Her Italian Hitman

by Regina Wade

  I give her a smile, hugging her tight.

  “I meant what I said, cara. When we’re through, I’ll take you where you want to go. Home, eventually. There’s a dozen places I want to show you first. Rome. Venice. Genoa. We’ll have to make a list.”

  “Promise me.” She whirls around to look at me. “Promise me we’ll see them all, Enzo, and I’ll believe you.” Her voice is tight, the tiniest thread of nerves sneaking in beneath her resolve.

  “I swear it on my life and on my honor. I swear it by all the love I have in my heart for you. We’ll see the whole fucking world.” I turn her in my arms, pressing a passionate kiss to her lips, sealing my promise in the best way I know how.

  We break apart, and Eliza wipes at the corners of her eyes.

  “Damn it, I just finished. This mascara needs fixing now,” she sighs. She doesn’t sound particularly broken up about it.

  I shrug.

  “Looks fine to me, beautiful. Now, do you have protection?”

  Eliza blinks at me.

  “Enzo, we haven’t been using any…” she trails off as I pull my Beretta out of it’s holster, raising an eyebrow at her.

  She smiles, an embarrassed flush tinging her cheeks a perfect shade of pink.

  “Oh. Right. Uh, yes. But I don’t want to have to pull it out until it’s necessary. Getting it back on would be hell.” She grins at me, and I nod.

  “Alright. Let's crash a funeral.”

  Chapter 9

  Eliza

  They call you Lady Luck. But there is room for doubt. At times you have a very unladylike way of running out. — Frank Sinatra, ‘Luck be a Lady’

  The Bianchi brothers, Enzo explains to me in the car ride over, are notorious recluses. In the world of organized crime, you’re either careful or you’re dead, and they’ve been careful enough to last for a long, long time.

  Until this week, that is. One slip up, literally, and the famous duo is down to one.

  “My original plan is still roughly in place. Get one of them, or even someone close to one of them, and that creates an opening to take the other out. The Bianchis have only been out in public five times in the past decade.”

  “Four weddings and a funeral?” I guess. Enzo grins at me.

  “Bingo. No Hugh Grant in sight, though. They still have security, of course, but it’s slightly easier to defeat than their compounds at home.”

  “Couldn’t you just, I don’t know, mail them a bomb or hit them with a missile or something?”

  Enzo’s handsome smile dissolves into a grimace.

  “Few problems with that. We never know exactly where they are. They’re very good at being one step ahead of us. They’re established enough that they’ve got their fingers on the pulse of everything that happens in the world of crime. Plus they don’t exactly open their own mail.” He ticks away the issues with my terrible Bond plot on the hand currently not steering our Portofino through the back streets of Summerlin. “Then there’s the collateral damage. They’ve always got a ton of innocent family around them.”

  I smile over at him, reaching down to give the hand that isn't on the wheel a squeeze.

  “You’re a good guy, Enzo. I love that you let your honor guide you.”

  He snorts. “I’ve done my fair share of terrible things, tesoro.”

  I lean against his shoulder, resting my head on the strength of him.

  “If you did, you had a reason. I trust you. I’m a great judge of character, and you’re a good man, Enzo Rossi.”

  He doesn’t respond with words, but his arm wraps around my shoulders, snugging me tighter. There isn’t a ton of space in the car to begin with — Ferrari’s aren’t spacious, just fast.

  Fast and gorgeous. Just like Enzo.

  “Alright. We’re here. Game face on. Last chance to back out. It’s seriously fine if you want to stay out of this, Eliza.”

  I shake my head, giving him a pointed look.

  “Enzo. I love you, but I’m not going to sit back while you risk your life for me. We work better together anyway.”

  Enzo frowns at me. “How do you figure?”

  I shrug, smiling slyly.

  “Well, it took you how many years to get this opening on the Bianchis? But we partnered up, and within a week we’ll have taken them both out. Really, it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long without me.”

