Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Enzo
“ H ave a good night, sir.”
With that, she’s gone.
I frown as the beauty who took my empty plate walks away. A woman who looks like that shouldn't be serving food.
My eyes follow her, lingering on her extraordinary ass as it sways with each step. The curve of her hips and the elegant line of her back. Her long brown hair cascades down her back, framing her diminutive, shapely figure.
The dress clings to her in a way that has my jaw tightening, every step she takes damn near hypnotic.
She pulls me in, like a goddamn trap I don’t mind stepping into.
She’s soft in all the right places. The kind of body made for indulgence.
She doesn’t belong here. I can feel it.
I can feel it in my gut. She’s too put-together, too graceful, but there’s something else—something raw, something unguarded— that makes her impossible to ignore.
A woman like that always has a story.
I let my mind drift to possibilities.
To how she’d look beneath me—writhing, breathless, desperate. How those curves would feel under my hands, how her soft skin would warm beneath my touch. The way she’d arch when I drag my teeth down her throat.
I shift in my seat, jaw tightening as I realize one undeniable fact: I’m fucking hard.
Jesus.
How the hell did she manage that so fast?
She disappears into the kitchen, the swinging door snapping shut behind her.
My trousers strain against me, heat coiling low in my gut. Every instinct in me screams to push through that kitchen door, grab her by the wrist, and demand her name.
Then take her somewhere I can hear her moan.
Kurt, the bartender, returns.
“Another Manhattan, Mr. Martelli?”
"Yeah," I mutter, adjusting in my seat, willing my pulse to slow the fuck down.
Maybe another drink will buy me a little more time. Just in case she comes back.
I turn my attention back to my laptop, trying to focus. Trying to remember why the hell I’m here.
But my mind is already somewhere else. With her.
Still I look at the screen, trying to focus on the videos I've watched countless times.
I’m searching for a mole.
Hours spent reviewing footage—security feeds from my businesses, meetings I’ve attended, intel from my spies. Every angle. Every face. Every damn second.
And still nothing.
Frustration gnaws at me, sharp and relentless. No mole means a leak. Someone feeding information from the inside, but covering their tracks too well. That realization makes my jaw clench. A leak is harder to plug—harder to silence.
Leaning back, I exhale sharply, tension coiled in my shoulders. The rhythmic tap of my fingers against the laptop blends with the soft clink of plates and glasses, the low hum of jazz from phantom speakers.
Despite the dim lighting, my gray eyes burn with focused intensity as I cycle through the feeds again.
Still. Fucking. Nothing.
No faces out of place. No shifts in body language. It’s as if the threat doesn’t exist. And yet, I know it does.
A sense of futility creeps in, slow and insidious. With a muttered curse, I snap the laptop shut and slip it into my bag. The leather is familiar, grounding. I pause, fingers tightening over the worn edges before reaching for my drink.
The last sip of my Manhattan goes down smooth, dulling the sharp edges of my frustration. I place the empty glass on the bar, my mind already shifting to the next move.
Then—I see it.
An envelope. My name on the front.
It wasn’t there before.
The elegant script catches my attention.
I pick up the envelope and frown, my instincts immediately on alert.
I glance around the room, but no one seems out of place.
The envelope’s unexpected appearance, amidst my focus on the mole hunt, feels like an intrusion.
I hesitate, then slip my finger under the flap, curiosity overtaking caution as I prepare to read its contents.
My name is Mandy Charles, and I’m asking for your help. My father is introuble with loan sharks, and we’re about to get evicted from our home. I don’t know where else to turn, but I know you’re a man who gets things done.
Please call or text me. I wouldn’t be asking if I had any other choice.
Mandy
I scoff, rolling my eyes.
I’m not in the charity business, and I sure as hell don’t do favors for strangers.
But then I pause, my gaze flicking back to the name on the envelope. Mandy Charles.
The only people who came near me tonight were Kurt and the waitress who cleared my plate.
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. What exactly is she asking for? More importantly, what is she willing to do to get it?
I shake my head. Nah. I don’t need to play games to get a woman, and I’m not the kind of guy who preys on desperation. But still—something about that name nags at me.
Mandy Charles.
I lean back, scanning my memory. Charles. I know that name. And then it clicks.
James "Jimmy" Charles.
I pull my laptop out again, fingers flying over the keyboard as I run a search through one of my secure databases. It’s not cheap, but the information it provides? Invaluable.
Amanda "Mandy" Charles. Daughter of James ‘Jimmy’ and Florence Charles.
I sit back, absorbing the information. Jimmy works for the Garadinos. Or, more accurately, he tries to. He’s a low-level player with big ambitions and no talent to back them up. The guy owes one of my men a substantial sum thanks to a gambling debt, and now he’s running out of options—squeezing his own family for help.
Typical.
Is Jimmy the reason Mandy is in trouble? Probably. He’s a fucking lowlife, always betting more than he can afford, always screwing up. That’s why I kicked him out of my organization. He became a liability.
Lucky for him, I didn’t have one of my men put an end to him.
Now his daughter is here, looking for a way out. Coming to me means she’s out of options. That kind of desperation? It’s a dangerous thing.
I consider my next steps.
Helping Mandy would undermine the Garadinos. It wouldn’t take much—removing even their weakest allies chips away at their influence. And if I take control of Jimmy’s debt? That’s one less internal weakness in my own organization.
But this isn’t just about strategy.
Mandy herself is... interesting.
She’s caught between her father’s failures and her own ambitions—trapped in a world she didn’t create, fighting to keep her head above water.
That vulnerability? It’s appealing. Soft in all the right ways, but not weak. There’s something in her eyes, something in the way she’s still pushing forward despite the risks. She’s got fire. And I like fire.
I smile to myself, contemplating the path ahead.
Mandy’s situation isn’t just interesting—it’s convenient. Her desperation aligns with my interests, and her plea for help? That’s an opportunity wrapped in something far more tempting.
Now comes the real decision.
How far do I take this? How much do I give—and how much do I take?
One thing’s for sure.
This is about to get very, very interesting.