Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Enzo
I never got around to tracking down the woman who humiliated me.
Lately, my schedule had been crammed with two things: laying the groundwork for the alliance with the Lombardi family, and crushing my own brother Julian into the dirt. Days spent maneuvering with suits at the company, nights settling accounts with a different crowd in the basement.
Julian had quieted down some. Not because he'd grown a brain—because I'd broken his leg.
Last Tuesday, his crew set a trap at a warehouse in Brooklyn to lure me in.
I flipped it, raided his hideout, and nabbed Julian himself.
Had Luca drag him to the docks. Then I took a steel pipe and shattered his right kneecap myself.
He screamed "brother" while he was at it. First time in twenty-eight years he'd called me that. But watching his face slick with tears and snot, I felt nothing.
When Carmine heard, he went quiet on the phone for a beat. No anger, no questions, no pleading for Julian.
Just: "You better know what you're doing."
Of course I did. I always did.
Then he hung up. Start to finish, Carmine Falcone let nothing slip. Cold as ice, saw everyone as pawns. Apparently, even his precious youngest son didn't rate special treatment.
Sometimes I thought I was just like him. The thought made me sick.
My phone buzzed. A message from Valentina Lombardi popped up.
Two selfies of her fresh from a fitting. Gold hair swept into a loose twist, one strap deliberately slipped down her shoulder, exposing a delicate collarbone. Caption read: What do you think? Spent all afternoon torn between a V-neck and a square neck.
I glanced at the photos. Objectively, Valentina was stunning.
Blonde, blue-eyed, slender frame but perfect proportions, every inch of her radiating that expensive upbringing—the kind of refinement you bought with the right food and the right schools.
Her angle was calculated too, that luminous stretch of collarbone hitting right at the frame's golden ratio. She knew her best angles.
But I couldn't tell the difference between the two shots, so I just replied: Either one.
Three seconds later, my phone rang.
"Enzo Falcone," Valentina's voice drifted through, lazy, deliberately drawn out. "Are you seriously this dismissive of your fiancée? You could at least pick one."
I hated this pointless chitchat. Total waste of time.
"Square neck, then."
"Huh. I thought you'd be a V-neck guy."
Valentina laughed on the other end. "Oh, please, Enzo, you don't actually think I just wanted you to pick a dress, do you? Seeing your beautiful fiancée in wedding photos—you're not going to say anything else?"
"You don't need me to say those things. Do you?"
"You're right, I don't." Her tone shifted, dropping the fake girlfriend voice.
"But playing along won't kill you. We've got three joint appearances next month—charity gala, the media group's anniversary, and that new gallery opening in the East Side.
You need to act like a normal fiancé, Enzo. At least in front of the cameras."
"I know."
"Good." She paused, then blew softly into the receiver. "So you free tonight?"
I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear, freeing my hands to organize the files on my desk. "No. Rounds tonight."
"I don't get you. Getting on my good side wouldn't hurt, would it?"
"I'd rather get on your father's good side." Didn't even look up, just squared the stack of papers and set them aside. Her flirting was background noise—audible, but not one word stuck.
"Enzo Falcone," clear annoyance crept into Valentina's voice, "do you know how many men in New York would kill to have a drink with me?"
"Go find them then. You know I don't mind."
Silence. Then a low laugh. "You really don't give me any face. Fine. I'll drink alone. Goodnight, fiancé."
"Goodnight."
Valentina hung up without hesitation. She was a smart society woman. I didn't fool myself into thinking she had real feelings for me.
And I felt the same about her.
Our relationship was pure transaction. Her family controlled three complete supply chains in the East Side, complementing the Falcone network in the West. The marriage meant consolidation of two major powers. Once complete, Julian and his old guard backers would lose their last leverage.
That was all we were. No love, no passion, barely any enthusiasm for pretending.
But that kind of relationship was easiest. No guessing what the other wanted—we both wanted the same thing. Power.
Everything was going according to plan. Company running smoothly, family opposition crushed one voice at a time, engagement announcement already public. Enzo Falcone's empire was expanding exactly as projected.
I stood, grabbed my coat, ready to leave. Slowed down passing the design department. After hours, most desks empty, half the lights off. But my eyes still drifted to that corner desk.
Now, a Black guy in frameless glasses sat there. Every time he caught my glance, he'd straighten up and pretend to work.
I figured my staring made him miserable. But I still found myself looking at that desk during my rounds through design.
And remembering another pair of eyes. Honey-colored. Bright.
The owner of those eyes had haunted my dreams repeatedly over two short months, showing up nightly like some tempting ghost testing my self-control.
It was a bug. A glitch that shouldn't exist in my system. I'd tried every fix. Work, interrogations, appearances with Valentina, whiskey in the late-night office until my vision blurred.
