Page 48 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

“But I want to get used to it,” I whisper, my voice thick with desire, and I can practically see him melting under the weight of my words. The storm in his eye’s flares to life, igniting something darker.

"Okay," he mutters after a moment. But just as the tension builds, we’re interrupted by the arrival of the servers.

One clears his throat, and if looks could kill, the glare Enzo gives him would reduce him to ash on the spot. The man doesn’t flinch, merely acknowledging the second server who arrives with a new glass of liquor for Enzo.

“Your whiskey, sir.”

“Thank you.”

But before I can dive back into the conversation, the server passes a shallow white bowl in front of me. I almost feel a wave of bliss crash over me, ready for the delicious fragrance of the lobster risotto to engulf me.

My shoulders slump in disappointment as I stare at the bowl making its way to the place setting in front of me.

Mushrooms. The one fucking thing I have an allergy to.

I try not to let my disappointment show, but it’s impossible. Enzo notices it immediately and looks down at the dish, sensing my unease instantly.

The server speaks as he sets the bowl in front of me. His voice barely above a whisper, and a chill runs down my spine.

“Your father sends his regards, from the grave.”

I freeze. The world seems to slow, everything around me blurs. Some innate instinct within me takes over, like some mafia sleeper cell resting dormant in my blood until this very moment. My hand moves swiftly beneath the table, finding the trusty spatula hidden there, and with a swift motion, I fling the bowl of hot risotto into the server’s face.

Enzo’s hand reaches beneath the table, where I know his gun is stashed. As the server reacts, taking a step back with scalding risotto coating his face and covering his eyes, I slap the ever-loving horse shit out of him with “The Spat.” His head jerks to the side, and he reaches into his vest.

Enzo fires, and the bullet hits his temple with a sickening finality.

I feel the hot spray of blood and other fragments splatter across me, and I grimace. The sound of his body hitting the floor, a gun sliding across the marble, is drowned out by the chaos that erupts around us.

“Ugh,” I mutter under my breath. “I think his brains went into my mouth.”

But Enzo doesn’t let me dwell on it. His hand pulls me behind him, his gun aimed at the chaos now unfolding in the dining room.

The walls themselves seem to pulse with danger, as if the very foundation of the club is alive with the promise of violence. The air grows thick, and before I can process what’s happening, the lights flicker, throwing the room into brief darkness before the storm of gunfire explodes. The ceiling splinters with an eeriecrack as men dressed in black, like shadows, begin rappelling through the jagged openings.

Their guns drawn, they land silently, their boots making barely a sound as they prepare to strike. Armed guards emerge from hidden panels in the wall, and in the blink of an eye, we’re surrounded by Enzo’s men in suits, all armed with guns.

It’s all-out pandemonium.

My eyes snap to the far side of the room, where a massive cannon of a gun is set up at the only exit, aimed directly at us. We’re on the third floor, cut off from escape as an invasion roars to life around us.

The sudden realization hits like a wave—the inevitable is crashing toward us, and it’s going to be a bloodbath.

For a fleeting moment, as time seems to slow, two thoughts cross my mind with sharp clarity: I wish I could have spoken to Luca... and I wish I could have had a bite of that damn lobster risotto.

The chaos around me is a symphony of violence—sharp and brutal, but somehow controlled. Enzo’s men move like a well-oiled machine, springing into action with deadly precision. They’re calm in the storm, each one moving with purpose, doing exactly what I would expect from someone raised in this world. They take cover behind columns, upturned tables, and anything else they can find. They fire with unshakable accuracy, cutting down attackers as they appear. It’s like a dance—if you can call it that—violent, precise, and practiced.

Enzo doesn’t miss a beat. He’s everywhere at once, gun raised, eyes sharp. His movements are fluid and efficient—like he’s done this a thousand times, which I guess he has. I watch as he fires shot after shot, each one hitting its mark, the men around him following his lead without hesitation.

I find myself holding my breath, caught in the moment. There’s something about watching them fight, watching them protect, that makes my chest tighten. It’s not just about survival—it’s about dominance. About being in control of the situation when everything around you is falling apart.

I’m so caught up in the scene, in the rhythm of the fight, that I don’t realize how close the attackers are getting until one of them rushes forward, gun drawn. I grab what’s near, taking a plate that has fallen on the floor, and hurl it like a frisbee, catching the man in the face.

“Fuck yes! Take that, asshole!” My victory is short-lived when there’s a pop next to me. The man goes down, and Enzo’s hand is on my arm, pulling me back behind cover.

“Fucking stay down,” he growls, his voice low and harsh, eyes scanning the room. “It’s not safe.”

It’s a command. And damn him, he knows I’m not going to listen. My gut twists as I watch him and his men push back the invaders, calm and deadly as they take control of the room. But I can’t just sit here, hiding behind a pillar, doing nothing. I have no weapons. I don’t even fucking know how to use a gun. But damn it, I can fight. I need to.

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