Chapter 4
Enzo
None of it matters right now.
My attention is fractured. A catastrophic failure of discipline. My gaze remains locked on the transit logs, but my mind is consumed by the woman currently occupying my bedroom three floors above.
Natalia.
My tactical asset. The chaotic, impulsive, too beautiful litigation associate I dragged into my fortified compound to sell a lie to the Chicago underworld. She is supposed to be a tool. A means to an end. A way into the private Bellanti-connected social circle tonight.
She is not acting like a tool. She is acting like an explosive detonated inside my ribcage.
Dominic and Matteo trust my judgment. They rely on my discipline.
I understood the bloody reality of our world before anyone had to explain it.
Emotions are liabilities. Anything real can be leveraged.
Anything loved can be slaughtered. So I became the fixer.
The man behind the terms no one could break.
The one who turns clean sentences into violent outcomes.
Then Natalia Kim put my mother's diamond ring on her finger.
The entire foundation of my sanity cracked.
I hit a key on the keyboard, saving the transit logs.
We move on Jeff tomorrow. Tonight, we establish the cover.
The Bellanti-adjacent charity gala starts tonight.
Jeff’s ledgers point to a private auction hosted by men from Arthur Reeves’s old circle, and Romano—the financial backer behind Rourke’s laundering route—will be there with the network keys on his phone.
We are running tight. We need to be seen.
We need to be documented as an obsessed, newly engaged couple.
I push away from the steel desk. The metal door of the war room seals behind me with a solid, echoing thud.
The rain-soaked suit from Il Corvo is hanging in a guest closet, ruined.
I am back in fresh black silk and a tailored holster, the Chicago storm scrubbed off my skin in the basement shower.
While she worked the Jeff files at my desk upstairs, I sent Turi up with a garment bag and a single addendum to my earlier order: review the ledgers first, then put on the black silk.
I take the stairs two at a time, my blood already running hot.
The compound is quiet. Turi is at the front gates, securing the perimeter.
The guards are running their rotations. Everything is in order. Everything is under my control.
Except her.
I open the door to my bedroom.
The air leaves my lungs in a violent, silent rush.
Natalia stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
She is wearing a dress made of liquid black silk.
It clings to every curve of her body like a second skin.
The fabric dips low in the back, exposing the elegant line of her spine, and hugs the flare of her hips with agonizing precision.
The slit travels dangerously high up her left thigh.
She is a weapon. A lethal, devastating weapon pointed directly at my throat.
She turns. Her eyes catch mine in the mirror. Defiance burns in her gaze, sharp and untamed. She hates that I control this situation. She hates that I dictated her move into my house. She hates being told what to do.
I love that she hates it. It makes the urge to conquer her burn hotter.
"Is this acceptable for your little mafia theater?" she asks. Her voice is a smooth, sarcastic drawl that does nothing to hide the slight tremor in her hands. She is nervous. She is out of her element. But she refuses to show fear.
I step fully into the room. The door clicks shut behind me. The sound is a gunshot in the quiet space.
"Turn around." My voice lowers, every consonant clipped to a single edge.
She bristles. Her chin lifts. "I am not a mannequin, Enzo."
"Turn around, Natalia."
She holds my stare for three long seconds before slowly rotating.
The silk shifts over her curves. The movement sends a fresh wave of blood rushing straight to my cock.
It takes every ounce of my legendary restraint not to cross the room, rip the fragile fabric from her body, and bury myself so deep inside her she forgets the word 'fake' forever.
"The dress is adequate," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She scoffs, turning back to face me. "Adequate. Thank you. I'm thrilled my wardrobe meets the rigorous standards of organized crime."
I cross the distance between us in three long strides. She freezes as I invade her personal space. Every variable I built this op around is now standing six inches from me in liquid silk, refusing to back down. She tips her head back, daring me to flinch first.
I reach out. My large hand settles on her bare waist. Her skin is scorching hot under my palm.
"We are entering hostile territory tonight," I tell her, my thumb tracing the curve of her hip. "There are Bellanti associates in that room. Rourke's men will be watching. You do not leave my side. You do not speak to anyone without my permission. You do not let go of my hand."
"Or what?" she challenges, her lips parting slightly.
"Or I burn the building down with everyone inside it just to get you out."
The words are true. The calculation is still running—it has simply produced an outcome I would have called impossible an hour ago. If anyone looks at her wrong tonight, I will end them. The realization should terrify me. It doesn't.
Her bravado falters for a fraction of a second. She searches my eyes, looking for the lie. She finds nothing but sincerity.
"You're insane," she whispers.
"I am protecting my investment." It is the weakest lie I have ever told.
I slide my hand from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her a fraction of an inch closer. The platinum ring on my right hand catches the warmth of her skin; I feel my mother's metal grow heavier under my cuff. She is staring at my mouth.
"Let's go," I command, stepping back before I lose the last shred of my control and ruin us both.
The armored SUV idles in the courtyard. The rain from earlier has stopped, but the damp chill of it still clings to the air as we step through the estate entrance. Turi opens the back door for us. The warm, weathered elder gives Natalia a kind smile.
"You look beautiful, picciridda," Turi says.
"Thank you, Turi," she replies, her voice instantly softening.
I note the warmth in her smile. I note that it is not aimed at me. The reaction in my chest is irrational—Turi raised me, Turi is family—and yet some part of me, the part I do not list on the operational matrix, wants to clear the room of every man who is not me.
We slide into the spacious back seat of the SUV.
