Page 39 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

“You’ll be fine. Trust me.” He gives the waiter his attention, examining the label of a wine bottle and approving it.

I carefully let my hand feel the underside of the table, confused for a moment as I make out what it is. Enzo watches me, his sharp gaze catching every movement while the waiter pours our wine. When I finally realize what I’m touching, my mood shifts instantly.

“My spa?—”

Enzo shushes me and looks around, cutting off my outburst.

“Sorry. My spatula,” I whisper. “I feel better now.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, picking up his glass and holding it out toward me. “You have a six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound killing machine at your beck and call. I’ve crushed men’s skulls with my bare hands, and you prefer a spatula to keep you safe?”

I clink my glass against his and take a drink. Of course, it’s my favorite wine. “First of all, don’t disrespect The Spat, okay?”

“Oh my god, you’ve given it a nickname.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes before lifting his glass to his lips.

“Second of all, you better have washed those skull-crushing hands before you stuck them in my pussy this morning.”

I sit back, satisfied, sipping my victory wine as he sputters and chokes on his. He stands abruptly, straightening his suitjacket before he buttons it. He holds out his hand for me to take. When I stand, he leans down, his lips brushing against my ear.

“You’re getting spanked for that later.”

Mmm. Activate kitty purring in three... two... one.

“Now, let’s get that perfect ass of yours to the dance floor so the vultures can start circling you.”

Enzo leads me onto the dance floor, and the moment we step into the center of the room, the music seems to fade into the background. The soft, intoxicating melody of a saxophone drifts through the air, but I’m far more aware of the man holding me flush against his hard body, as well as the eyes following us as we glide across the polished marble.

His hand on my back is warm, steady, and—as usual—commanding. I can tell by the way his grip tightens ever so slightly when we reach the crowd that he’s not just leading me through this dance—he’s nervous.

Leaning in, he keeps his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Just remember, we need to find a way to ask about your mother’s death, but we can’t be obvious. They’ll sense something’s off. This group is too fucking bored and nosy to miss a single detail.”

I nod, my hand running up his chest, just under the lapel of his jacket. I can feel the tension in his body. The pressure in the room is thick, suffocating, and it seems all eyes are on us. “Got it. Don’t worry. Just casual conversation like: ‘Hey, let’s tellour favorite death-by-drowning stories. You go first.’” I tease, a sarcastic edge creeping into my voice.

Enzo’s lips twitch into a hint of a smile, but it’s gone before I can properly appreciate it. “That sounds perfect.” He pauses, his eyes scanning the room as the music swells around us. “Just keep it subtle—and keep that smile of yours intact. Let them think they’re getting exactly what they want, and you’ll have them eating out of your hand… just like the rest of us.” He adds a wink for good measure.

Before I can reply, an older man steps into our path, holding his hand out to his wife, who catches up. His suit is crisp, impeccably tailored, and he has the look of someone who has seen it all—along with the liver spots on his hands. The slight tilt of his head, the calculating glint in his eyes—they scream experience with manipulation.

“Mr. Vincenzi,” the man says, his voice thick with age and authority, “may I cut in for a dance with this beautiful young lady?”

Enzo raises an eyebrow, but his politeness is flawless. “Mr. Moretti, I thought you’d never ask,” he replies smoothly, his voice warm with deference as he takes a step back. “I’ve had my eye on this young vixen all night.” Enzo takes the hand of the old man’s wife, charming her into oblivion in an instant.

“Of course, Enzo,” the man—Mr. Moretti—says with a chuckle, his eyes lingering on me.

Enzo offers me a half-smile and, with a brief but meaningful glance, places my hand in Mr. Moretti’s. “Enjoy your conversation, Marie,” he says, his voice hushed, a trace of something in his eyes that’s hard to pinpoint. He tenderly leads the older woman into the steps of the dance, leaving me with the older man.

Mr. Moretti takes my hand, his other on my back at a respectful level, but his gaze never quite leaves my face, andI don’t like that too much. “Marie,” he says thoughtfully, “a beautiful name. My lovely wifes, as a matter of fact.” He takes the first steps into the dance, and I move with him. “I must admit, I’m intrigued. It’s not every day we see someone on the arm of Enzo Vincenzi. He’s an elusive one, I’m sure you know.”

I offer a polite smile, feeling the weight of his curiosity, but I don’t reveal anything beyond the veil. “I’m sure Enzo is a very private man,” I reply, my voice sweet but neutral.

Mr. Moretti raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Indeed. And a man of power. You must be someone special to catch his attention like this.”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “Perhaps I am a mere escort, Mr. Moretti, no more, no less.” I offer him a sweet, measured smile. “Here tonight, gone in the morning.”

His gaze sharpens. “Oh, you’re much more than that. Tell me, how did you come to be in such… esteemed company?”

I meet his eyes directly. “Perhaps it is I who am the esteemed company, Mr. Moretti.”

Mr. Moretti’s smile stretches into something more calculating. “Ah, I see.” He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “May I ask, have we met somewhere else? You look rather familiar.”

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