Page 55 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“I’m on my way.” I glance at my wife, who’s staring at me with squinted eyes through the narrow gap. “I should be home for dinner, and I’ll pick something up for us. Tell Greta to stay out of the kitchen from now on. Her cooking is even worse than I remembered.”

Instead of a response, the door slams shut in my face.

“That’s for the booth at the far end.” Jelena sets two White Russians on my serving tray. “So hey, not that I’m not happy to see ya, but how come you’re here right now?”

I shrug in response.

“Did your sexy hubby finally let you out of the bedroom for a breath of fresh air? Wouldn’t surprise me, if that’s what actually happened.” Leaning over the bar, she grins and wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Is it true that Italians are beasts in bed?”

“Definitely.” Grabbing the tray laden with drinks, I quickly turn around and head across the dance floor.

I’m glad to be back at Naos. It’s not that I suddenly enjoy waiting tables, but it’s great to once again be on familiar ground. I need to feel in control of my own life, for at least a few short hours.

As usual at this early hour, just after four on a Sunday afternoon, most of the tables and booths are occupied, but the dance floor remains vacant.

For most of the patrons present, this time is all about business, not about having a little fun.

But things will pick up later. Around midnight, this place will be rocking, especially since Drago loosened some of the exclusive club rules over the last couple of months after the success of the biker bash.

Now, on slower nights like Thursdays and Sundays, he lets Naos transform into a more conventional nightclub.

A hotspot for the criminal underworld’s young and restless, who appreciate the safe haven offered by my brother’s club.

Here, they can unwind or engage in executive dealings without fearing for their lives.

Without having to capitulate or risk bloody engagements while meeting with rivals on hostile grounds.

Naos is a neutral territory where access is open to a variety of underground organizations in New York.

As long as they follow Drago’s rules, that is.

And can afford the steep price tag. The safeguards that come with Naos’s unique status aren’t cheap, and Drago has made an enormous amount of money by offering this little sanctuary service.

Security is always tight. At any given time, at least fifteen heavily armed men are scattered throughout the venue, making sure the neutrality of the place is maintained.

That leaves everyone free to conduct their business, be it a truce between competing gangs or drug deals worth millions.

Drago’s protection ensures no throats get cut.

And for the younger crowd, they can have a night on the town and not worry about a run-in with someone who might have a grudge against their side.

Crossing paths with one of the other serving girls, I head toward the furthest booth where two men seem to be engaged in a deep discussion.

One, in a black suit, is sitting with his back to me.

But the other, the guy facing me, I recognize right away.

Although I don’t know his affiliation, I’ve seen him around here plenty of times.

It’s also not hard to guess what type of business he’s involved in.

He’s unassuming-looking, with tattoos peeking out from the collar of his simple white dress shirt.

However, the files filled with headshots of people who often end up on the morning news are kind of a dead giveaway about his profession.

In fact, he’s got one with a mark in front of him now.

“Your drinks, gentlemen.” I smile and set the cocktail glasses next to the yellow folder laid out on the low table. I don’t mean to, but I catch a look at what’s inside. A photograph of a man who seems familiar, even though I can’t quite place where I might have seen him before.

“Mrs. DeVille,” the suit-clad man says beside me. “What a pleasant surprise.”

I look over, gaping at the owner of that cultured voice. “Mr. Ruffo. Didn’t expect to see you here. Small world.”

“Indeed. How are you? I’m glad to see you unharmed in the wake of the incident after our dinner meeting. Please pass along my sincere apologies to your husband.”

My eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“The attack on your vehicle. I’m afraid it may have been meant for me.”

“Oh. That’s… I’m not sure what to say. I hope that sort of thing doesn’t happen to you too often. People trying to kill you, I mean.”

A smile spreads across his lips, but it doesn’t appear the least bit genuine. “Of course not.”

Yeah, sure. Especially considering what he’s into. My gaze darts to the folder once again, but the photo of whom I assume is the target is no longer in view.

