Chapter 5
Natalia
The oak door of Enzo's bedroom slams shut, sealing us inside the fortress of the Costa compound. The metallic snick of the deadbolt echoes like a gunshot in the suffocating silence. By the time Enzo’s bedroom door slams shut behind us, Romano’s phone has been cloned, the network keys are on the war-room server, and three hours of Bellanti-fronted smiles are finally over.
The operation hit its objectives. We survived the slow, strategic circling through the gallery, the champagne, the modern art, and every Bellanti-adjacent smile aimed our way.
We survived the kiss he pressed onto my mouth in front of Romano, the one that quit being a cover story the second his hand slid to the base of my neck and stayed there.
We did not survive with his legendary composure intact.
Enzo stands rigid against the wood of the door.
His ribs heave with every ragged intake of oxygen.
The top two buttons of his tailored black dress shirt are torn open, the silk ruined when I fisted his lapel in the gallery and refused to let go after the kiss broke.
His hair is a mess. My fingers destroyed his immaculate styling somewhere between the gallery exit and the compound gates.
He stares at the opposite wall, refusing to look at me.
He drags the heel of his hand along his salt-and-pepper beard with jerky, uncoordinated movements.
The great Enzo Costa, the untouchable mafia fixer who calculates every variable on a spreadsheet, is glitching.
He wants to retreat behind the ledger in his head, into the side of him that runs the room with terms and contingencies.
He wants to lock away the man who just kissed me senseless in front of Romano and then drove the entire way home with his thumb tracing slow, dangerous circles against the inside of my wrist. Please.
I spend my days in glass boardrooms, cleaning up the catastrophic messes made by arrogant, wealthy men.
I negotiate with sociopaths for a living.
I am absolutely not letting this specific monster retreat behind his walls.
"The performance is over, Natalia." His voice is gravel and sandpaper, scraping raw against the quiet room.
I kick off the designer stilettos, my arches screaming after three hours of dancing on marble.
The heels hit the plush Persian rug with a soft, dismissive thud.
I walk directly toward him. I do not stop when his shoulders tense.
I do not stop when his calculating eyes finally snap to mine, burning with a fury that instantly annihilates my corporate-lawyer cynicism.
"Is it?" I ask. My voice remains deceptively steady, betraying the chaotic hurricane tearing through my ribs. "Because nobody is watching us right now, Enzo. There are no Bellanti spies hiding under your king-sized bed. There is no cover story to maintain in this room."
He swallows hard. His throat bobs. "Natalia. Stop walking."
I take another deliberate step. I stop mere inches from his chest. The intoxicating scent of sandalwood and whiskey crashes into my senses, overriding my logic.
This man treats the entire city of Chicago like a violent chessboard.
He treats people like disposable pieces on a board.
But right now, his long fingers are shaking.
He wants me so badly he is physically vibrating with the excruciating effort to hold back.
I place my palms flat against his chest. The searing heat of his skin burns through the fine silk of his ruined shirt. Beneath my fingers, the skin of his chest is hot to the touch.
"You gave me strict orders to play a role tonight.
" I lift my chin to meet his furious, starving stare.
"You told me to convince the entire Bellanti network you are completely obsessed with me.
You did a really good job selling the lie in that alcove.
But we are home now. So tell me to step back, Enzo.
Use that precise, contractual voice of yours and tell me this fake engagement is still just a clause we signed off on. "
A low, dangerous noise erupts from deep within him. His legendary composure cracks, giving way to something far more lethal.
His hands slam onto my hips, gripping the curve of my waist with a punishing, desperate strength. He lifts me off the floor. My back hits the solid oak of the bedroom door with a thud. His mouth crashes down on mine.
There is zero calculation in this kiss. There is only raw possession.
His lips part mine brutally. His tongue sweeps inside my mouth, tasting, claiming, demanding absolute surrender.
I open for him immediately, offering no resistance.
My arms wrap tightly around his neck. I tangle my fingers deep into his salt-and-pepper waves, pulling his face closer, demanding more pressure.
He devours my mouth with the starving desperation of a man who has denied himself sustenance for a decade.
