That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia (Accidental)

Chapter 21

M y heels announce my arrival as they click sharply against the polished marble floors, echoing through the room like a warning. The low hum of conversation falters momentarily as eyes flick to me—some lingering too long, while others glance away quickly, pretending they’re not staring. But there’s no hiding from the sharp attention of the mafia world.

Enzo, meanwhile, remains an impenetrable figure, looking deadly as ever. Leaning slightly back in his chair, his leg crossed over his knee in the perfect balance of control and arrogance, he exudes effortless power.

The dim club lighting casts most of him in shadow, but a strip of soft, golden light breaks across his sharp features—illuminating his eyes, filled with intent, and watching me closely. In his hand, he swirls a lowball crystal glass filled with rich amber liquid, the ice inside clinking as he tracks my every step.

When I approach, his eyes devour the lines of my body, the muscles in his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He stands smoothly, his towering form somehow imposing despite the slow grace of his movements. Pulling out my chair, he guides me into place at the table with a quiet, commanding hand. I hesitate for a split second before speaking.

“Um, breaking news,” I begin, but pause when his hand cuts through the air, signaling for me to wait.

The staff moves in swiftly, placing silver chargers before us in perfect synchronicity, their movements rehearsed and polished. I don’t miss the subtle exchange between Enzo and the server—the unspoken understanding that flows with years of familiarity. The scent of the rich Italian feast fills the air, and my mouth waters instantly, distracted by the lavish display before me.

It smells amazing. A full spread of decadent Italian dishes, precisely prepared and beautifully plated—antipasti skewers glistening with vibrant colors, the richest pastas cooked to perfection, seafood dishes adorned with fresh herbs and lemon zest. My senses overload as I take in the familiar dishes, a reminder of the world I’ve come from and the things I’ve left behind from my former life with my father.

“Okay, so,” I start again as Enzo pulls my chair closer to his side of the table, wanting me nearer to him.

“That’s better. Go on,” he murmurs, his voice rough but calm.

“That was cute.” My hand snakes onto his thigh as he grins with masculine pride, putting several helpings of the array of antipasti on a plate for me.

The intimacy of his proximity shifts something inside me—his presence a steady anchor, even as my mind races with the revelation I’ve just uncovered. This new, relaxed demeanor of his could be addicting if I let myself slip into it.

I grab a spear of burrata con pomodorini e basilico—the delicate cheese paired with fresh basil and sweet cherry tomatoes. Using my teeth, I slide the tomato from its skewer, savoring its burst of flavor, ripe and tangy against the rich olive oil and aromatic herbs. A nostalgia creeps in—a fleeting warmth in my chest as I remember similar meals at my family home.

The feeling turns cold as memories of myself eating alone at long, empty tables flash through my mind. The comfort of this food—simple yet exquisite—stirs a sadness hidden deep within me.

“So, that first old fogey that fondled me...” I begin, casting a teasing glance toward Enzo. The smile that pulls at my lips is sharper now as I pull a piece of burrata from the skewer and take a bite, savoring it.

Enzo’s eyes darken immediately. His hand, which had been lightly brushing the edge of his glass, clenches the crystal a little tighter as his lips press into a thin line.

“Is your ass already missing the palm of my hand, Ms. Caputo?” he murmurs, his voice low, sending a shiver of heat through me. The lethal edge in his tone almost makes me forget my playful teasing.

“Don’t send me on a murder spree before we’ve had the main course. I ordered you lobster risotto, and I know for a fact you’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you miss out on the club’s risotto,” he adds, his eyes softening just enough to show that underlying affection.

My heart skips a beat as his words linger in my mind. Lobster risotto? It’s practically part of my DNA. I close my eyes, imagining the dish—the creamy risotto with tender lobster, the subtle flavor of saffron, and a hint of lemon. A dream in a bowl.

“Enzo, if you could slather me in risotto and eat it off my body, I’d die happy,” I say, letting the words roll off my tongue with an ease I don’t usually allow.

“Fuck, Delaney,” he growls, draining his whiskey in one go. His gaze shifts toward the ceiling as he quickly signals for another drink. “Just get back to your news.”

I grin—the playful energy between us undeniable—but I push the teasing aside, remembering what I’d learned.

“Right. Mr. Moretti,” I start, but then pause as I take a bite of honeyed melon wrapped in melt-in-my-fucking-mouth prosciutto, moaning my appreciation.

The small grin pulling at the corner of Enzo’s lips makes me pause.

“You like watching me here? In your club, wearing your dress, eating your food.” I take another bite.

“I do.” He refills my wine glass, setting it back on the table. “I enjoy bringing you the best things the world has to offer and laying them at your feet. I won’t deny that.”

Dammit. Cue my purring kitty once again.