“So… I hope you both enjoy the rest of your day. If you need anything else, just wave,” I chirp, quickly retreating to the bar.

This just proves it. People are never what they seem.

Upon meeting him, I was completely certain that Adriano Ruffo was exactly who he presented himself to be.

A gracious, sophisticated businessman with unfortunate ties to the Boston Cosa Nostra.

I figured he got mixed up with them by chance, perhaps through a family connection.

But here he is. Hiring a hitman to take out someone.

“Don’t go into the back room,” Jelena says as she approaches, carrying a full tray of drinks.

“Some idiot pulled a knife, so our boys are reminding him of the house rules. It might take them a while to teach him the lesson. The guy had to be dumber than a post if he thought he’d get away with that shit. ”

I shrug. “Someone else will need to be on mop duty. I’m off in less than an hour, and I’m wearing my favorite pair of heels.”

I lift the counter flap, slipping behind the bar.

Although I’m still in the middle of all the hustle and bustle, crouching down by the cubby where I left my phone allows me a minute of peace.

Sienna texted me, pretty much saying that Arturo and I are expected over for dinner tonight.

Soooo not happening. I send a quick message back to her, letting her know I picked up an evening shift at Naos.

The less thrilling “fun fact” is the seventeen missed calls from my dearest husband. I bet he got home early and was pissed to discover that his trained wife-slash-pet wasn’t there.

He should consider himself lucky. If I were home, I would likely be tempted to sprinkle rat poison on his food.

While his sick ass was lying in bed, I’ve been going through hell and doing my damnedest not to have a full-blown panic attack.

Each time I entered that kitchen and turned on the stove to make His Dickbag Highness food, I wasn’t sure if I’d make it out.

But I did it. And for what? For him to turn around and tell me his meals sucked?

Yeah, I know! I’m not the best cook, but I had no choice in the matter.

Between me sending Greta and the other staff away and his orders not to allow food deliveries, I had to do something to feed the ungrateful germ-infested jackass!

He’s so fucking oblivious, too. He didn’t even realize that it was just the two of us in the house since Monday.

That it was I, not Greta, who took care of him.

So, yeah… I couldn’t slam that door in his face fast enough earlier today.

I’m just thankful I managed to do it before he saw my tears.

I’m still hurt. And mad. Maybe I’ll stay at Naos and do another shift so I don’t have to go home and face him.

I could even crash on the cot in the staff room tonight.

My back is gonna kill me in the morning, but it would be better than the alternative.

The one thing I won’t allow myself anymore, though, is to feel concern for someone who obviously doesn’t give a fuck about me.

I won’t ever let him hurt me again. Stupid bastard.

I swipe the screen, deleting every missed call notification. “Fuck you, Arturo DeVille.”

Suddenly, the overhead lights go out, and the music dies.

What the—?

A resigned silence descends on the room. A few gasps sound here and there, but that’s about it. The crowd here is not prone to falling into hysterics or raising alarms without good reason.

The emergency lighting along the baseboards comes to life.

“Everything is fine. Please stay calm.” Jovan’s voice echoes from somewhere to my right. “There may have been a short circuit in our electrical panel and—”

Automatic gunfire erupts in the air.

The mirrored wall and hundreds of liquor bottles above my head explode, unleashing a torrent of shards and liquid. I scream and cover my head with my arms.

Six hours earlier

“I made the discovery when I arrived.”

Taking off my sunglasses, I survey the scene of destruction before me. Even for a construction site, this place looks like an utter mess.

“Whoever hit us, did everything they could to not draw outside attention,” Nino continues. “The exterior wall is intact, and I don’t think there would have been much noise.”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad. The generator power cables were cut, and most of the heavy machinery has been disabled. Hydraulic lines, circuit boards, distribution panels. You name it, they sabotaged it. Computers and other electronics in the site office were smashed to smithereens.”

“Why didn’t anyone report it sooner?”

“It’s Sunday. The site has been shut down since about six on Friday night. We did have guards on duty. Both are dead.”