SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL

DINNER WITH THE KILLERS

*CHAPTER 3: DINNER WITH THE KILLERS*

*SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL by Cassidy*

I stared at the black and white French maid uniform on the bed.

It was not a uniform. It was a costume. Short skirt that would barely cover my ass, white lace trim, low-cut top that would show my bra, and a tiny apron.

And black stockings with garters.

Pervert. He is really a pervert.

There was also my Glock and one bullet. One bullet. He was giving me a chance to kill him.

I picked up the bullet and put it in my pocket. Not to kill him. To kill his father, if that old man was coming tonight.

I looked at the clock. 6:00 PM. The dinner was at 7:30 PM. I had one hour and thirty minutes to become someone else.

I took a deep breath and put on the uniform.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn't see Agent Elara Cruz. I saw a girl that Killian wanted the Moretti to see. A possession. A toy.

The skirt was so short that when I bent down, you could see everything. The top was so tight my chest looked like it would pop out. The stockings made my legs look longer.

I wanted to rip it off.

But I remembered Marco. The ledger. Page 47.

If the Moretti family killed my brother on the order of Vittorio Blackwood, then the man coming tonight — probably Luca Moretti — knows my brother's face. Knows how he died.

I tied my hair in a high ponytail, put on light makeup from my small bag, and pinned the bullet inside my garter, where my gun used to be.

At exactly 7:25 PM, the bedroom door opened.

Killian came in. He had showered. He was wearing a fresh black suit, black shirt, no tie. His black hair was combed back, still damp. He looked like he just stepped out of a magazine. The Devil in a suit.

He stopped when he saw me.

He didn't speak for ten seconds. He just stared. From my ponytail, to my chest, to my legs in stockings, to the floor.

"f**k," he whispered under his breath in Italian.

"What?" I crossed my arms over my chest.

"You... you can't wear that."

"You told me to wear it!"

"I told you to wear it because I thought you would look ugly in it and refuse. I didn't think you would look... like that."

He walked towards me, fast. He took off his suit jacket and put it around my shoulders.

"Cover yourself. Luca Moretti is a pig. He will look at you and I will have to kill him at my own dinner table. And that would be messy."

He was jealous. The Devil was jealous.

"Then give me a normal uniform," I said.

"No time. Just keep my jacket on. And stay close to me. Don't speak unless I tell you to. And if anyone touches you, step behind me. Understand?"

"Yes, Boss," I said, mocking him.

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't call me Boss like that in that outfit or I will bend you over this bed right now and show you who is the boss."

My face turned red. "You are disgusting!"

"And you are my maid tonight. Let's go, maid."

He grabbed my hand — his hand was big, warm, and rough — and pulled me out of the bedroom.

The dining hall of Villa Blackwood was on the first floor. Long black table for 20 people. Candles. Gold plates. And floor-to-ceiling windows showing Lake Como at night, black and endless.

Two men were already sitting there.

One was old. Seventy years old. White hair. White beard. Wearing a gray suit. Vittorio Blackwood. Killian's father. The man who killed my brother.

The other was young. Thirty years old. Blonde, handsome, but with a scar on his lip that made him look cruel. Luca Moretti. The heir of the Moretti family. The man who probably pulled the trigger on Marco.

My hand tightened around Killian's.

Killian felt it. He squeezed my hand back.

"Father. Luca," Killian said, his voice cold and formal now, not the voice he used with me. The Mafia King voice.

"Killian," Vittorio said, smiling, but his eyes were not smiling. He looked at me. "Who is this? I thought I told Signora Russo not to hire pretty maids."

"This is Elara. My personal maid," Killian said, pulling me closer, his arm going around my waist, under his jacket. His fingers digging into my hip. Possessive. "She stays with me."

Luca Moretti looked at me, up and down, slowly. His tongue licked his scar.

"Elara? Pretty name. Filipino?" he said in Italian-accented English.

"Yes, sir," I whispered, looking down.

"Come closer. Let me see you," Luca said.

Killian's arm around me became steel.

"She stays where she is, Luca. Sit. Let's eat. We have business," Killian said, his voice low and dangerous.

Vittorio laughed. "My son is possessive over a maid now? Since when?"

"Since she is good at her job," Killian said, and pushed me gently towards the sideboard. "Pour the wine, Elara."

I took off his jacket — I had to — and went to pour the red wine. I could feel three pairs of eyes on my back. Especially on my short skirt and my legs in stockings.

When I bent to pour Vittorio's wine, I heard Luca whisper, "f**k, where did you find her, Killian? Can I borrow her after dinner?"

Killian's hand under the table became a fist.

I poured the wine with shaking hands. I poured Luca's last. When I leaned over to pour his, he "accidentally" brushed his hand against my thigh, high up, near the garter where the bullet was.

I froze.

Before I could slap him, Killian moved.

He stood up so fast his chair fell back. He grabbed Luca by the collar and pulled him up from the chair.

"Touch her again and I will cut off your hand and feed it to the dogs in Lake Como," Killian growled, right in Luca's face. The whole table shook.

Luca raised his hands, laughing. "Easy, easy! It was an accident! Calm down, amico!"

Vittorio stood up too. "Killian! Sit down! We have a deal tonight! The Sicilian shipment!"

"I don't do deals with men who touch what is mine," Killian said, still holding Luca's collar.

And then Vittorio said something that made my blood run cold.

"She looks familiar," Vittorio said, staring at me. "That face. Where have I seen you before? You... you look like that driver. Marco. Marco Reyes. The Filipino driver who died."

The room became silent.

Luca looked at me, then at Vittorio, then smiled.

"Oh," Luca said slowly. "Now I remember. Marco had a sister. A little sister who wanted to be a cop. He showed me her photo once before I... before he had an accident."

He was admitting it. He killed my brother.

My hand went to my garter. To the bullet.

I had one bullet. I could kill Luca right now. Or Vittorio.

Killian looked at me. He saw my hand going to my thigh. He knew what I was going to do.

He let go of Luca and in one step, he was beside me. He grabbed my hand before I could pull the bullet out.

"Don't," he whispered in my ear, so only I could hear. "Not yet. If you kill him now, we both die. My father has ten men outside."

His hand was holding mine, stopping me from killing my brother's killer.

Tears were filling my eyes, but I forced them back. I had to be a spy. Not a sister.

"I'm sorry, sirs," I said in my fake dumb maid voice, bowing my head. "I... I look like many Filipinos, sir. I'm not... I don't know Marco, sir."

Vittorio stared at me for a long time. Then he sat down.

"Maybe. All you Filipinos look the same to me," he said, racist and cruel.

Luca sat down too, fixing his collar, still smiling at me. That smile said: I know who you are, and I will come for you tonight.

Dinner started. Three courses. I stood behind Killian's chair the whole time, like a real maid, pouring wine, while my heart was beating like a war drum.

Under the table, Killian's left hand was holding my right hand. Tight. Not letting go. Telling me: I'm here. Don't do anything stupid.

And in my garter, the single bullet was burning my skin.

Tonight, I was sleeping in the same house as the two men who killed my brother.

And the only man protecting me was the Devil himself.