  Enzo can’t help but laugh. It eases some tension from his face, which I figure can only help our odds of looking like just another nice, happy couple attending the funeral of a dead sex-trafficking crime lord.

  Showtime.

  Chapter 10

  Enzo

  You’re gonna be a shinin’ star. In fancy clothes and fancy cars. And then you’ll see, you’re gonna go far. — Rihanna, ‘Live Your Life’

  The Holy Spirit Catholic Church is sprawling and excessive. To use one of Eliza’s favorite expressions, it’s the most extra house of worship for miles.

  I pull the Portofino up into the heavily-guarded parking lot of the church. It feels a little like cruising into shark-infested waters. This isn’t the first time I’ve strolled into a den full of killers, but Rocco Bianchi is in a league of his own. I’ve been on the man’s heels for so long that being this close to taking down his entire organization feels almost surreal.

  I can’t see Remy and his men, but I know they’re out there. Tucked away as part of the scenery, disappeared into the background. He’s here, strategically surrounding the church, watching pivotal points. I don’t trust many people in the world, but my old friend is one. God knows how long he’s had his men set up, or how much he can hear.

  But I have to trust him. Remy’s never let me down before, and he better not start today.

  “Come on, baby,” Eliza’s hand finds its way into mine as we make our way across the smooth asphalt towards the front doors of the church.

  It strikes me, as we walk out of the heat and into the unknown, that I trust Eliza just as much. She may have just been trying to ease my mind, but she was right— we’re better together.

  The inside of The Holy Spirit Church is just as excessive as the spiraling exterior. Stylized stained glass windows send brilliant patterns of color spiraling across the serpentine pews. A massive baptismal font fills the glass and marble entrance. Carved dove wings emerge from the bubbling well.

  Everything about the church is grand and open, the focal point of the main space clearly a massive round skylight and dripping chandelier hanging above the altar.

  Growing up in Italy, there was never a shortage of functions taking place at church. Baptisms, weddings. Funerals, confirmations. Lent, confession, Easter, Christmas. Anything worth doing was worth going to mass over. Ancient cathedrals and small modern churches— I’ve seen my fair share of the inside of God’s house before.

  The inside of the Holy Spirit is cold. Ironically, there’s no spirit inside its sleek walls. The serene quiet of church has been kidnapped here, replaced with an oppressive, stifled silence. The hair on the back of my neck rises the moment Eliza and I fully step through the double doors.

  The scent of flowers is intense, a cloying perfume that presses down around us. Bouquets of roses and lilies, carnations and sprays of every imaginable tropical combination fill the space between the altar and the pews. Nestled among the ribbons and banners like an ornate white and gold raft afloat among a sea of bulbs and petals is Gio Bianchi’s casket. A giant photo of him sits on the steps at the foot of the altar, its heavy gilded frame blocking most of the view of the pulpit and cross behind it.

  My hand tightens on Eliza’s wrist, stopping her before she walks into the open space of the church. It’s more instinct than anything. A general realization that the guests aren’t seated in their pews, the glimpse of a closed casket for a man as vain as Bianchi. Even the flood of flowers isn’t quite expensive enough to pass muster. My gut clenches, screaming set up at me, full volume.

  It’s a voice that’s saved my life more than once over the ye
ars. I’ve learned not to ignore it.

  Eliza’s dark eyes are turned to mine, brilliant in the sunlight filtering in through the skylight. She feels it too, and I hate the fear I see reflected on her face.

  “Miss Piazza.” The voice is familiar— I’ve heard Rocco Bianchi on dozens of surveillance tapes and deposition videos over the years. To hear Eliza’s name on the man’s lips fills me with unreasonable anger. The elder Bianchi brother materializes from the other side of the church, seemingly appearing from the shadows like a damn ghost. “How nice of you to come pay your last respects to my brother.”

  I have just one moment to give Eliza’s hand a squeeze. One last reassuring touch.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  Bianchi’s men appear around us, guns already drawn. Before they have a chance to raise them, though, bullets erupt around us. Several thugs hit the floor, red stains spreading across the white of their dress shirts. Shouts and screams erupt around us as I tackle Eliza to the floor.

