Chapter 3 #2
I grip the shirt tight, my knuckles aching. He is so arrogant. So perfectly controlled. He thinks he can just hand me his clothes, brand me with his mother's ring, and expect me to fall in line like an obedient soldier.
"Fine," I snap. "But if you think I am going to act like a submissive little mob wife downstairs, you’re severely miscalculating."
The corner of his mouth twitches. A millimeter of a smirk. "I never calculated submission, Natalia. I calculated chaos. Try not to burn the house down."
He walks past me, opening the door. He waits.
I throw my ruined heels into the corner of the room. I smooth down my damp dress, paste a razor-sharp corporate smile on my face, and march out the door. Let the performance begin.
We descend into the heart of the compound.
The industrial kitchen is gleaming with stainless steel and butcher block counters.
The smell of roasting garlic, seared meat, and rich tomato sauce fills the air.
A tote bag of laminated multiplication flash cards leans against the leg of one stool, half-spilled across the floor—somebody's third-grade lesson prep abandoned mid-sort.
It is a chaotic, loud space, at odds with the sterile silence of the second floor.
A huge man stands at the stove. He wields a chef's knife, chopping herbs with terrifying speed. A blackout tribal sleeve covers his left shoulder; a gold medallion swings at his collarbone; flour dusts the cuff of his rolled sleeve. This must be Matteo.
In the corner booth, another man sits with his back to the wall.
His eyes track the doorway with lethal focus.
Dante. His shoulders are tense, coiled tight, relaxing only when a curvy woman with bright eyes and flour on her apron rests a hand on his shoulder.
Gemma. She laughs at something Matteo says, leaning into Dante's side.
Dante wraps an arm around her waist, burying his face in her neck for a brief second.
The contrast is staggering. These men are killers, enforcers, mob royalty. Yet in this room, they are anchored by the women beside them.
Enzo steps into the kitchen. The knife stops. The laughter stops. Every Costa in the room registers him at once.
Dante's eyes snap to me. Matteo lowers the knife. The scrutiny is absolute. They are assessing the stranger. They are looking at the ring on my finger.
I shift into my courtroom persona. I roll my shoulders back. I plaster an adoring smile on my face.
I step closer to Enzo. I slide my hand through the crook of his arm, pressing my breast against his bicep. "Smells amazing," I say, pitching my voice to a softer, sweeter register. "Enzo didn't tell me I was moving in with a master chef."
Matteo blinks, then a wide grin splits his flour-dusted face, the gold medallion catching the kitchen light. "He didn't tell you because he eats protein bars and black coffee. Welcome to the family, Natalia. Sit. Eat."
Enzo guides me to the large wooden dining table. He pulls out a chair. I sit. He takes the seat directly beside me, boxing me in between his shoulders and the edge of the table.
Gemma brings over a platter of roasted meats. She gives me a warm, knowing look. "Don't let them intimidate you. They just glare a lot."
"I deal with angry men in suits for a living," I reply smoothly, maintaining the bright smile. "I think I can handle a few glares."
Dante grunts, his eyes flicking to Enzo. "She has teeth. Good. She'll need them to cross-reference Jeff's doctored ledgers against the originals."
The business talk begins. The warmth of the kitchen instantly evaporates, replaced by cold strategy. Matteo sits across from us, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Jeff is spiraling," Matteo says, his voice dropping an octave. "He missed the dead drop yesterday. Rourke is applying pressure. The thirty-eight-thousand-five-hundred-dollar debt is just the leverage. The Bellantis want the transit hub."
Enzo leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The shift in his posture is immediate. The lethal fixer takes over. "Jeff is a coward. He will hand over the shipping schedules the moment Rourke threatens his family. We need the secondary ledgers before he cracks."
"And if he cracks tonight?" Dante asks, his hand tightening protectively on Gemma's hip.
"Then I take the hub off the board," Enzo states. "Rourke loses his laundering corridor. The Bellantis lose the lever. Jeff becomes our asset by default."
A chill runs down my spine. The casual discussion of sabotage and ruin happens over plates of roasted pork and wine. This is the reality of the ring on my finger.
I remember my role. I need to sell the lie to his brothers. I need to prove to Enzo that I can play this game better than him.
I shift in my chair. I turn my body toward him. I reach out, resting my hand flat on his muscular thigh.
The muscle beneath his dark slacks goes rigid. He is tense.
"Darling," I murmur, tracing a slow circle on his thigh with my thumb. "You promised no work talk until after we eat. You work too hard."
I wait for him to flinch. I wait for the calculating machine to awkwardly accept the touch. I expect him to give a stiff nod and play along.
I am wrong.
Enzo does not flinch. He does not act. He turns his head, his calculating gaze dropping to my mouth. He shifts his weight, moving into my space. His large hand drops beneath the table. He covers my hand on his thigh. His grip is warm.
His thumb strokes across my knuckles. The movement is terrifyingly slow. Deliberate.
"My apologies," Enzo murmurs. His voice lowers, deliberate and unhurried, and the sound lands straight in my chest. "You are right. The ledgers can wait."
