Page 40 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

My stomach feels like it’s tumbling boulders. I was afraid this might happen—someone recognizing any familial similarities to my father. “I just have one of those faces.”

This seems to satisfy him, and he goes back to his line of questions as I try to figure out how to work mine into the conversation. “You know, my son is a man of equal stature, just as successful as Enzo. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” He leans in slightly, his tone lowering with a touch of pride. “I’d be happy to introduce you to him, if you’re interested.”

Well, that’s laughable. If his son was truly on Enzo’s level, he wouldn’t need to be making introductions for him.

I smile, but it’s all teeth. “I’m flattered, Mr. Moretti, but I think I’m perfectly content with the company I have.”

He laughs softly, and I cast a glance at Enzo that says I’m done with this one. “Of course, Marie. Of course.” He leans back, his gaze lingering on me a little too long, but thankfully Enzo comes back for me.

It only takes a moment before another older man cuts in, and then another.

The contact transfers of so many colognes on my dress are going to give me a headache.

None of them lingers on my curiosity about how long they’ve been in “the business” or any other excuse I make to try to steer the conversation toward events two decades ago.

All of them want to talk about Enzo. His business dealings and property acquisitions dominate the discussion. It’s clear this is a man’s world.

To them, I’m merely “the little woman,” an accessory to Enzo for the night. Their interest in me is superficial, clearly hoping I’m a floozy who overhears too much and might let something slip. They’re vultures, circling for scraps.

But I give them nothing, primarily because I honestly know nothing. Despite the whispers and insinuations, Enzo and I have been strangers to each other since he fired me. The current pig sweating through his suit and droning about land deals is grating on my nerves.

I realize now that Enzo likely anticipated this. That pisses me off even more.

This mafia empire isn’t built for women—it’s an enterprise made by men, for men.

My eyes wander, ignoring the old man in front of me.

He rambles about Enzo’s property acquisitions, describing how he swallows up deals like a shark. He even mentions silentpurchases—territories acquired without names on the deeds, cloaked in mystery.

Frankly, I’m zoning out. My gaze shifts to the dark booths keeping secrets under shrouds of shadow. A ringed hand emerges from one booth, holding a wineglass marked with red lipstick. I watch the matching red nails—bloody talons—tapping the rim as the server refills the glass. The woman’s fingers are stacked with gold rings, each one an ornate statement.

Hmm. She probably didn’t even have to speak a word.

This society is engineered to keep women invisible, relegated to the shadows while men claim the spotlight.

Though I can’t see her face, I feel the weight of her stare, nonetheless. I wonder if that will be me in twenty years—sitting silently in some booth, appeased with wine while the men take credit, start wars, and hold all the power.

This can’t be all there is to this mighty and powerful regime. There has to be more.

Enzo must sense my patience wearing thin because, when he catches my eye, he excuses himself from his latest dance partner and strides toward me.

When he takes my hand from the sweaty man who’s been pawing at me, I exhale sharply.

“I need some air,” I mutter, my voice tight with frustration. Turning on my heel, I leave him there.

“Delaney,” he whispers, reaching for my hand. “It’s not safe.”

Ignoring him, I leave the dining room, cutting down a hall and pushing through the door of the ladies' room.

Of course, it’s as equally opulent as the rest of the place—lush, tufted benches and marble on top of marble. I lean over the sink, scrubbing the soap into my arms harder than necessary, wishing I could wash away their lingering stares, the brush of their hot breath, and the desperation in the air.

Mirrors surround the bathroom, reflecting every angle of me—distorted, exaggerated—not letting me escape even myself.

The door swings open behind me, and I don’t have to look to know who it is.

“Delaney,” Enzo’s voice is low, almost cautionary, but that tone only makes my temper flare higher.

He closes the bathroom door behind him with a firm click, locking it. His sharp eyes scan the empty stalls before landing on me. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable. The tension between us could be cut with a knife.

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