  No matter what happens, her safety has to come first. Protecting her comes before anything else, before the mission, before Bianchi. I’d never forgive myself if I let anything happen to her. I shield her with my body. I have just enough time to see Bianchi aiming at us as I drag her to the side.

  White-hot pain erupts in my shoulder as the bullet takes me from behind. I reach for my holster, but the nerves in my right arm suddenly refuse to cooperate. Snarling, I fumble for the holster under my left shoulder with the same hand, an almost impossible task.

  Eliza cooly and calmly draws the Walther from where it’s strapped to her thigh and puts three shots into Rocco Bianchi like she’s shooting just another target on the range.

  Suddenly, the storm around us abates. Bianchi men lay dead or dying. I grit my teeth and lever myself up, getting my own weapon into my hand just in case any of them wants to go out in a blaze of glory like their boss.

  “You ok?” I ask Eliza, scanning the Church.

  “I’m fine. You’re bleeding,” Eliza says, concern colors her voice as she studies the men around us, mimicking my movements. “You scared me, Enzo.”

  “He’s had worse,” Remy says by way of greeting as he moves up to us. Rifle in hand and covered in tactical gear, Remy looks every inch the GIGN agent.

  Eliza’s hand presses into my shoulder, dark blood spreading out between the pale skin of her fingers. The fear is back in her eyes. She didn’t flinch, even for a moment, when the gun was in her hand and she was facing one of the deadliest men in the world. But the sight of my blood is making her chew that perfect bottom lip in worry.

  It makes my heart swell all over for her.

  “Remy’s right, it looks worse than it is,” I smile up at Eliza through the pain shooting down my arm. In the light filtering in from the church, she looks like a sexy angel. “But I don’t mind if you want to keep your hands on me for a bit. You’ve got one hell of a magic touch, cara.”

  Epilogue: One Year Later

  Eliza

  In the end, we stayed in Vegas.

  Oh, we traveled all over the world. I’ve been to places I never thought I’d get a chance to see outside of television or movies. Paris. Tokyo. Every city in Italy, of course. Even the small ones, which turned out to be some of my favorites.

  But Vegas called us back. At first, it was just where my stuff was. Then it was where our stuff was. When we started talking about opening up my own spa, we looked around, but Vegas is really the best place to be if you want to put your hands on somebody.

  Sin City Spa is the newest, most prestigious place yet. All of my clients aren’t just vetted by me — they’re vetted by Enzo. That means rigorous background checks. Files pulled in international intelligence agencies around the world.

  It means I usually work about twice a week, because you wouldn’t believe the reasons Enzo comes up with for rejecting my potential clients.

  “Enzo. I love you with all of my heart, but you're being a little bit overprotective. Not everyone is hiding some dark criminal past.” I tell him one morning over breakfast.

  He just chuckles, turning his laptop so that I can see it.

  “This one is, though. See?” he points at the woman’s mugshot. I squint.

  “She got stopped for jaywalking and the cops brought her in because they found a blunt in her purse. She’s hardly a hardened criminal, Enzo.”

  He shrugs, grinning at me.

  “That wasn’t the deal. If they’ve got a rap sheet, they don’t get to feel your sweet hands working their magic.” He says with a smug grin.

  Enzo positively delights in not letting me work. It’s frustrating, but also sweet and incredibly endearing.

  “You’re impossible, Enzo Rossi,” I say with a sigh as I wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him close.

  “Then we’re a good pair, aren’t we Mrs. Rossi?”

  My spa is built into our place, which is sprawling. That was my one sticking point about staying near Vegas: I wanted to have space.

  Enzo made it happen. I’ve got no idea how much the place cost, and I don’t want to know. I have a feeling more than a little pressure was exerted on the bank to give us a steep discount.

  All I do know for sure is that my man keeps his promises. I’m safe with him, even if he is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. He might be lethal, but he’s mine.

