The Hitman's Dancer: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Snake Eyes Book 2) (2 page)

“You have my word, Mr. Vaughn,” I say. “As long as you keep up with your payments, neither of you will be harmed in any way.”

“May I speak with her privately first?”

“Of course.”

He pushes down on his desk to stand up from his chair. “She won’t like this.”

“I trust you’ll convince her it’s the right thing to do.” My eyes shift towards the frame once more and then fall along the subtle curve of her hip. “She seems the reasonable sort.”

His brow bounces. “Do you have a daughter of your own, Mr. Hart?”

“No.”

“I figured…” he mutters, pushing his fingers back through his thin, graying hair. “Young girls… they aren’t like they used to be, ya know.” He walks across the office and pulls the door open while I wonder what he means. “I’ll go get her. You stay here—” He spins around quickly and offers an apologetic smile. “If you don’t mind.”

I say nothing in response. Finally, he leaves, closing the door behind him with a quick jerking motion, eager to put as many walls between the two of us as possible.

The innocent ballerina gazes back at me from her frame. I can already imagine her beneath me; wide-eyed, trembling. Pure as freshly fallen snow.

I lick my lips as my dick strains against my briefs.

Chapter 2

Lucy

“You did
what?
”

My father jolts but not out of surprise. He knew exactly how I’d react to this. I could tell he had something massively stupid to say the second he walked into the rehearsal room. Head down. Eyes barely open to hide his shame. That’s the great Terrance Vaughn for you. The epitome of cowardice. “Lucy, calm down—”

“Are you fucking insane?!”

My voice echoes through the hall. The other dancers pause mid-plié, gawking at me through the mirrored walls as if something exploded. I ignore them.

“Keep your voice down. He’s down the hall—”

“I don’t care where he is! I’m not going!”

My father snatches my arm and pulls me away from the balance bar. I let him tug me along until we enter the dressing room, then I slide my arm from his grasp. “Lucy, I’m begging you,” he says, whispering with bite. “Just go out with the guy for one night.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

He hesitates. “I owe some money to some bad people—”

I roll my eyes. “Big freakin’ surprise. Not my problem.”

His eyes fill with overt fear. “If you don’t go tonight, he’ll kill me.”

I snort. It’s not the first time I’ve heard him say this. His paranoia has gotten old. “How unfortunate.”

“This entire company will crumble, Lucy,” he claims, desperation straining his words. “You might not care about me, but you don’t want
that
, do you?”

I sigh, folding my arms across my chest. “No, I don’t.”

“I’m sorry, Lucy, but…” His eyes wither in his head.

“What?”

He leans in closer. “You’re probably going to have to…
sleep with him
.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that,
Pops
.”

“He promised not to hurt you.”

“Because gangsters are totally known for their
honesty
and
integrity
.”

“Please, just do whatever he wants and I’ll never ask anything of you ever again.”

I scoff. “Yeah, I believe in an honest gangster more than I believe
that.
”

“Lucy…” He stares me down.
“Please.
He asked for
you
specifically.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”

“He saw your photo in my office. I think he
likes
you.”

Bile rises in my throat.
“Ugh…”

“Just go with him, show him a good time, and for god’s sake —
don’t mouth off to him.
Mind your damn manners for once.”

“I’m supposed to
thank him
for the privilege of sucking his dick?”

“
Yes, sir. Please, sir. Thank you, sir.
That’s all you gotta to say. It all goes well, I’ll make sure you get Black Swan next season.”

“No, thank you, sir,”
I bite. “I’ll earn that myself. I don’t need your help.”

He shakes his head with supreme annoyance. It’s all part of our own special father-daughter routine. He does something stupid. I bend over backward (literally) to get him out of it. He claims he’ll never fuck up again, promises me the world, and I reset the days-since-the-last-accident counter back to zero.

“You know,” he bites, “if you weren’t so damn talented, I’d of dumped you out on the street already.”

He doesn’t mean a word of it, of course. He’s just angry. Not at me, at himself. “Such lovely words for the daughter you’re asking a
huge
favor of,” I argue, holding my rage at bay. I don’t like being so hostile towards him but it’s hard not to be sometimes. “I think I’ll take in a movie tonight instead. That new Bruckberg flick is playing downtown…”

His eyes droop. “Lucy…”

“Calm down, Dad…” I tilt my neck until it pops. “I’ll go with him.”

“Thank you, Lucy,” he says slowly, heaving a thin, regretful sigh. “It’s just one night.”

“Just one night…” I turn back to my locker. “Let me put on some pants first.”

“I’ll wait outside.” He spins around and walks out. Head down. Eyes barely open to hide his shame.

Fucking hell, Dad.
He owes money to some “bad people.”
Again
. If I know my father, it’s all gambling debt.
Mafia
gambling debt. Every last damn penny of it. He’s got a knack for losing at poker. And blackjack. And horse racing. If you can lose even a single penny at it, you can bet your sorry ass my father has chanced it and failed.

I never understood why my mother spoke so harshly about him when I was a child. Back then, he was Terrance Vaughn. Yeah,
the
Terrance Vaughn. Chicago’s very own dancing sensation until about fifteen years ago when he busted his ankle and hung up his dancing shoes for good. He started the Vaughn Company after that to train the next generation of ballet dancers to take on the world and I’ve basically lived here ever since.

It would have been a happy ever after for all of us if the damn Italian mafia didn’t own the fucking block it sat on.

I was thirteen years old when I discovered my father’s gambling problem. My parents did a decent job at keeping it quiet until the day my mother walked out on us. Apparently, he drained her entire savings and blew it all on one hand of five-card stud. Full house. Aces over kings.

