Page 46 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

“So, did this Caputo guy ever get in trouble with his wife over the rumor?” I ask, fishing for information.

“Oh, he was a widower by that point.” She looks off thoughtfully. “Or maybe he was on his second wife? I can’t keep them all straight.”

“How did his wife die? Was she also killed, you know…” I run my thumb across my neck as if slicing it. “…to pay a debt?”

“No, that was a tragic time for the families. Stella Caputo was very loved. Died in a freak boating accident. Terrible.”

She looks off as if remembering her, and I find myself wanting to ask more. I never knew she was so loved by the other families. My father was beyond heartbroken over it, but hearing this, she must have truly been amazing. It makes me want to find out more about her now.

Perhaps if I can get Luca talking to me again, he can help me uncover some things.

“There was never any suspicion around the boating accident, though?” I try to keep my voice even as I pretend to clean up nonexistent lip gloss.

“No one would dare step against the Capo.” She shakes her head with conviction.

“What does that mean?” I play dumb to keep her talking.

“The boss. The boss of bosses. He is the family leader of all the Italian families. It would be suicide.”

“Well, I did hear some gossip about the Caputo’s.” I lower my tone, even though it’s just us in here. “I heard Caputo had a daughter that someone put a hit on. Maybe they already got her mom, and she was next?”

“That poor girl.” Eloise looks truly ashen now. “So many of us regret we couldn’t step in and help her.”

“What do you mean?”

I may pass out depending on her answer—or have a fucking heart attack, because I swear my heart has never beat faster in my entire life.

“If we could have taken her, raised her, so many of us would have. But Caputo wouldn’t hear of it. He was the one putting hits out on his own daughter.”

I try to mask my horror, but I’m not pulling it off well because Eloise puts her hand over mine on the counter.

“Why on earth would he do that to his own daughter?”

She smiles with sympathy, hopefully feeling sorry for my ignorance and not because she somehow recognizes me.

“Her mother’s inheritance, my dear. He couldn’t collect it for himself if he killed her.” Eloise taps her cigarette ash into the sink and wets it to put it out. “He needed it to look like an accident.”

Just like… a boating accident.

My heels announce my arrival as they click sharply against the polished marble floors, echoing through the room like a warning. The low hum of conversation falters momentarily as eyes flick to me—some lingering too long, while others glance away quickly, pretending they’re not staring. But there’s no hiding from the sharp attention of the mafia world.

Enzo, meanwhile, remains an impenetrable figure, looking deadly as ever. Leaning slightly back in his chair, his leg crossed over his knee in the perfect balance of control and arrogance, he exudes effortless power.

The dim club lighting casts most of him in shadow, but a strip of soft, golden light breaks across his sharp features—illuminating his eyes, filled with intent, and watching me closely. In his hand, he swirls a lowball crystal glass filled with rich amber liquid, the ice inside clinking as he tracks my every step.

When I approach, his eyes devour the lines of my body, the muscles in his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He stands smoothly, his towering form somehow imposing despite the slow grace of his movements. Pulling out my chair, he guides meinto place at the table with a quiet, commanding hand. I hesitate for a split second before speaking.

“Um, breaking news,” I begin, but pause when his hand cuts through the air, signaling for me to wait.

The staff moves in swiftly, placing silver chargers before us in perfect synchronicity, their movements rehearsed and polished. I don’t miss the subtle exchange between Enzo and the server—the unspoken understanding that flows with years of familiarity. The scent of the rich Italian feast fills the air, and my mouth waters instantly, distracted by the lavish display before me.

It smells amazing. A full spread of decadent Italian dishes, precisely prepared and beautifully plated—antipasti skewers glistening with vibrant colors, the richest pastas cooked to perfection, seafood dishes adorned with fresh herbs and lemon zest. My senses overload as I take in the familiar dishes, a reminder of the world I’ve come from and the things I’ve left behind from my former life with my father.

“Okay, so,” I start again as Enzo pulls my chair closer to his side of the table, wanting me nearer to him.

“That’s better. Go on,” he murmurs, his voice rough but calm.

“That was cute.” My hand snakes onto his thigh as he grins with masculine pride, putting several helpings of the array of antipasti on a plate for me.

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