  “Enzo, I know you aren’t from around here, so let me explain something to you. This? This is you being just a little bit extra, and I need you to tone it down.” I murmur against his ear as he continues typing away at the laptop, rejecting client after client for any number of small-time crimes.

  “When it comes to you, cara, I’ll always be as extra as necessary.”

  “That one didn’t even get convicted. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I ask, sighing.

  Enzo shrugs. “If he wins his trial, he can reapply. That was the last one for tomorrow, by the way. Looks like you’ve got another Friday off. Want to go somewhere with our four-day weekend?”

  I resist the urge to strangle him. Instead, I close my eyes and count to five before trying again.

  “Enzo, my love, I appreciate your thoroughness in all things —”

  “ — I should hope so, I was pretty thorough with that pussy last night —” he quips.

  I roll my eyes. “ — but what I really, really want to do is work. I like work. I enjoy helping people. It makes me happy.”

  “I make you happy,” Enzo grins, turning around in my arms to gaze up at me. His eyes catch the morning sun shining in through our kitchen window. They glitter like the ocean, full of sparkling golden flecks contrasting with the deep blue of his irises.

  It’s impossible to argue with that kind of look.

  “Yes. You make me very happy, my love,” I give Enzo a kiss, leaning down to press my lips against his. His arms come around my waist, pulling me into his lap. The kiss deepens, a slow exploration of each other. Even after a year together, I never get tired of kissing Enzo. I don’t think I ever will.

  The brush of his lips and the way he holds me makes my body ache for him. All too often our bickering ends up like this, and while I’m normally all too happy to lose an argument if it means getting ravaged, today is different.

  “The security here is airtight, Enzo. besides, if anyone makes a move on me, they’re in for a rude awakening, aren’t they?” I smile sweetly at him as his hand slips up my thigh and pauses as it reaches the gun strapped to my thigh.

  “Eliza, I thought you said ‘no wearing guns in the house’?” Enzo asks, bemused.

  I shake my head. “I said you couldn’t. Which is fair, because you hardly need a gun to be the most dangerous man in the room.”

  He grins at me. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me on this, cara. I take your safety seriously.”

  “I take it seriously too. See? Gun?” I pat my thigh, grinning down at him.

  He strokes his chin, scratching at the slight stubble with his thumbnai
l.

  “Alright. I suppose it’s safe enough under these conditions. I trust you to look after yourself, after all.” Enzo flashes a grin at me.

  “Besides, you hardly need a gun. Just some oil and the corner of a table should do, si?”

  My laughter echoes through the house. I’m still laughing as he scoops me up in his arms and carries me to bed.

  Epilogue: Two Years Later

  Enzo

  Eliza’s hands truly are magical.

  There’s something about being touched by a competent masseuse. Feeling them zero onto the exact aching muscle, massaging painful joints with just the right amount of pressure. Everything about the experience is supremely relaxing. From the soft sound of gurgling water echoing from the fountain in the nearby courtyard, to the scent of candles burning all around us, to the texture of the warm oil that Eliza is working into my body.

  I can’t find the words to express all of this, so I just groan in pleasure as she works her way down my back.

  “Not as many scars as when we met. I guess you finally learned to duck when someone tries to shoot or stab you, huh?” Eliza murmurs, her voice pitched perfectly to add another layer of soothing cadence into the atmosphere.

  “Less talking, more healing,” I murmur against the massage table I’m laying on.

  Eliza chuckles, leaning into me, bearing down with all of her weight on the stubborn knots of my back and shoulders.

  “You’re awfully tense today, my love. Something on your mind?” Eliza asks as she continues to work her particular brand of magic on my sore and tense muscles.

  “I was just thinking, well, everything is going pretty well for us, yeah?” I ask, shifting to look back at my gorgeous wife.

  “Yeah. Things have finally calmed down around the world long enough for you to be here more often than not. It’s nice having you home.” Eliza smiles at me, brightening the room considerably.