I haven’t seen her since. I get a phone call here and there on birthdays and major holidays. It used to hurt. A lot. Why didn’t she take me with her if my father was so horrible and irresponsible? Then I realized the obvious…

Because she was worse.

My father is a world-class fuckup but, at least, he’s never abandoned me. I’m not about to abandon him either.

I pull off my leotard and tights and slip into a pair of jeans and a black blouse I find stashed in the back of my locker. No sense in getting all dolled up if it’s just going to be on the floor of some weirdo’s dirty bedroom in an hour. I cringe at the thought.

I run a brush through my long, brunette hair and I slam the locker closed before going outside to meet my father in the hall.

“Smile,” he whispers as he leads me towards his office.

I lick my lips to loosen them and throw on the most adorable face I can while flipping him the bird.

He sighs and pushes his office door open. I hesitate for a moment before stepping inside, preparing myself for the worst. I picture a mighty, ugly man with proud scars all over his face and blubber about his waist. Yet another one of those sour Chicago gangsters that loves mother’s spaghetti just a bit too much.

My eyes fall on him and I pause. He stands up from the chair in front of my father’s desk. His eyes travel the length of me as mine bounce down his. He’s younger than I thought he’d be, probably not a day over thirty, and tall with short, ash brown hair, tanned skin, and a clear face — not a scratch on it meaning he’s either very new or very, very good at his job.

“Hello, Ms. Vaughn,” he greets me. His voice is dark, low, and fiercely American. He wasn’t born in old Italy and imported later, that’s for sure.

“Hello,” I say. My father nudges my back and I step forward an inch. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

He steps forward and extends his hand. “My name is Dante Hart.”

I fix my eyes in my skull to stop them from rolling back into oblivion.

Dante? Hart? Is this guy for real?

I throw on a pleasant smile and lay my fingers in his. I half expect him to lean over and kiss them like the schmuck he is, but he shakes my hand instead. I squeeze his knuckles tight and his eyebrow twitches. “It’s a
pleasure
, Mr. Hart.”

“Dante is fine,” he says.

My hand falls back to my side but my eyes stay on his. They’re a startling shade of blue, like the sky just before a thunderstorm. Not the kind I’d expect to see in the head of a psychotic mobster.

He smiles back at me and a shiver trails my back. “You’re just as beautiful as your portrait.”

I glance over his shoulder at the photo on my father’s shelf and red blushes my cheekbones. “Oh. Thank you, sir.”

Dante looks at my father. “Mr. Vaughn, if you don’t mind, may Ms. Vaughn and I have a moment alone, please?”

“Of course,” he answers, laying one last pinch of warning on my elbow. “I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you.”

The door opens and closes behind me. Dante shifts around to my father’s desk and leans back to sit against it. He checks me out again with a single smooth glance from my head to my toes.

I swallow the vomit down. “So, my father owes you money?”

“He owes my employer money.”

“And you’re here to collect it?”

“No.”

I wait for him to continue but he says nothing more. “Okay…” I force my smile a little wider. “So, what—”

“Relax.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Relax,”
he says again. “You’re tense.” His eyes charge down my body again.

“I’m not tense,” I argue. “This is just how I stand.”

He pushes off the desk and circles behind my back. His cologne strikes me as he draws closer. It’s light and fresh, not at all too strong or repugnant like I expected. He lays his hands on my shoulders and puts the slightest of pressure on my muscles. They bend to his will, smoothing out beneath his touch, alerting me to how tense I actually am.

Motherfucker.

“Relax,” he whispers. His breath runs across the back of my neck, tickling me softly.

I take a quick breath and exhale it out slowly to loosen my body. “Sorry,” I say.

He drops his hands and steps around to face me. “Don’t be. You don’t have to be nervous, Ms. Vaughn. I’m not going to hurt you unless you want me to.”

“Unless I
what
?”

“Your father has expressed some concerns,” he continues, ignoring my question. “I would like to spend the evening with you but he seems to think you’d object to the idea. Is this true?”

I search his eyes but I can’t find a single bit of malice in them, nothing that indicates a need for me to lie. “Yes.”

“Why do you object?”

“Because I am not an object.”

He smiles, showing off his perfect, white teeth and boyish charm. “That’s clever. I like that.” He spins around and wanders back to the desk.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hart—”

“Dante.”

“Mr. Hart, I was under the impression I had no choice in this.”

“You don’t. But that should no way mean we can’t enjoy ourselves tonight.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Really?”

“Absolutely not.”

“With all due respect, you’re holding a gun to my father’s head.”

“But not yours.”

“Yet.”

He laughs. “You aren’t at all what I imagined you’d be.”

“Funny. You’re exactly as I pictured you.”

“How’s that?”

“Just another two-bit Chicago thug with a gun to replace his balls.”

His smile remains. “I pictured you, well, like
that
.” He points to the photo over his shoulder. “Graceful. Elegant. Poised.”

“I’m all of the above.”

“Polite.”

“Have I
not
been polite?”

“You have… but I get the feeling you’re holding back that tongue of yours.” He tilts his head. “Am I right?”

I look at the floor. “Maybe.”

He stands again. “Well, go ahead, Ms. Vaughn. Tell me what you
really
think of tonight’s arrangement.”

I chew on my lip while he stares me down with amused eyes. “I think it’s fucking pathetic.”

“Pathetic?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“What else would you call a gangster who’d dangle a man’s gambling debts over his head just to fuck his daughter?”

“Efficient.”

I scoff. “Oh, please.”

“You disagree?”

“Of course.”

He steps closer and his cologne brushes my nose again. “How about this?” he whispers. “What if I told you that I
won’t
try to fuck you tonight?”