Chapter 5 Mia
MIA
My father’s knock came at four in the afternoon, I was already standing before the mirror, robe tied tight, hair unpinned. He didn’t come in; he never did.
“Wear this tonight,” he said through the door. “We’re hosting guests.” The pause that followed told me everything. Not guests. Allies.
After he left, I put on the silver gown hanging on the other side of my door. I took it to my bed, undressed and slipped it on, but I couldn’t zip it up. I stuck my head out, “Celia, can you come here?”
She was zipping me up within two minutes and then fastening my necklace. “Do you know who’s coming?”
“I have a guess. But it has nothing to do with me. I’m just here to smile and look pretty.”
Downstairs preparations moved like clockwork. My father was always one to keep up appearances, even when business was doing poorly. If the other families had knowledge, they’d pounce. So, no matter how our accounts were looking, we smiled and played the part. Tonight would be no different.
I took a moment at the top of the stairs. Everyone moved around like chess pieces. I was sick of being a pawn in everyone’s game. My voice meant nothing, and that needed to change. If my father truly would not use me to form an alliance, then I had nothing to worry about with Enrico.
When I descended the marble stairs, the grand dining doors stood open, a river of candlelight spilling through. I’d promised myself I’d never be a bargaining chip. Yet here I was, polished and placed, walking straight into the game.
My father did not typically invite me to dinners with the other families. So, to find myself in this predicament came as a shock. I didn’t have anything to do with the business side of things and that was all discussed around this table.
I took my seat beside my father and folded my hands in my lap, a model of obedience carved out of nerves. Whatever I did, something was going down tonight. My presence practically cemented it.
Every whisper in the room quieted at once when the doors opened and Enrico Di Fiore stepped inside.
He wore black again. No jewelry. No visible weapon. Just that quiet certainty that he was the weapon. There was something about him that made my body tingle all over when he was close.
He greeted my father first. “Don. Thank you for the invitation.”
My father inclined his head. “We both know gratitude is unnecessary.”
“Courtesy never hurts,” Enrico said. Then his gaze found mine.
For a heartbeat, the rest of the world dissolved.
The candles blurred; the hum of conversation dulled.
It was only him—eyes dark and steady, assessing, remembering.
I kept my chin lifted, refusing to look away.
He smiled—not wide, not kind. Just enough to acknowledge what passed between us at the wedding and what still hung in the air.
I wished I didn’t feel it—the rush low in my chest, the betrayal of my own pulse. The way my panties became wet.
My father’s voice broke the silence. “Please, sit. Let’s eat before the food grows cold.”
Enrico took the seat directly across from me. He spoke to my father about shipments and docks, of peace and protection. The words meant nothing. His tone did—each sentence precise, deliberate, threaded with something private when his gaze cut back to me.
The only thing I could feel was the weight of his attention. He looked untouched by sleep, by mercy, by anything but purpose.
Every topic was neutral: shipping routes, trade concessions. The men laughed at the right times, lifted their glasses. It would have been convincing if not for the way every smile looked like a threat with its teeth hidden.
What was the point of this meeting? Why the hell was Enrico here? And it couldn’t be a coincidence it was on the same night as me.
He sat across from me, posture loose, eyes sharp. His every gesture spoke of control: the steady turn of a wineglass, the way his thumb rested against the stem as if measuring time. I told myself not to look. It was useless.
When my father paused mid-sentence to accept a refill, Enrico’s attention shifted.
“Mia,” he said, his tone a courtesy.
I met his eyes and swooned at his deep voice saying my name. “Yes?”
“You’ve been quiet,” he said. “Do you enjoy this place in the city? A girl like you wants more privacy around her home, right?”
The question was harmless on the surface. The table fell still—everyone waiting to hear how I would answer the man who might soon be my partner or my father’s rival.
I smiled just enough. “When it isn’t full of chaos. Privacy isn’t something our families get.”
A ripple of polite laughter circled the table. My father’s chuckle joined the others. Enrico’s did not.
He studied me instead, that unreadable half-smile lingering like a scar that refused to fade.
The wine was poured again; conversation resumed its careful hum. But I could still feel the invisible line drawn between us—thin as silk, tight as a garrote.
When I lifted my glass, his did too. Under the tablecloth, my hands were steady. My pulse was not.
Every smile was a strategy. Every breath, a calculation. And still I forgot how to breathe.
The last toast came like the closing of a deal.
Crystal lifted, laughter scattered, and for a few breathless seconds the room shimmered with the illusion of civility. Then the men rose, chairs scraping marble, servants moving in to clear the wreckage of diplomacy.
My father was called aside by one of his advisers. Their voices slipped into business cadence—numbers, shipments, contracts. I stood at the edge of the table, fingers brushing the rim of my glass, wishing my pulse would stop betraying me. Wasn’t this my cue to go?
A shadow moved across the candlelight. Enrico.
He crossed the remaining distance with the same quiet assurance that had filled the ballroom the night he first claimed me for a dance.
“You shouldn’t look so afraid,” he said, voice low enough for only me. “I’m only here to keep the peace.”
“You don’t keep peace.”
For a heartbeat, no one else existed—even the pulse in my throat lessened until there was only the weight of what he wasn’t saying.
“Mia.”
The sound of my father’s voice snapped the moment in half. Enrico stepped back as if the air between us had boundaries again. By the time my father turned toward us, Enrico’s mask was already in place—hands folded, polite, untouchable.
“Di Fiore,” my father said. “Until next time.”
“Until next time,” Enrico echoed. His eyes flicked to me once more, a glance so brief it could have been nothing. It wasn’t.
I’m in deep shit, but maybe tomorrow, I’d stop pretending.