Page 33 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

Paradiso Notturno

Paradiso Notturno was not just a club, it was a shrine of sin, an exclusive sanctuary where men with blood on their hands toasted champagne without guilt, or remorse.

Deals were struck in the VIP booths draped in red velvet, fortunes won and lost at exclusive gambling tables, and secrets were conceived and buried among the heavy, crimson curtained walls.

Leila stepped out first, her stilettos clicking against the gleaming marble floor. She was dressed for the part wearing a black silk dress with a high slit, which exposed just enough skin to be distracting, but not tempting.

Stefanos lagged behind her a beat later, his movements unhurried. He remained impassive, his face fixed in the same distant look he had worn since they left the Crete estate.

They hadn't exchanged a single word since they embarked on the journey, and Leila was grateful.

After what had happened in the Don's private library, any conversation between them would've been infected with unspoken recriminations, festering anger, and things that neither of them was ready to confront.

Two bouncers at the entrance stepped forward, their eyes scanning the approaching figures of Leila and Stefanos with quiet authority.

One of them extended a hand demanding for their weapon.

Stefanos hesitated briefly before handing over his gun, feeling its weight leave his palm.

The bouncer inspected it, gave a curt nod, and stepped aside.

As they walked forward, the massive double doors swung open revealing the world within.

Inside, the air was thick, heady, almost suffocating. It reeked of the acrid mix of cigars, spiced cologne, and the finest liquor money could buy.

Strippers moved with a snake-like precision along their poles, their bodies twirling in rhythm with the sensual throb of the jazz music playing in the background.

Power swirled in the air like smoke, and everyone present knew exactly where they stood in the pecking order.

Then there was Salvatore, waiting for them, perched in a tall-backed leather chair in the center of the room like a king over his domain.

The deep blue of his suit contrasted against the warm, golden and crimson background, so that it was not hard to find him.

He did not have to ask for attention—it seemed to go to him like a magnet.

His dark hair was slicked back, his sharp Italian features smooth, unruffled by worry.

His easy, relaxed posture spoke volumes of a man who had never known fear.

He lifted his glass in greeting, the edges of his lips twisting into a smirk as the duo approached.

"Ah, the prince and princess of the Crete," he said, his voice as smooth as silk. "And with a package from the King, no less."

Leila kept her face stoic, the pleasantry meaning absolutely nothing to her.

Stefanos stepped forward, setting the briefcase on the table between them.

Salvatore breathed in through his nose, twirling his drink before angling it towards them. "You see, I have a certain. distrust when it comes to deliveries. Let's call it a personal quirk."

In a careless flick of his wrist, two men stepped forward, grabbing Stefanos by the arms. Stefanos didn't resist. He submitted to their hold, his body stiff and unyielding, but there was a brief glance he gave Leila. The glance had been a wordless warning that she was on her own from then on.

Leila's heart didn't beat any faster, her face betrayed no emotions either. She did not blink, did not move, did not even shift her weight imperceptibly.

Salvatore watched her closely, his mouth curling up into a smile.

" Non è personale, è solo affari. " (It's nothing personal, just business.) His tone was trained, smooth. The kind of tone that had misled many previous to her to think he was a gentleman.

Leila's jaw muscles flexed a notch tight, but she remained silent.

"I'm liking you so far, bella," Salvatore continued, eyeing her with something that could be read as either curiosity or respect. "No sign of protest whatsoever. Not even the slightest flicker of emotion."

She tilted her head slightly. "Would protesting change anything?"

He adjusted in the chair, his smile broadening. "You're cold."

Leila looked at him, thinking he had no idea what cold really was. "Check the package."

Salvatore grinned. "Cutting to the chase, I see. I like that."

He reached for the case, fingers tracing over the metal handle as if he were inspecting a fine bottle of wine. Then, without breaking eye contact, he rose, taking the case with him.

"Come on, bella. Not here."

Leila hesitated only a heartbeat before trailing after him.

He led her through the booths with velvet curtains, through the private casinos where men rolled and played for stakes which were more valuable than money. They climbed a staircase, the beat of music below vibrating the walls. Salvatore pushed open the door to his office at the end of the corridor.