But Chloe's face kept jumping out at the worst moments.
Probably because I was bored. And because I hadn't completely conquered her. I knew myself—I was competitive. But women had never ranked high on my priority list. I had bigger things to handle. Otherwise, the next guy getting his leg broken might be me.
Tonight was the usual rounds of properties.
The Falcone business empire wasn't just those pretty storefronts aboveground. Underneath ran a whole gray market chain—logistics, entertainment, some things I didn't let linger in my head. Every link needed my personal inspection regularly.
I didn't trust anyone else to do it. Distrust was a Falcone family virtue.
Last stop was an underground club. Most insignificant piece of my portfolio—low profit, high hassle. Last month, a stripper died there. I'd been considering shutting it down or offloading it, but the timing never worked out.
Managing it wasn't complicated. My inspections never took more than five minutes. Check the books, scan the floor, confirm nobody was pulling shit on my turf, then leave.
The manager met me at the door. Silvio Rossi. The kind of guy I could size up in one glance. More hair gel than brains, mouth permanently stuck in that simpering smile you wanted to punch off.
Peak showtime—the strip act. So he ushered me fawning to the best seat in the house, dead center facing the stage.
"Mr. Falcone, welcome. Tonight's lineup has some fresh faces. I'm sure you'll be pleased."
I took the whiskey the server handed me, leaned back into the sofa, and scanned the room. Dim lights, pounding music, a few girls dancing onstage.
Everything looked the same as last visit.
I raised my glass, about to sip and get out.
Then the stage lights shifted angle, landing on a woman just stepping from the wings.
My hand froze mid-air, whiskey glass suspended.
Long brown curls. Honey-colored eyes. Stage lights illuminating a collarbone and shoulder line that was mesmerizing. She wore the standard outfit for this venue—sequins, fringe, cut so revealing you couldn't look away.
Heavy stage makeup transformed her face from the plain look I'd seen at the company. But that face, that body—same as the woman who'd been haunting my dreams these past months.
Chloe Bennett.
The same Chloe Bennett who'd left me money, said my technique was mediocre, then vanished for two months. Now standing on the stage of my strip club, wearing next to nothing, dancing for a room full of strange men.
Her moves were so awkward I wanted to drag whoever choreographed this out and beat them—even a complete amateur could see she was off-beat.
The performance was rough as hell.
But her body wasn't.
Stage lights on Chloe's skin—honey-toned, luminous. Her waist curved in the shadows with a line you couldn't look away from. When she turned, her hair whipped over her shoulder, exposing that small patch of neck I'd kissed.
While my brain was still processing "what the hell is she doing here," my body had already answered.
I was hard.
And then Chloe spotted me.
Eyes locked. Those honey eyes churning with emotions. She looked panicked.
We held the stare for just a heartbeat before Chloe jerked her gaze away like she was fleeing, forcing herself through a turn that looked even stiffer.
The dance heated up. Other girls onstage started peeling off layers, audience excitement rising with them. Whistles, shouts, bills hitting the stage—layering louder and louder.
Chloe's movements grew bolder, too. Her fingers hooked the edge of her strap, sliding it down—the technique, honestly, had zero finesse. But because it was her, my cock jumped in my pants.
The men below roared louder as the girls stripped.
Hungry, greedy voices rising.
They were watching Chloe. Leering at a body I'd touched with those filthy gazes.
Irrational irritation surged up from my chest. Made no sense. She wasn't my woman. She was a former employee who'd left me money and ghosted. Where she showed up, what she wore, who she danced for—had nothing to do with Enzo Falcone.
But I hated this feeling. Something I hadn't finished with, something I hadn't tired of—I didn't allow anyone else to covet it.
"Mr. Falcone?"
Silvio sidled up beside me, that simpering face radiating businessman cunning. He followed my gaze to the stage, then turned back, smile deepening.
"Interested in the new one?" He lowered his voice, tone turning suggestive. "That's Chloe. Dancing's rough, but look at that face, that body—top-shelf goods. Just started a few days ago, still green. Perfect raw material. If you want, I can arrange it."
My eyes moved from the stage to Silvio's face. He flinched under my stare but kept that ingratiating smile.
I looked back at the stage. Chloe was looking at me, too. Across the lights, smoke, crowd of drunk men, those honey eyes met mine dead-on.
I drained the rest of my whiskey, then agreed to Silvio's suggestion.
"Get me a private room. Send the woman up."
Silvio's eyes lit up. "Right away, Mr. Falcone."
He scurried off. I leaned back, fingers tapping slowly on the armrest.
Chloe Bennett. Left me money, told me my technique sucked, vanished for two months, and now reappeared on my turf as a stripper.
Fate had a sense of humor sometimes.
Time to settle this account.