular chest and arms, and the intimidating tattoos on his skin.

“You have a job for me?” There’s that amused tone again. “Seriously, Val?”

“Yeah, definitely a mistake. Forget it.” I start to stand again and he sighs, sounding annoyed. His hand reaches out and grabs my wrist.

“Stop acting like talking to me is worse than getting the plague,” he says and I think it might be the first time I’ve ever seen him serious. But that quickly clears up. “I’m a delight and you can’t keep your eyes off my masculine physique.”

“Seriously, Ronan, I don’t know what Marco ever saw in you.” I sit back down, mostly so he’ll let me go. Which he does, thank God.

“Same back to you, darling. But you’re not here to chat about our former friend and current frenemy, are you?”

“It’s a good job,” I say, leaning against the bar, bunching my shoulders a bit.

Ronan leans up next to me. Niall’s lurking nearby, acting as a buffer between us and the rest of the men. I assume they’re all in Ronan’s family: he’s the leader of a criminal organization centered around the Hayes Group, a bunch of low-life Irish gangsters with a love for violence and a robust cocaine smuggling operation. Nobody knows how it works, but they’re prolific and profitable. And allegedly, they’re all related. At least they all call each other cousin .

“All right, give me the details. I’ll consider it, for old time’s sake, at least.” He drinks his beer and I fill him in.

I don’t have much to offer. I know it and he knows it. Heck, the whole world knows it. Valentina Santoro’s just a pair of tits and a pretty face, and not much else. Except I’m not: when I was working with Marco, half of his best ideas came from me. He was trying to build an alliance of crime families to stand in opposition to the most powerful organization in all of Chicago, the Bianco Famiglia, and I was the one nudging everyone together and pulling the strings. Marco got credit, but it was me .

Which is why I know this is a good idea. Ronan doesn’t deserve it, but he’s the only person in this city that I partially trust and who could pull it off.

“One of my dad’s former Capos runs a chop shop out in the suburbs. He’s got a bunch of young guys stealing cars all over town and they bring them out to him twice a week. He breaks them down, sells the parts, and rewards his best earners with bonuses. I know some of his employees, I know his schedule, and I know how we can take his earnings.”

Ronan seems surprised. He leans on an elbow, studying me with the most serious expression I’ve ever seen him wear. Normally, Ronan’s joking around and teasing me, acting like nothing in the world matters, but right now he seems thoughtful, almost subdued.

Maybe Seamus knocked his brain loose.

“You want me to steal from a former mob Capo?” he asks quietly.

“It’ll be easy. Like I said, I did the groundwork.”

“You know how many guards he has? You know exactly where he keeps his cash?”

“No, but?—”

“You know how many cars come in each night? And who his buyers are?” Ronan peppers me with half a dozen more questions, none of which I can answer. He’s shaking his head by the time he’s done. “I’m sorry, Val, but it’s not enough.”

“We can do this,” I say through my teeth. “I’ll give you everything I have. All I want is a small finder’s fee. Ten percent.”

He finishes his beer. “It’s not enough.”

“Ronan—”

He leans in closer. My breath hitches in my chest as his lips pull back into a gorgeous, cocky smirk. “How about you get down on your knees and beg for my help? Then maybe I’ll consider it.”

My eyes widen. There’s something dark and wrong about the way he says on your knees and a sick thrill runs into my core. Ronan’s handsome, I’ll give him that, and the idea of getting closer to him—even touching him—even letting him run his hands down my curves?—

But no, absolutely no way.

And yet I’m desperate.

So fucking desperate, it’s pathetic, and what does it matter if Ronan gets to see me degrade myself? How much further can I really fall? I’m already at my lowest and I might as well get a little bit lower if that means fighting my way out of this.

Fury wells up in my stomach, but the rage is tempered by a strange desire, one I didn’t know I could feel for Ronan Hayes.

I shift out of my seat. I start to lower myself, heart racing. He stares down at me and licks his lips like he’s starving. The look on his face sends my heart into convulsions. I reach one knee and glare up at him. “Is this enough?”

“I like you down there,” he says like a purr, but takes my arm and pulls me back up. “But it doesn’t really change anything.”

I pull away from him like an electric shock ran down my spine. “What are you talking about, you prick?”

He puts his glass down and turns it in a slow circle. Condensation rolls down the glass. He’s not smiling anymore. “While I appreciate your willingness and find it extremely attractive, it’s just not enough. Ever since we made a move on the Biancos a few months back, I’ve had to lie low in case they knew I was a part of it. So far, seems like they blame Adam, God rest the poor bastard’s soul, but you never know. I can’t take a risk right now.”

I suck in a breath through my nose. That fucking asshole made me beg and he’s still turning me down. The absolute nerve of this arrogant assholes—it’s no wonder I hate him so much. And yet I still need him, because Ronan’s the only person in this city that might help.

“How much more do you need?” I say through my teeth, simultaneously despising him and myself.

“Get answers to all my questions, then we’ll talk.”

Asshole. He knows he’s being unreasonable. Guys like him with his resources and skills have taken on harder work with much less. This would be a score, and it’d be against another criminal, meaning any police involvement would be lackluster, at best.

I feel my chance fading. This was my best idea, and if I can’t make enough money to pay rent and buy some food soon, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.

Worthless. Useless. Stupid Valentina .

I get up from the bar and he doesn’t stop me this time. “You’re bleeding,” I tell him and start to walk away.

He follows me, the rag pressed against his nose. “Listen, if you need something?—”

“I’m not taking charity.” Except I should. I really, really should. Only I can see my father rolling over in his grave. A Santoro, begging for scraps from the Irish? It’s impossible. It’s unheard of. Maybe he feels bad for making me kneel down and still rejecting my offer, but screw him. “Someone else will do the job. Maybe Julien.” The head of the French organization isn’t my biggest fan, but he’s got the muscle to make this work. Maybe I can convince him.

“Maybe Julien,” Ronan echoes, but the look on his face suggests he doubts it. “Are you sure you’re good? I know it’s got to be hard after Marco and all?—”

I pin him with a glare. “I’m fine , okay? I was just bringing you an opportunity, that’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s all.” His smile returns. It’s soft and knowing, and I hate him for it. “Come back anytime, darling. You look great, by the way.”

“You look like shit. You’re dripping again.”

He grunts and looks down at himself, and I shove my way through the door, back out into the Chicago evening.

Stupid. So stupid. I should’ve known Ronan would turn me down. And I should’ve told him the truth: I’m struggling, running out of options, and willing to do almost anything to keep myself afloat.

Maybe when I get back to my apartment, my pride can feed me and pay my electric bill and make my landlord happy again.

Or maybe I’m just screwed.

Unless I can answer all of Ronan’s questions.