Page 37 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

After I’m seated, he rounds the car, sliding effortlessly into his luxury silver vehicle.

Enzo is sporting a black-and-charcoal-gray ensemble. It’s one of his favorite color combinations, and he wears it often. He takes my hand and looks at my nails. I painted them a deep crimson. It’s not a flashy red; it’s subtle, sexy.

With a kiss placed on my knuckles, he puts my hand back in my lap, then reaches across me to open his glove box. There’s an array of silk pocket squares folded neatly in a case, and he picks one that’s a close match to my nails.

Internally, I’m kicking my feet like a giddy fucking schoolgirl.

He knows I like it too because he smirks and winks as he fixes it in the pocket of his jacket.

“Details will matter tonight, Delaney.” He drives with one hand, the other shifting gears and taking the corners like he owns them. He probably fucking does. I wouldn’t be surprised if Enzo Vincenzi owned every inch of Butte, Montana. “You’re going into the lion’s den of old-school mafia tonight.”

“So should I talk with my hands a lot and say things like, ‘Eh, fuhgeddaboudit’?”

His eyes sparkle a little when he genuinely smiles, and I force myself to look back at the road. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” He looks me over a bit longer than he should, letting his eyes run down the length of my legs.

“Eyes on the road, pervert.”

Now he releases his smile unbidden and takes my hand, shifting gears without letting go.

Yeah, that’s hot.The kitty is definitely purring.

“You shouldn’t use your real name tonight or mention your father.”

I assumed that, and I figured I’d go by my middle name, Marie. I’m sure there will be two dozen Marie’s there, for how common a name it is with the Italians. Nearly my entire dorm at boarding school was full of Marie’s.

How does one go about asking details on a possible murder-for-hire that’s two decades old? A nervousness coils in my stomach now that we’re on our way. I’ve never knowingly been around mafia members before.

Plus, I’ll be asking about a ghost from my past that does a great job of staying there.

Enzo didn’t use the valet, opting to park himself for a quicker exit if we need it. The first thing I notice about the members club is the gilded façade of the brick building. It looks like it was designed for someone to drop dead from the sheer amount of gold leaf in the damn place.

The second thing is the crest in the center of the building and the ornate-looking R initial. A remembrance of the past, and I’m curious about the building’s history.

It looks like it could have been an old theater for how lavish it is.

“What’s the R for? Ridiculously overdecorated?”

He snickers and shakes his head. “Romano. My family acquired the building about thirty years ago from the Sicilians.”

Iknewhe owned this place. I wonder what else.

A river runs close to the rear of the building, parallel with the street, and a cool breeze dances off its surface. But the shiver that runs down my back has nothing to do with the chill—it’s the ominous feeling I get looking at this imposing building.

Enzo opens the door for me, and his steady hand finds my lower back as we head inside. My heels click against the marble as we walk into the lobby, and it’s like stepping into another world. Velvet-lined walls in deep burgundy, gold accents gleaming in every corner, and chandeliers hanging down in heavy, glimmering clusters make it feel like something out of a Gatsby party.

The air smells of cigars and aged whiskey, with an undercurrent of expensive cologne. The whole place screams excess, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Not exactly the local steakhouse with a deep-fried onion, you know?” I mutter half under my breath, but Enzo’s the only one who hears me. He cuts his eyes at me and walks with the confidence of a man who owns the entire room.

The lighting is dim and inviting, and the host greets us like Enzo’s name is a password that opens every door. He’s treated like royalty—and probably is mafia royalty, the rich bastard. I half expect a red carpet to unfurl beneath us, but instead, the man behind the desk is already shepherding us through with a reverence that seems far too real to be forced.

“Mr. Vincenzi, always glad to have you visit the club,” he says, his gaze lingering on me a little too long before flicking back to Enzo. I offer him a tight smile and nod, making a mental note to never come back here unless I absolutely fucking have to.

I’m used to crowds and gatherings. When I have a new book releasing, there’s usually a tour: stopping at bookstores, meeting fans, and autographing their books. Aside from writing, that’s my favorite part about being an author—the comments they share with me in those few minutes at my table.

I’ll just pretend like this is a signing.

And all these people are readers... old, male readers... who look at you like you should be sitting on their plate instead of the rare steak they ordered.

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