I taste the expensive whiskey from the gala.
I taste the sharp, metallic tang of his aggressive restraint finally shattering into a million jagged pieces.
The cynical woman who never trusts a man's word is on her knees somewhere in the back of my skull, screaming.
The mafia fixer is rewriting every clause she lived by.
He walks us backward toward the mahogany king bed in the center of the room.
He never breaks the devastating kiss. His strides are long, predatory, and impatient.
My legs wrap instinctively around his waist, locking my ankles tightly behind his back.
The friction of his hard body grinding aggressively against my arousal sends a sharp, agonizing ache straight to my pussy.
The diamond on my left hand—his mother’s engagement ring—scrapes against the muscles of his neck.
The stone is a constant reminder of the lethal world I just willingly surrendered to.
He tosses me onto the center of the mattress. The plush, dark duvet swallows my back. Enzo stands over me, a towering monument of violence and raw masculine need. He rips his silk shirt off his body. The expensive buttons snap and scatter across the hardwood floor like hail.
His chest is all lethal, controlled muscle, marked in places by a life that has never allowed softness to survive.
The lean muscle stretches tightly over his rapidly heaving ribs.
The salt-and-pepper at his jaw and along the dusting on his chest makes him look untamed in a way the suits usually hide.
He is a terrifying, beautiful monster, and he is focused on me.
He crawls over my body. His knees bracket my thighs, pinning me to the mattress. "You push." His voice is a dark, rough command, vibrating with primal anger and lust. "You push and push until my logic shatters. You are an absolute menace, Natalia."
"And you are a coward if you stop now," I throw back at him. My sassy edge is a lifelong defense mechanism, but right now, it only throws premium gasoline on his raging fire.
"Signed." The single word erupts from him. It is not a question. It is not a negotiation. It is a clause closing around me. "You are on the books, Natalia. My woman."
His large, heavily calloused hands glide over my ribs, mapping the dramatic flare of my hips. He worships my curves like they are the only religion that makes sense to his fixer's mind. He traces the swell of my breasts, his eyes burning with reverence.
"Perfect. You are so fucking soft," he murmurs roughly.
He grabs the hem of my ruined silk dress.
He drags the expensive fabric up my thighs, over my stomach, pulling it roughly over my head in one swift, impatient motion.
The cool, conditioned air of the bedroom kisses my heated skin.
I am left exposed, wearing nothing but a tiny scrap of black lace underwear.
His eyes trace every inch of my naked body.
The primal hunger in his stare is absolute.
It burns away the defensive walls I spent my entire career building.
It melts the cynical armor I wear to survive the corporate predators of Chicago.
I am naked, vulnerable, and safe under his monstrous obsession.
He treats his enemies with cold brutality, but he looks at my body like I am the only precious thing left on earth.
He hooks his fingers into the fragile sides of my panties.
He rips the lace right down my legs with zero regard for the delicate material.
He tosses the torn fabric over his shoulder.
I part my thighs for him immediately. I offer myself to him without a single hesitation or bargaining condition.
The fake engagement is officially dead. This terrifying, possessive gravity between us is real.
Enzo drops his face directly between my legs. The sudden shock of his hot breath against my soaking wetness makes my back arch off the mattress.
"Enzo," I gasp loudly, my fingers twisting violently into the duvet.
His tongue traces the long, swollen slit of my pussy. He laps hungrily at the slick moisture gathered there. I grip the bedsheets tightly, anchoring myself to the physical world. The fine cotton protests under my desperate pulling.
He uses his thumbs to spread my wetness open, exposing my most sensitive flesh to the cool air. He finds my swollen clit immediately. His hot mouth covers the sensitive bundle of nerves. He sucks hard.
A loud, messy moan tears out of my throat.
I cannot contain the filthy sound. He eats me with a ravenous desperation.
His tongue flickers rapidly over my sensitive nerves, creating a devastating friction.
He sucks and bites gently where I am swollen and slick.
Every motion is calibrated to unravel my sanity.
"Loud for me," he murmurs darkly against my slick flesh, his breath fanning over my wetness. "Let me hear exactly how much you want this."