He doesn't look away from my lips. His thumb continues to trace the sensitive skin of my knuckles, sending tiny sparks of electricity shooting up my arm. He leans closer. His chest brushes against my shoulder. The heat radiating from his body is intense.
I swallow hard. Oxygen abandons my lungs.
My corporate cynic brain scrambles to categorize this behavior. Selling the lie. Excellent actor. That is all this is.
But his eyes...
The calculation in his gaze is still running.
It is just losing—to something dark and consuming behind his eyes.
He looks at me like a man who has finally found the variable he cannot solve.
He looks at me like he wants to drag me out of this kitchen, carry me up the stairs, and lock the bedroom door for a week.
His hand slides off mine, moving higher. His palm rests firmly on my hip, his long fingers wrapping around my waist. He pulls me flush against his side. The movement is smooth and powerful.
My pulse hammers against my collarbone. I am suddenly intensely aware of every point of contact between our bodies. The solid wall of his chest against my arm. The pressure of his hand on my waist. The heat of his thigh pressed against mine.
I am performing. I am reciting the lines he wrote for me.
Enzo Costa is not performing.
He lifts his free hand, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my cheek. My breath hitches. I try to maintain my confident smile, but my lips tremble under his touch.
"Eat," he commands softly, his eyes never leaving mine.
Across the table, Matteo chuckles. "I think the fixer is finally fixed."
Dante watches us with narrowed eyes. He leans back, his protective tension easing. He buys it. They all buy it.
Because it doesn't look like a lie. It looks dangerously real.
I pick up my fork with a shaking hand. I force myself to eat the food Matteo places in front of me. Every bite is ash in my mouth. I cannot focus on the flavor. I can only focus on the hand resting on my hip, the thumb slowly stroking the curve of my waist.
The conversation around the table shifts back to the operation. They discuss shipping routes, shell corporations, and the logistics of intercepting Jeff.
Enzo participates in the tactical discussion. He outlines the legal loopholes I will use to access the transit hub's secondary servers. He issues orders with cold, lethal precision. He plans the downfall of the Bellanti enforcer with terrifying efficiency.
But he never lets go of my waist.
He never creates an inch of distance between us. Whenever Gemma asks me a question about my law firm, Enzo's grip tightens slightly, a silent reminder that I am his. Whenever Matteo offers me more wine, Enzo glances at me first, waiting for my nod before he answers for both of us.
There is no room to think around him. No room to breathe without breathing him in.
I survive the dinner through stubborn willpower. I play my part. I laugh at Matteo's jokes. I nod at Dante's warnings. I lean into Enzo's touch, pretending that the fire blazing through my veins is affection, not sheer panic.
The trap has snapped shut.
I agreed to this fake engagement thinking it was a corporate contract. A transaction. I provide legal access; he provides financial freedom. A simple exchange of services.
But as the plates are cleared and the men stand to move to the war room, Enzo's hand slides from my waist to the small of my back. He guides me out of the kitchen, his body acting as a permanent shield between me and the rest of the world.
He walks me to the base of the stairs. The shadows of the foyer wrap around us.
"I need to finalize the strike plan with Dominic," Enzo says, his voice low. He turns to face me. He fills the space in front of me without trying. "Go upstairs. Review the Jeff files on the desk. Do not leave the room."
I lift my chin, fighting the overwhelming gravity of his presence. "I’m not a prisoner, Enzo."
He reaches out. His hand spreads flat over my breastbone.
The touch is light. It isn't a threat. It is a claim. The warmth of his palm presses directly over my hammering heart.
"You are my fiancée," he murmurs, leaning down.
His thumb slides up the side of my throat.
Lifts my chin. His mouth hovers a breath away from mine.
I stop breathing. He is going to kiss me.
The mafia fixer who calculates every angle is going to kiss me in his own foyer, and we both know there is no operational reason for it.
He doesn't.
His mouth stops a half-inch from mine and holds there. I can taste his whiskey on my lower lip. His dark eyes burn into mine, calculation and want at war behind them. The fixer wins. Barely.
"The Bellantis have eyes everywhere," he says against my mouth. "The moment you put that ring on, you became the most valuable target in Chicago. I will not lose you to a sniper's bullet because you wanted to take a walk."
He straightens. He does not step back; he never gives up the closeness, but the kiss does not land. His eyes burn into mine. The truth slams into me with the force of a freight train.
He isn't faking this. The protective grip. The lethal stillness when another man looks at me. He meant every word he said in the SUV.
I am his.
"Review the files," he repeats softly. His thumb strokes my jaw once, sending a final spike of heat low and deep through me. Then he turns and walks down the hall toward the basement war room, disappearing into the shadows.
I stand at the base of the stairs, my hand gripping the wooden banister. My knees tremble. The massive diamond on my left hand catches the dim light of the chandelier.
I came here to ruin his perfect calculations. I came here to prove I couldn't be managed.
Instead, Enzo Costa hasn't miscalculated a single thing. He didn't recruit a lawyer. He caught a wife.
And heaven help me, I am going to have to fight for my life to stop myself from falling for the man who holds the cage.
I turn and run up the stairs, fleeing to the only sanctuary left in this fortress—the bedroom that smells exactly like him. The files wait on the desk. The operation begins. The game is on.