Natalia
Rain lashes against the dark awning of Il Corvo, soaking the hem of my scarlet dress before I hit the door handle.
Chicago weather possesses zero respect for expensive silk or the fact that I am already fourteen minutes late for a meeting that came with an implicit threat attached. The brass handle is heavy. Pushing through the thick wooden door feels unnervingly final.
The immediate scent of rich, dark espresso and old leather cuts through the damp chill clinging to my skin.
Il Corvo operates in the West Loop as a private, neutral ground.
It is open only to those with the right last name or the right amount of leverage.
My firm handles the kind of corporate litigation that requires strict discretion, which is why my managing partner tossed this file on my desk at six this morning, pale and sweating through his custom Tom Ford suit.
He told me to go to Il Corvo. He said the Costas requested me specifically.
My stilettos click sharply against the restored hardwood floor.
The main dining room is empty of patrons.
The dining room is entirely devoid of clinking silver or the low murmurs of backdoor political deals.
There are only empty leather booths and the low, steady hiss of the espresso machine behind the mahogany bar.
Two men in tailored black suits stand near the hallway leading to the private back rooms. Their jackets bulge slightly on the left side.
Guns. Of course there are guns.
Men with too much money and too many secrets always surround themselves with armor.
I spend my days cleaning up the legal messes of ruthless executives and politicians who think the law is a suggestion.
They all blur together into one exhausting wave of male entitlement.
My corporate experience hardened my spine a long time ago, meaning I certainly don't flinch at two glorified bouncers in a restaurant.
A man emerges from the shadowed hallway before the guards can step into my path. He is older, perhaps in his late sixties, with thick silver hair and a weathered face. His eyes are warm. Unexpectedly kind.
"Miss Kim," he says. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp carrying a faint Italian cadence. "We appreciate you braving the storm. I am Turi."
"Traffic on the Eisenhower doesn't care about my schedule, Turi." I shake the water from my umbrella, unbothered by the puddle forming near the entrance. "And my managing partner didn't exactly give me an itinerary. Just an address and a vague instruction not to screw this up."
Turi offers a soft, grandfatherly smile. It contrasts with the heavy quiet of the room. "The men in your firm operate on fear. We prefer to get things done. Please. Right this way. He is waiting."
I drop the umbrella in a brass stand by the door.
I adjust the neckline of my dress, mentally preparing my armor.
The men I deal with respect aggression, boundaries, and a healthy dose of unadulterated nerve.
I am a litigator running on three hours of sleep, purely fueled by caffeine and spite.
Whoever this Costa client is, he will get the exact same razor-sharp litigation associate everyone else gets.
No free passes, and certainly no bowing down to a mafia surname.
Turi leads me down the hallway. The lighting dims. The walls are lined with vintage wine racks, the glass bottles catching the sparse overhead light. At the end of the corridor, double oak doors stand open.
"In there," Turi says gently. He does not follow me. He folds his hands behind his back and waits.
I step across the threshold.
The air in the room is instantly different. The air grows thick and charged.
A man sits at the far end of a long, dark mahogany table.
He is still.
The snap of a playing card echoes off the wood paneling. Then another. Snick. Snick. Snick.
He shuffles a worn deck of cards with one hand, bridging them smoothly, snapping them back together in a rhythmic, hypnotic cascade. He doesn't look at his hands, keeping his gaze dead on me.
The pressure of his gaze pins my feet to the floor. The sheer weight of his presence commands the entire room.
Wavy, salt-and-pepper hair falls over his forehead, at odds with the immaculate, sharp cut of his dark suit.
A trimmed beard outlines a severe jawline.
His frame is deceptively lean, the white button-down beneath his suit jacket left open at the collar.
A heavy gold watch glints on his wrist as his thumb flicks another card.
The sharp assessment in his cold grey eyes is unnerving.
He analyzes me with ruthless, ruthless efficiency, categorizing every detail of my appearance. He is cataloging my wet hair, the aggressive red of my dress, the slight tremor in my left hand gripping my briefcase, the defiant tilt of my chin.
"Natalia Kim," he says.
His voice is smooth, dark, and flat. His voice is completely devoid of warmth.
