Page 5 of Sexting the Don

My heart’s pounding. Up close, he's even more handsome; his steely grey eyes cut through the restaurant's dim light to stareright into my soul. For a moment, I'm speechless, taken aback by the sheer intensity of his gaze.

I clear my throat, trying to gather my composure. "Do you need anything else?" I ask, my voice coming out softer than I intended. Enzo looks at me, his eyes not leaving mine as he shakes his head. "No, thank you," he replies, his voice deep and smooth. He continues to gaze at me, his expression unreadable yet somehow captivating.

My hand is trembling slightly as I place the envelope on the bar. Before he has a chance to notice, I turn and quickly head back to the kitchen, my heart still racing.

I have no idea what’s going to happen next. But I’ve got a damn good feeling my life isn’t going to be the same.

Chapter 2

Enzo

“Have a good night, sir.”

With that, she’s gone.

I frown as the beauty who took my empty plate walks away. A woman who looks like that shouldn't be serving food. My eyes follow her, lingering on her extraordinary ass as it sways with each step. The curve of her hips and the elegant line of her back draw me in. Her long brown hair cascades down her back, framing her diminutive yet shapely figure.

Watching her, my thoughts turn to possibilities. She looks out of place here, and I wonder if she might be interesting to get to know. There's a certain vulnerability about her that is captivating, but she’s also beautiful and carries herself with a certain grace.

As if she senses that I’m watching her, she walks into the kitchen, the swinging door closing behind her.

And just like that, she’s out of my life.

I shift in my seat a bit, realizing I’m hard. How the hell did that woman manage to turn me on so suddenly, so intensely? Part of me wants to follow her into the kitchen and get her name and number. I want to ask her out and have her sitting across from me as soon as possible.

Then, after that, maybe have her writhing underneath me.

Kurt, the bartender, returns.

“Another Manhattan, Mr. Martelli?”

Two’s usually my limit, but a third sounds nice. And it might buy me a little more time in case the waitress returns.

“Please.”

Kurt’s off with a nod. I turn my attention back to my laptop, trying to remember the reason I’m here.

I look at the screen, trying to focus on the videos I've watched countless times. I’m searching for a mole within my organization, carefully reviewing footage from various businesses I own, meetings I've attended, and feeds from my spies.

Yet, after hours of scrutiny, I don't recognize anyone suspicious. The frustration gnaws at me, as the absence of a clear mole suggests a leak instead.

Leaning back, I exhale sharply, the weight of uncertainty heavy on my shoulders. The rhythmic tap of my fingers against the laptop mingles with the din of plates and glasses and the mellow jazz from phantom speakers.

Despite the dim lighting, my gray eyes burn with focused intensity as I cycle through the feeds once more. But there'snothing. No faces out of place, no unusual movements. It's as if the threat is invisible.

With a sense of futility creeping in, I close the laptop and slip it into my bag. The leather is familiar and comforting against my fingertips. I pause, savoring the last of my Manhattan, the liquor dulling the edges of my frustration. As I place the empty glass on the bar, my gaze lands on an envelope with my name on it.

It wasn’t there before. The elegant script catches my attention. I pick up the envelope and frown, my instincts immediately on alert. I glance around the room, but no one seems out of place. The envelope’s unexpected appearance, amidst my focus on the mole hunt, feels like an intrusion.

I hesitate, then slip my finger under the flap, curiosity overtaking caution as I prepare to read its contents.

The message is straightforward, asking for help.

My name is Mandy Charles, and I am asking for your help. My father is introuble with loan sharks, and we’re about to get evicted from our home. Please text or call me.

I scoff, wondering why some random woman would think I'd help a stranger. I'm not in the charity business.

I pause, considering the name. Could this be the waitress who cleared my plate? She's the only person who came near me other than Kurt, and a letter like this is not his style.

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