The doors lock with a solid, reassuring thud.
The tinted glass isolates us from the world.
The dark leather interior immediately fills with the scent of mint and sweet basil.
It is her signature scent. Crisp, green, intoxicating.
It overrides the smell of the leather seats.
It rewrites a variable I had locked years ago.
I reach across the center console and take her left hand.
She flinches slightly at the contact but does not pull away. The diamond ring catches the passing streetlights. My mother's ring. A ring that sat in a vault for as long as I can remember, waiting for the woman who could bring me to my knees.
"They will be looking for cracks in the performance," I say, keeping my voice low, authoritative. "They will be looking for hesitation. A fake engagement is a known tactic. We have to be flawless."
"I am a corporate litigator," she fires back, staring straight ahead at the privacy partition. "I lie to sociopaths for a living. I can handle a cocktail party."
"This is not a courtroom, Natalia. These men do not file motions. They bleed people out in soundproof basements. You need to understand the reality of what we are walking into."
She finally turns her head to look at me.
The bravado is still there, but the edges are softening.
"I understand. I read the briefing you left on the desk. Jeff owes Rourke. Rourke uses the debt to force Jeff to launder the cash through the transit hub. We are going to this gala to get close to Rourke’s financial backer.
The cloning device you left with the files goes on his phone.
Once we have the network keys, we can access the ledgers without touching the originals. "
"Correct."
"And to do that, you need the backer distracted. You need me to be the shiny object."
Heat crawls up my neck. "No one looks at you as an object. You are the future of the Costa family. They will look at you with absolute fucking respect, or they will discover, very quickly, that I am the man who decides which of their contracts get honored next quarter."
She blinks, taken aback by the sudden, violent venom in my tone. The corporate lawyer in her is trying to parse the logic of my reaction. There is no logic. There is only the monster roaring in my blood.
The SUV slows, turning onto the cobblestone streets of the West Loop. The venue is an upscale art gallery, currently rented out for a private charity auction. The street is lined with black town cars and valets. Paparazzi crowd the velvet ropes near the entrance.
"Showtime," she whispers.
"Mine," I remind her, my grip on her hand tightening.
The valet opens her door. I am out of the vehicle a split second later, circling the back to claim her before anyone else can get too close.
I wrap my arm firmly around her waist, my hand splayed wide over the black silk covering her lower back.
I pull her flush against my side. The contact registers somewhere south of my ribcage and rewrites my pulse on the spot.
Flashbulbs erupt as we walk toward the entrance. Whispers spread through the crowd. Enzo Costa, the phantom fixer of the family, stepping into the light with a woman on his arm. It is unprecedented. It is a declaration of war cloaked in high society.
We surrender our coats and step into the main gallery. The space is all exposed brick, steel beams, and modern art that looks like spilled blood. Waiters in crisp black suits circle with trays of champagne. The low thrum of a jazz quartet plays in the corner.
My eyes scan the room, instantly cataloging the threats. Three of Rourke's associates near the bar. A Bellanti lieutenant talking to a city alderman by the west exit. Our target, the financial backer named Romano, holding court near a massive abstract painting in the center of the room.
I lean down, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Romano is at twelve o'clock. Dark suit, gray hair. We need to close the distance."
Natalia shivers against me. The slight tremor of her body is not from fear. It is a reaction to my proximity. The realization is a tactical liability I file away and do not solve.
"Lead the way, darling," she purrs, the sarcasm masked by a saccharine, adoring tone.
She is a terrifyingly good actress.
We navigate the crowd. Every step is agonizing.
The friction of her hip against my thigh.
The sway of her body. The scent of mint and sweet basil invading my lungs with every breath I take.
I keep my palm anchored at the curve of her waist, my fingers occasionally tracing the bare skin exposed by the low cut of her dress.
We reach Romano. He is a slick, over-groomed rat in a custom suit. His eyes dart to me, widening in surprise, before landing on Natalia. The way he looks at her—a slow, assessing drag down—sets a fuse off in my blood.
I need to mark her. Right here. In front of him.
I murmur something for Romano to catch as I cup the back of Natalia's neck. She turns toward me automatically, eyes flying wide. Her hand comes up to my lapel on reflex. The questioning curve of her brow says what are you doing.
I answer with my mouth.
I kiss her. Right there in the middle of the Bellanti-fronted gallery, six feet from the man whose phone we came here to clone.
My lips press hers, slow and deliberate at first—selling the cover—and then she gasps against my mouth and the calculation evaporates.
Her lips part. Her hand fists in the lapel of my jacket.
The kiss stops being a performance somewhere between her second breath and her third.
The scent of mint and sweet basil floods my senses.
The taste of champagne. The press of her tongue against mine.
The soft, helpless sound she makes when I bite her lower lip.
Everything else—the gallery, Romano, Rourke's associates, the entire Bellanti operation—narrows to background data I am no longer prioritizing.
I pull back a fraction. Her pupils are blown wide. Her lips are wet. The fingers fisted in my lapel haven't released.
"Cover," I rasp against her mouth, mostly to remind myself.
"Cover," she agrees, breathless. The word is a lie. We both know it.
I straighten my shoulders. I turn toward Romano with my arm still locked around her waist, her body still pressed flush against mine.
Romano is staring. His eyes flick from me to her and back. The slow assessing drag is gone. In its place: the careful wariness of a man who just watched the Costa fixer set the terms of an engagement he was not invited to negotiate.
"Romano," I say. My voice is perfectly even. The kiss was the prologue. The actual operation begins now.