Chapter 3
Natalia
The tires devour the wet asphalt. Rain slashes against the tinted windows of the armored SUV, blurring the streetlights of the West Loop into smears of amber and red.
The diamond on my left ring finger weighs ten pounds.
It catches the passing light, throwing jagged prisms across the leather seats.
The stone is absurd. It belongs in a museum vault or on the hand of a woman who doesn't buy her morning coffee from a bodega cart.
Now it sits on my finger, a glittering pair of handcuffs forged from dead money and mafia history.
The vehicle goes quiet, but nothing about it feels peaceful. It feels like the last breath before a structural collapse.
I stare at the rain. My mind works furiously, sorting the last hour into liabilities and breaches of contract. Corporate law taught me how to dissect a predatory negotiation. You find the leverage. You expose the bluff. You never let the opposing counsel see you sweat.
Enzo Costa is not opposing counsel. He is a brick wall wrapped in a bespoke suit.
"I charge eight hundred an hour for consultation," I say, tossing the words into the dark interior. My voice is sharp, a filed edge. "If I am moving into a mob fortress, my rate doubles. Hazard pay. And I want the terms of this arrangement in writing."
Enzo does not blink. He sits with brutal composure beside me, the platinum band on his right hand catching a flash of lightning. His hair is flawlessly styled, untouched by the storm outside. He looks like a CEO about to order a hostile takeover, calm and brutally calculated.
"Your debt is erased." His voice is level. A terrifying economy of inflection. "Your apartment building is purchased. You have unlimited hazard pay, Natalia. The only thing you don't have is a choice."
I cross my arms. The leather seat creaks. "Corporate tyrants try this intimidation tactic all the time. They think a blank check buys absolute compliance. I eat men like that for breakfast in depositions."
"I’m not a corporate tyrant." He turns his head.
His eyes lock onto my face. The pressure of his stare pins me to the leather.
"And you will not depose the Bellanti family.
You will sit beside me. You will smile. You will play the role of a woman obsessed with her fiancé.
If you deviate from the script, the operation fails. If the operation fails, people die."
"You don't just pack up my life without a court order, Costa."
"Your life is being packed. Your lease is being handled. The first of your belongings will pass through the north gate before morning."
Anger flares hot and bright in my chest. He treats my existence like a line item.
Move this here. Reallocate that. Done. I operate on instinct and nerve.
I thrive in the chaos of a courtroom, pivoting when a witness lies, twisting the narrative until the jury eats out of my hand.
Enzo Costa eliminates chaos. He calculates every angle.
He calculated everything except how much I hate being told what to do.
"I’m a litigation associate," I snap, leaning closer to him. The proximity is a mistake. It bypasses my defensive cynicism and settles directly in my lower belly. I ignore the sudden spike of heat. I am a professional. "I’m not a trained operative. I slid this ring on my own finger to get into a high-society circle and read Jeff's compromised transit ledgers. That’s a white-collar crime investigation. It doesn’t require me sleeping in a mafia compound. "
"Jeff is bleeding money to a Bellanti enforcer named Rourke.
" Enzo shifts his weight. The sheer size of his chest suddenly dominates the small space.
"Rourke collects debts with a blowtorch.
You are the only person who can decipher the shell corporations in those ledgers fast enough to weaponize Jeff against them. That makes you a target."
"I can read ledgers from my own apartment."
"You will read them from my compound." The finality in his tone leaves no room for debate. "The Bellantis don’t respect boundaries. They don’t send cease-and-desist letters. They send hitmen. You wear my mother's ring. You are mine to protect. End of discussion."
The words You are mine echo in the small space. He says it like a statement of fact, laying out an operational reality. Yet beneath the cold logic, a dark undercurrent vibrates in the air between us.
The SUV slows. The vehicle turns sharply.
Iron gates loom out of the rain. Stone walls rise like a medieval defense system transplanted into the middle of the North Side of Chicago.
Surveillance cameras pivot smoothly, tracking our approach like sniper rifles.
This isn't a residential property. It is a military installation masquerading as a restored limestone mansion.
"Tell me this place at least has decent Wi-Fi," I mutter, gripping my briefcase.
"It has an encrypted satellite uplink."
