Arrangement with the Mafia

Soon, I’d shake hands with a murderer. And then I’d become one.

I gripped my handbag tighter as the elevator doors slid open. I told myself to breathe, but my body wasn’t listening. My heels wobbled slightly beneath me —my legs were stiff, and my stomach felt tight.

A security guard stepped forward, arm raised to stop me. Ray. I recognized him from my interview, where I struck a deal. I’d work here at La Rosa Rossa, help out when needed, and in return, I’d be safe. Protected. No one would touch me. Not in this club. Not in this city.

When Ray saw my face, he dropped his hand and gave me a nod.

The real search had already happened downstairs. The other guard had checked my handbag and patted me down. He hadn’t found anything.

Of course, he hadn’t.

The poison was hidden in plain sight—inside a designer perfume bottle. He’d looked at it and only thought I wanted to smell nice. My heart nearly exploded at the memory.

“Don’t be nervous on your first day,” Ray said as I walked past him. “You’ll do just fine.”

I gave him a polite smile.

He had no idea what I planned to do.

No one did.

Music drifted through the air—low, sultry, and expensive. Not the kind of loud, trashy beats you’d hear in any downtown dive bar. This wasn’t that kind of place.

La Rosa Rossa was a sanctuary for the elite. The powerful. The rich. The untouchable. The kind of people who made the rules—or broke them without consequence.

Somewhere inside this club was the man I came to meet. The man I came to kill.

But I didn’t see him yet.

Instead, my eyes swept over groups of well-dressed businessmen sipping top-shelf whiskey, dancers in glittering outfits that barely covered anything, and “rose girls” weaving through the crowd with trays balanced on their palms. They were the servers, bartenders, and hostesses of this place. Their hair was pinned up with tiny red roses—plastic ones, but still striking under the warm, moody lights.

Red couches lined the walls. Red lights glowed overhead. The only things untouched by the rebranding were the gold railings —leftovers from before the club changed hands. Before the Petrov family died. My heart tightened. Before the Valentis took over.

“Rose girl,” Madam Francesca Moretti waved me over. “Welcome.”

Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, checking that I matched the image. The short red dress clung to my body like a second skin. My heels added a few inches and made it hard to run. Red roses were clipped into my hair, marking me as one of them.

Rose girl. Not a dancer.

I wasn’t here to grind on anyone’s lap. I wasn’t slipping into any back rooms. I didn’t come here to seduce.

“Will I meet the boss?” I asked and immediately regretted it. Too forward. Too eager. Did I sound desperate? Or worse—did I sound like I didn’t belong?

Her painted smile stretched, tinged with pity. “Of course. But he’s occupied with another woman right now.”

Jealous. That’s what she thought I was. Good. Let her think that. It was far safer than the truth.

Better to seem like a lovesick girl than a future killer. Better to seem like a naive girl named Sasha than reveal my true identity and purpose.

Madam Moretti turned toward the bar just as a man rounded the corner. My breath caught. I gripped my handbag tighter, fingertips digging into the leather.

He was still the most handsome man I’d ever seen.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with a build that commanded attention. His tanned skin was smooth and warm-toned—like someone who spent time outside but never looked worn. Jet-black hair pushed back without a strand out of place, as if he didn’t need to try to look put together. He just was.

The suit he wore was dark and sharp—expensive-looking and tailored to perfection. Everything about him radiated power. Control. Like he was used to getting what he wanted.

There was no kindness in his face. No warmth in his eyes. He looked like someone who didn’t second-guess himself. Like someone who didn’t have a conscience.

“Oh, never mind,” Madam murmured under her breath.

The man noticed her instantly and changed course, walking directly toward us.

I didn’t need an introduction. I already knew who he was.

Leonardo Valenti.

The name repeated in my head. He was the son of Dante Valenti and the older brother of Niccolo Valenti. He was heir to the Valenti empire—an empire built on blood.

The Valentis weren’t just rich. They were old money, San Francisco royalty, with deep roots in politics, real estate, and high-end nightlife. Everyone knew their name. Everyone feared their power.

Leo was the reason I applied to be a rose girl. The reason I was here… and why I hadn’t slept in weeks.

I had studied his face, his life, and his crimes. And now he was standing right in front of me.

“Leo, this is Sasha,” Madam said. “Our newest rose girl.”

His eyes moved over me quickly, taking me in like he was scanning for weak spots. I braced myself for a smooth welcome, a fake smile, maybe even a sleazy compliment.

But what he said knocked the air out of me.

“You don’t belong here.”