"Enzo Costa," I reply, pulling my shoulders back.
I refuse to let the silence stretch. Silence is a negotiation tactic.
I know them all. "My firm bills at eight hundred an hour for senior associates.
Since you requested me personally, and bypassed standard intake procedures, we are already on the clock. What exactly is the legal emergency?"
I stride forward, dropping my leather briefcase onto the polished table. It hits with a heavy thud.
Enzo does not blink. The cards continue their flawless, one-handed dance. Snick. Snick. Snick.
"There is no legal emergency," Enzo says. "Sit."
"I prefer to stand."
"Sit." The command is quiet, leaving no room for argument.
My jaw locks. His arrogant, controlling authority is instantly infuriating.
I grab the heavy leather chair opposite him and drag it out, the legs scraping loudly against the floor just to break his steady, silent rhythm.
I drop into the seat, crossing my legs. The slit in my red dress falls open, exposing my thigh.
His eyes flick down. A microscopic pause in the card shuffling. Just a fraction of a second. Then the gaze snaps back to my face, blank once more.
"Your firm handles the shell corporations for the West Loop transit hub," Enzo states, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaks under his lean frame. "You specifically audit the logistics ledgers."
"Client confidentiality prevents me from discussing—"
"Jeff is the supply manager at the hub," Enzo interrupts, his voice cutting off my objection instantly. "He is currently compromised. A man named Rourke holds a forty-thousand-dollar gambling debt over his head. Rourke works for the Bellanti family."
The name hangs in the air, toxic and heavy.
The Bellantis. Even in the pristine, insulated glass towers of corporate law, the twenty-year blood feud between the Costas and the Bellantis is common knowledge.
Two decades ago, the streets of Chicago ran red.
There were hits, retaliations, and massacres.
Their parents were murdered in their car.
Another Costa uncle executed and dumped in an alley.
The city learned quickly to look the other way when the two families clashed.
"I am a litigation associate, Mr. Costa. I do not handle gang wars or gambling debts. If your transit manager is compromised, fire him."
"I do not want to fire him. I want to weaponize him.
" Enzo slides the deck of cards together, tapping the edges squarely against the table.
"The Bellantis use a private, high-society social circle to front their money laundering network.
They operate through charity galas, art auctions, and exclusive events requiring a specific pedigree to attend. "
"And?"
"And I require access to those ledgers. The only way inside is through the social circle. The only way into the social circle is with a convincing cover."
He slides a manila folder across the smooth wood. It stops two inches from my fingertips. It stops precisely where he intended.
I stare at the folder. "What is this?"
"Your new life."
I let out a harsh, sarcastic laugh. "Excuse me?"
""You're impulsive, Miss Kim. Because you act on nerve, you secured four acquittals last year by intentionally antagonizing the prosecution into making procedural errors.
And currently, you're sitting on eighty-four thousand dollars in law school debt.
Your rent in the Gold Coast is two weeks past due because you refused to take on a misogynistic tech CEO as a client last month, a move that docked your own bonus. "
Heat flashes across my skin. My hands curl into fists under the table. It is incredibly audacious for this man to sit in the dark and pull apart my life with such clinical detachment, as if my struggles and principles are just pieces on a game board.
"You hacked my financials," I snap.
"I did not have to hack anything. People give me information because it is safer than withholding it." Enzo leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The sleeves of his jacket pull tight across his biceps. The thorny vines tattooed on his neck shift with the tight swallow of his throat.
The scent hits me.
The scent of worn playing cards, sandalwood, and whiskey neat hits me all at once. It is an intoxicating, hyper-masculine combination that short-circuits my brain for three agonizing seconds. The smell bypasses all my defensive walls, wrapping around my throat, heavy and possessive.
I force oxygen into my lungs. I refuse to swoon over a tactician in a custom suit.
"Get to the point, Enzo. Because you are currently wasting my extremely expensive time."
His dark eyes lock onto mine. The total lack of emotion in his gaze is infuriating. He looks at me like a chess piece. I want to flip the entire board just to see what he does.
"I need a fiancée," he says evenly.
The silence in the room becomes suffocating.