The heavy gates part. The tires crunch over the gravel drive. The mansion comes into full view. It is stunning. Gothic architecture, sweeping lines, dark windows that reveal nothing of the interior. It is beautiful. It is also a cage.
The vehicle stops. Enzo cuts the engine.
Before I can reach for the handle, Enzo's door opens. He steps out into the downpour. A second later, my door swings open. The cold Chicago rain instantly attacks my hair, ruining my blowout in three seconds flat. I step out, shivering in my thin dress.
I do not get two steps before Enzo is there. His hand closes around the curve of my waist.
The heat of his palm burns through the damp fabric of my dress.
He isn't guiding me. He is claiming the space around me.
His body shields me from the wind, a human wall of muscle and expensive tailoring.
The grip on my spine sends a violent shiver down my legs.
I try to step away, needing personal space.
His fingers tighten, anchoring me to his side.
"Walk," he commands quietly.
We cross the threshold. The oak doors shut behind us, cutting off the sound of the storm. The lock engages with a solid, metallic thud.
The foyer is massive. Dark wood, marble floors, a sweeping staircase.
A wide crystal vase of fresh coral peonies sits on the entryway console—Sienna's signature, I will learn later—the only soft thing in the entire space.
It feels like stepping into a stronghold that someone has been quietly trying to soften from the inside.
An older man stands near the archway leading to the main hall. He wears a tailored vest over a crisp shirt. Silver hair frames a weathered face. Warmth gathers in the crinkles around his eyes, a stark contrast to the controlled threat of the man holding my waist.
"Ah," the older man says, stepping forward. His voice is rich and warm. "The new arrival."
"You remember Turi from Il Corvo," Enzo says. He does not remove his hand from my back. "He manages the compound. He raised us."
Turi offers a warm smile. He looks down at my left hand, his gaze resting on the diamond for a fraction of a second.
A quiet, fatherly softness moves across his face.
"Welcome to the madness, signorina. Dominic is waiting in the war room, but Matteo insists on dinner first. He is terrorizing the kitchen as we speak. "
"We’ll be down shortly," Enzo says, dismissing the elder with a sharp nod.
"Take your time, figlio." Turi's smile deepens. He turns and disappears down the hall.
Enzo marches me toward the stairs. His hand remains fused to my lower back. Every step we take together feels too synchronized. I am used to dragging men through depositions, forcing them onto my terms. Enzo dictates the pace, the direction, the very air in the room.
We reach the second floor. The hallway stretches out, lined with heavy mahogany doors. Up here, even our footsteps seem muted by the thick walls.
Enzo opens the last door on the right. He ushers me inside and follows, shutting the door behind us. The click of the latch echoes in the large space.
I take three steps before I freeze.
The bedroom is enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the dark grounds. A king-sized bed dominates the center of the room, covered in slate linens. There are no floral pillows. There is no guest luggage rack. An oak desk sits in the corner, stacked with encrypted laptops and tactical folders.
The air in here is overwhelming.
I turn slowly on my heel. Enzo stands by the door. He removes his suit jacket, tossing it over a leather chair. The holster strapped over his chest is stark black against his white dress shirt. The grip of a sleek firearm rests exactly over his ribs.
"Where is my room?" I ask. My voice sounds too thin.
Enzo rolls up his right sleeve, the stark white cotton contrasting with his unmarked, tanned forearm. The muscles there are lean and corded. "You are standing in it."
"This is your room."
"Yes."
"I’m not sleeping in your bed, Costa. Fake engagement or not, I draw the line at sharing a mattress with a man who calculates risk assessments during dinner."
Enzo unbuckles his holster. He sets the weapon on the nightstand with a thud. He turns back to me. His eyes drop to my mouth, linger for a dangerous second, then rise back to meet my furious glare.
"The staff talks," he says, his tone level. "The soldiers patrolling the perimeter talk."
"I need my own space to review the Jeff ledgers."
"You will review them at that desk."
"I need my clothes."
Enzo walks to an oak dresser. He pulls open a drawer, retrieves a soft black t-shirt, and tosses it to me. I catch it against me. The fabric is thick, expensive cotton. It smells intensely of him.
"Your boxes arrive tomorrow," he says, leaning back against the dresser. "Your boxes arrive tomorrow. You can change into that after dinner. Now compose yourself. We are going down to dinner. The performance starts the moment we leave this room."