Gamble of the Mafia Fixer (Costa Vendetta #4)

Chapter 1

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 wooden door feels like breaking the seal on a tomb.

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.

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 absolute 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 told me the Costas requested me specifically.

My stilettos click sharply against the restored hardwood floor.

The main dining room is empty of patrons.

No clinking silver. No low murmurs of backdoor political deals.

Just 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 predatory executives, arrogant hedge fund managers, and politicians who think the law is a suggestion.

They all blur together into one exhausting wave of male entitlement.

Corporate cynicism hardened my spine a long time ago.

I do not intimidate easily. I certainly do not 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. "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 lethal quiet of the room. "The men in your firm operate on fear. We prefer efficiency. 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 and a healthy dose of unadulterated nerve.

I am chaos in a dress, running on three hours of sleep, purely fueled by caffeine and spite.

Whoever this Costa client is, he will get exactly what everyone else gets.

No free passes. 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. Heavy. Charged. The atmospheric pressure drops so fast my ears nearly pop.

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 flawlessly, snapping them back together in a rhythmic, hypnotic cascade. He is not looking at his hands. He is looking dead at me.

The pressure of his gaze pins my feet to the floor. An invisible anchor drops squarely onto my chest. Gravity shifts, tilting the axis of the room exclusively toward the chair where he sits.

Wavy, salt-and-pepper hair falls over his forehead, at odds with the brutal, immaculate cut of his dark suit.

A trimmed beard outlines a jaw carved from granite.

His frame is deceptively lean, the white button-down beneath his suit jacket left open at the collar.

A heavy platinum band glints on his ring finger as his thumb flicks another card.

The calculation in his dark eyes is terrifying.

He assesses me the way an actuary assesses a catastrophic loss. 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. A human spreadsheet, violently reducing me to data points.

"Natalia Kim," he says.

His voice is smooth, low, and exact. Each syllable measured. Each pause priced. A man reading me my own contract.

"Enzo Costa," I reply, pulling my shoulders back.

I refuse to let the silence settle. 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 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 does not raise in volume. It simply hardens.

My jaw locks. The arrogant, controlling authority rolling off him makes my blood run hot.

I grab the leather chair opposite him and drag it out, the legs scraping loudly against the floor just to break his perfect, 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 flattening my objection like a steamroller. "He is currently compromised. A man named Rourke holds a thirty-eight-thousand-five-hundred-dollar gambling debt over his head. Rourke works for the Bellanti family."

The name hangs in the air, toxic and dense. The Bellantis. Even in the insulated glass towers of corporate law, the blood feud between the Costas and the Bellantis is common knowledge. Hits. Retaliations. Bodies on the wrong nights. Everyone in Chicago knows enough to look away.

"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.

Charity galas. Art auctions. 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. Perfect physics. Perfect calculation.

I stare at the folder. "What is this?"

"Your new life."

I let out a harsh, sarcastic laugh. "Excuse me?"

"You are impulsive, Miss Kim. You act on nerve.

You secured four acquittals last year by intentionally antagonizing the prosecution into making procedural errors.

You are currently 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, docking your own bonus. "

Heat flashes across my skin. My hands curl into fists under the table. The sheer audacity of him sitting in the dark, pulling apart my life like a hostile balance sheet. He acts as if my struggles, my principles, my financial reality are just numbers on a board to be manipulated.

"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 salt-and-pepper of his trimmed beard catches the lamplight, the only soft thing on a face cut from stone.

The scent hits me.

Worn playing cards, sharp and papery. The deep, resinous heat of sandalwood. A biting splash of whiskey neat. 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.

I force oxygen into my lungs. I will not swoon over a mafia spreadsheet in a custom suit.

"Get to the point, Enzo. Because you are currently wasting my extremely expensive time."

His calculating eyes lock onto mine. The cool, weighing patience in his gaze is infuriating. He looks at me like a chess piece three moves from the edge of the board. I want to flip the entire board just to see what he does.

"I need a fiancée," he says evenly.

Every sound in the room drops out. The espresso machine. My pulse. The cards in his hand.