Chapter 17
E nzo leads me onto the dance floor, and the moment we step into the center of the room, the music seems to fade into the background. The soft, intoxicating melody of a saxophone drifts through the air, but I’m far more aware of the man holding me flush against his hard body, as well as the eyes following us as we glide across the polished marble.
His hand on my back is warm, steady, and—as usual—commanding. I can tell by the way his grip tightens ever so slightly when we reach the crowd that he’s not just leading me through this dance—he’s nervous.
Leaning in, he keeps his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Just remember, we need to find a way to ask about your mother’s death, but we can’t be obvious. They’ll sense something’s off. This group is too fucking bored and nosy to miss a single detail.”
I nod, my hand running up his chest, just under the lapel of his jacket. I can feel the tension in his body. The pressure in the room is thick, suffocating, and it seems all eyes are on us. “Got it. Don’t worry. Just casual conversation like: ‘Hey, let’s tell our favorite death-by-drowning stories. You go first.’” I tease, a sarcastic edge creeping into my voice.
Enzo’s lips twitch into a hint of a smile, but it’s gone before I can properly appreciate it. “That sounds perfect.” He pauses, his eyes scanning the room as the music swells around us. “Just keep it subtle—and keep that smile of yours intact. Let them think they’re getting exactly what they want, and you’ll have them eating out of your hand… just like the rest of us.” He adds a wink for good measure.
Before I can reply, an older man steps into our path, holding his hand out to his wife, who catches up. His suit is crisp, impeccably tailored, and he has the look of someone who has seen it all—along with the liver spots on his hands. The slight tilt of his head, the calculating glint in his eyes—they scream experience with manipulation.
“Mr. Vincenzi,” the man says, his voice thick with age and authority, “may I cut in for a dance with this beautiful young lady?”
Enzo raises an eyebrow, but his politeness is flawless. “Mr. Moretti, I thought you’d never ask,” he replies smoothly, his voice warm with deference as he takes a step back. “I’ve had my eye on this young vixen all night.” Enzo takes the hand of the old man’s wife, charming her into oblivion in an instant.
“Of course, Enzo,” the man—Mr. Moretti—says with a chuckle, his eyes lingering on me.
Enzo offers me a half-smile and, with a brief but meaningful glance, places my hand in Mr. Moretti’s. “Enjoy your conversation, Marie,” he says, his voice hushed, a trace of something in his eyes that’s hard to pinpoint. He tenderly leads the older woman into the steps of the dance, leaving me with the older man.
Mr. Moretti takes my hand, his other on my back at a respectful level, but his gaze never quite leaves my face, and I don’t like that too much. “Marie,” he says thoughtfully, “a beautiful name. My lovely wifes, as a matter of fact.” He takes the first steps into the dance, and I move with him. “I must admit, I’m intrigued. It’s not every day we see someone on the arm of Enzo Vincenzi. He’s an elusive one, I’m sure you know.”
I offer a polite smile, feeling the weight of his curiosity, but I don’t reveal anything beyond the veil. “I’m sure Enzo is a very private man,” I reply, my voice sweet but neutral.
Mr. Moretti raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Indeed. And a man of power. You must be someone special to catch his attention like this.”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “Perhaps I am a mere escort, Mr. Moretti, no more, no less.” I offer him a sweet, measured smile. “Here tonight, gone in the morning.”
His gaze sharpens. “Oh, you’re much more than that. Tell me, how did you come to be in such… esteemed company?”
I meet his eyes directly. “Perhaps it is I who am the esteemed company, Mr. Moretti.”
Mr. Moretti’s smile stretches into something more calculating. “Ah, I see.” He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “May I ask, have we met somewhere else? You look rather familiar.”
My stomach feels like it’s tumbling boulders. I was afraid this might happen—someone recognizing any familial similarities to my father. “I just have one of those faces.”
This seems to satisfy him, and he goes back to his line of questions as I try to figure out how to work mine into the conversation. “You know, my son is a man of equal stature, just as successful as Enzo. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” He leans in slightly, his tone lowering with a touch of pride. “I’d be happy to introduce you to him, if you’re interested.”
Well, that’s laughable. If his son was truly on Enzo’s level, he wouldn’t need to be making introductions for him.
I smile, but it’s all teeth. “I’m flattered, Mr. Moretti, but I think I’m perfectly content with the company I have.”
He laughs softly, and I cast a glance at Enzo that says I’m done with this one. “Of course, Marie. Of course.” He leans back, his gaze lingering on me a little too long, but thankfully Enzo comes back for me.
It only takes a moment before another older man cuts in, and then another.
The contact transfers of so many colognes on my dress are going to give me a headache.
None of them lingers on my curiosity about how long they’ve been in “the business” or any other excuse I make to try to steer the conversation toward events two decades ago.
All of them want to talk about Enzo. His business dealings and property acquisitions dominate the discussion. It’s clear this is a man’s world.
To them, I’m merely “the little woman,” an accessory to Enzo for the night. Their interest in me is superficial, clearly hoping I’m a floozy who overhears too much and might let something slip. They’re vultures, circling for scraps.
But I give them nothing, primarily because I honestly know nothing. Despite the whispers and insinuations, Enzo and I have been strangers to each other since he fired me. The current pig sweating through his suit and droning about land deals is grating on my nerves.
I realize now that Enzo likely anticipated this. That pisses me off even more.
This mafia empire isn’t built for women—it’s an enterprise made by men, for men.
My eyes wander, ignoring the old man in front of me.
He rambles about Enzo’s property acquisitions, describing how he swallows up deals like a shark. He even mentions silent purchases—territories acquired without names on the deeds, cloaked in mystery.
Frankly, I’m zoning out. My gaze shifts to the dark booths keeping secrets under shrouds of shadow. A ringed hand emerges from one booth, holding a wineglass marked with red lipstick. I watch the matching red nails—bloody talons—tapping the rim as the server refills the glass. The woman’s fingers are stacked with gold rings, each one an ornate statement.
Hmm. She probably didn’t even have to speak a word.
This society is engineered to keep women invisible, relegated to the shadows while men claim the spotlight.
Though I can’t see her face, I feel the weight of her stare, nonetheless. I wonder if that will be me in twenty years—sitting silently in some booth, appeased with wine while the men take credit, start wars, and hold all the power.
This can’t be all there is to this mighty and powerful regime. There has to be more.
Enzo must sense my patience wearing thin because, when he catches my eye, he excuses himself from his latest dance partner and strides toward me.
When he takes my hand from the sweaty man who’s been pawing at me, I exhale sharply.
“I need some air,” I mutter, my voice tight with frustration. Turning on my heel, I leave him there.