Salvatore's office was a contrast to the club in every way—dark mahogany furniture, bookcases full of leather-bound books, a bar full of pricey whiskey, and a single desk in the center.

Salvatore set the case on the desk.

But he didn't open it.

Instead, he leaned against the edge, tilting his head as he studied her. "I'll need to fetch the key," he said smoothly. "Take your time, bella."

And then he left.

Leila exhaled slowly.

She looked around the room warily. There were no cameras visible, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Guys like Salvatore always had eyes where you didn't see them.

Her gaze dropped to the case.

Her fists clenched.

All of her nerves were yelling at her to open it. It wasn't a case of sheer morbid curiosity—it was all the years of relying on her survival instinct knocking. Information was power. Knowing what was inside could be relevant as far as her death or survival.

But Matteo hadn't sent her here to dig around. He'd instructed her clearly to deliver the package, confirm, and leave.

Leila clenched her fists, pulling herself away from the temptation to pry.

Minutes passed.

Then the door creaked open.

Salvatore reappeared, his smile easy. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

Leila said nothing, watching as he stepped behind the desk, a small silver key glinting between his fingers.

He jammed it into the lock. A soft click. The top came off. The case contained neatly stacked papers.

Leila's stomach twisted. She couldn't help the thought that those were not just ordinary papers.

Salvatore flipped through them, whistling his appreciation. Then, hesitating for a moment, nodded.

"Perfect. It's all here."

Leila let out her pent breath. The mission was complete.

Or so she thought.

Because then, he reached into his pocket and slid something across the table.

A photo.

Leila's blood turned to ice.

Her breath caught as she gazed at the photo.

It was him—bound, bloodied, captured.

The leader of the Babros.

The man behind all the rivalry in her life. The one enemy that her family had never managed to defeat to their liking. The one who if her family had been given a longer time before they'd been murdered would have been put in his place.

Salvatore looked at her, eyes glinting.

"You want revenge, don't you?"

Leila's fingers curled into fists. "What do you know about what I want?"

Salvatore chuckled. "I know a lot. I know the Cretes took your family from you. I know this man was your biggest rival in America. I know you lost everything."

Silence, complete and still.

And then he stepped forward, his voice dropping to a conspiring whisper. "And I know the Cretes don't deserve your loyalty. Matteo. Makros. They're playing you. You were better than that."

Leila's body did not move, but her heart hammered against the bones of her ribcage.

He smiled. "I can help you get even with the Cretes. But you must decide."

Then Salvatore pushed a gun into her hand.

"Don't you want justice?" His voice rose slightly. "Kill Stefanos."

The door groaned open.

Stefanos was pulled in, two men shoving him ahead of them.

His shirt was tattered, blood smeared on his shoulder seeping through the white fabric. His jaw was bruised. He looked like he'd barely been able to pull himself out of a beating.

His eyes did not meet Leila's.

Leila was taken aback by his battered appearance.

She stared at the gun, feeling the weight of it in her hands. She wondered if this was the real test of the mission. But what if it wasn't?

What if this wasn't a test?

What if this was her only opportunity?

Stefanos at last turned to regard her.

Leila faltered.

Not because she gave a damn about his life's worth, but because she knew if she made the wrong move it could result in some serious consequences.

Then, with one fluid motion—She pointed the gun at Salvatore.

Pulled the trigger.

Click. Click. Click.

Empty.

Salvatore laughed loudly.

"Well, well." He clapped slowly, deliberately. "You're smarter than the Don gives you credit for."

The tension snapped as the realization hit.

Salvatore circled her again, his eyes inscrutable. "You had a choice, Leila."

She whirled to confront him.

He sneered. "You chose to betray the traitor, not your family."

The two men released Stefanos. He wiped his jaw, smearing away the fake blood. "For an instant there, Leila, I thought you would shoot me in the head."

Salvatore grinned. "Welcome to the Italian mafia, bella ."

Leila swallowed.

She'd passed the Don's test.

But she'd never felt more trapped.