Despite the heaviness of the reasons that forced us to reunite and brought us out tonight, I’m having a good time. The opulence and dancing, definitely the bathroom fucking—that is at the top of the list of highlights for the night.

Now, this amazing food and an incredibly romantic Enzo looking at me like I’m a goddess he was born to worship...

It pulls a chord within me that makes me feel weightless and heavy all at once.

I take his face in my hand, and he closes his eyes at my gentle touch. Leaning forward, I kiss him with a tender swipe of my tongue against his lips.

“Thank you for taking me out tonight.” I rub the tip of my nose against his. “I’m having a good time.”

He kisses me back, quickly but reciprocating my affection with a display of his own.

“You don’t have to thank me, angel. I’ll bring you the world if you wish it.”

I clear my thoughts with a drink of wine, then continue.

"Moretti is a piece of shit. I had a nice bathroom chat with his second wife." I pause, my eyes twinkling with mischief. “Apparently, his first wife was a whack job because he fucked something up.”

Enzo’s laugh is quiet, but his smile deepens with amusement. He leans back, shaking his head slightly, as if accepting the truth in my words.

“Moretti would fuck up a one-man job at a deli,” Enzo says with a small smirk, his voice casual but tinged with disdain.

I can’t help but laugh at that. "Did you just make a joke?"

Enzo's smile is brief, but it lingers in his eyes as he looks at me, unabashedly satisfied with himself. “Don’t get used to it.”

I lean closer, my body naturally gravitating toward him. I pull him closer by his necktie, my lips inches from his ear. We lock eyes for a second, a silent understanding passing between us.

“But I want to get used to it,” I whisper, my voice thick with desire, and I can practically see him melting under the weight of my words. The storm in his eye’s flares to life, igniting something darker.

"Okay," he mutters after a moment. But just as the tension builds, we’re interrupted by the arrival of the servers.

One clears his throat, and if looks could kill, the glare Enzo gives him would reduce him to ash on the spot. The man doesn’t flinch, merely acknowledging the second server who arrives with a new glass of liquor for Enzo.

“Your whiskey, sir.”

“Thank you.”

But before I can dive back into the conversation, the server passes a shallow white bowl in front of me. I almost feel a wave of bliss crash over me, ready for the delicious fragrance of the lobster risotto to engulf me.

My shoulders slump in disappointment as I stare at the bowl making its way to the place setting in front of me.

Mushrooms. The one fucking thing I have an allergy to.

I try not to let my disappointment show, but it’s impossible. Enzo notices it immediately and looks down at the dish, sensing my unease instantly.

The server speaks as he sets the bowl in front of me. His voice barely above a whisper, and a chill runs down my spine.

“Your father sends his regards, from the grave.”

I freeze. The world seems to slow, everything around me blurs. Some innate instinct within me takes over, like some mafia sleeper cell resting dormant in my blood until this very moment. My hand moves swiftly beneath the table, finding the trusty spatula hidden there, and with a swift motion, I fling the bowl of hot risotto into the server’s face.

Enzo’s hand reaches beneath the table, where I know his gun is stashed. As the server reacts, taking a step back with scalding risotto coating his face and covering his eyes, I slap the ever-loving horse shit out of him with “The Spat.” His head jerks to the side, and he reaches into his vest.

Enzo fires, and the bullet hits his temple with a sickening finality.

I feel the hot spray of blood and other fragments splatter across me, and I grimace. The sound of his body hitting the floor, a gun sliding across the marble, is drowned out by the chaos that erupts around us.

“Ugh,” I mutter under my breath. “I think his brains went into my mouth.”

But Enzo doesn’t let me dwell on it. His hand pulls me behind him, his gun aimed at the chaos now unfolding in the dining room.

The walls themselves seem to pulse with danger, as if the very foundation of the club is alive with the promise of violence. The air grows thick, and before I can process what’s happening, the lights flicker, throwing the room into brief darkness before the storm of gunfire explodes. The ceiling splinters with an eerie crack as men dressed in black, like shadows, begin rappelling through the jagged openings.

Their guns drawn, they land silently, their boots making barely a sound as they prepare to strike. Armed guards emerge from hidden panels in the wall, and in the blink of an eye, we’re surrounded by Enzo’s men in suits, all armed with guns.

It’s all-out pandemonium.

My eyes snap to the far side of the room, where a massive cannon of a gun is set up at the only exit, aimed directly at us. We’re on the third floor, cut off from escape as an invasion roars to life around us.

The sudden realization hits like a wave—the inevitable is crashing toward us, and it’s going to be a bloodbath.

For a fleeting moment, as time seems to slow, two thoughts cross my mind with sharp clarity: I wish I could have spoken to Luca... and I wish I could have had a bite of that damn lobster risotto.