I walked down the long hall toward the front doors, heels echoing like distant gunshots, breath sharp in my throat. I opened the front door, winter air slicing across my cheeks.
I stepped out onto the cold stone steps.
And left.
3 months ago
Enzo DeMone’s study always smelled of old cigars and older power – leather bindings, aged scotch, history layered like dust along mahogany shelves. The curtains were half-drawn against a gray Manhattan afternoon, rain tapping softly against bulletproof glass. Golden lamplight washed the room in amber shadows, glinting off the rings on Enzo’s fingers as he gestured me deeper inside.
I’d been summoned – no small thing either. And he didn’t call just anyone.
He sat behind his desk like a king carved from stone, posture rigid, eyes unreadable. A crystal decanter between us glowed like molten gold.
“Matteo,” he said, voice smooth but heavy, “Our expansion is hitting walls.”
I kept my face neutral, jaw relaxed. “Which walls, exactly?”
Enzo sighed – a quiet exhale that aged him. “The other Bosses…” His gaze flicked toward the window. “They are not warming up to Francesca as the future Underboss.”
I did not let my reaction show, though something flared warm in my chest at the sound of her name.
Francesca. Fire in stilettos. The woman who once pushed me against a hotel wall in Vegas, kissed me like she hated me, made me come in my pants like a loser, then walked out – leaving me wanting more. Two months ago.
I hadn’t forgotten.
I never would.
“Despite it,” Enzo said firmly, “This expansion will go through. I will make sure of it.” His eyes sharpened on mine. “But I need your help.”
I approached the desk slowly, hands in my pockets, every step measured. Enzo DeMone respected confidence – not desperation.
“What kind of help?” I asked.
He leaned forward. “Representation. Validation. You’re respected, feared. They listen to you when they do not listen to her.”
I let a quiet beat stretch between us, the rain outside soft like a drumroll. My glass of scotch burned pleasantly down my throat.
He offered me an opportunity.
He didn’t realize I’d walked in wanting something too.
I spoke low, deliberate. “There is a way to strengthen her position. Permanently.”
“I’m listening.”
I kept my tone smooth – unthreatening, logical.
“You want them to accept her as future Underboss. But they need a reason. A tie. Something binding.” I paused, meeting his gaze head-on. “What about marriage?”
A stillness settled over the room.
Enzo’s first reaction was tension around his jaw. He didn’t want to give his daughter away like a negotiation piece. I respected that. But power had its own language, and I knew how to speak it.
“Marriage,” he repeated slowly. “It is not something I want for her. Not now. And not with you–”
“Not with me, of course,” I quickly defused the situation. “I’m not Italian. They would never accept it.” I lied, knowing they wouldn’t give a shit if the money was right. “I mean, sure, my family business’ power would nodoubt pull the deal through, but I’m sure you can find a nice, Italian man for Francesca.”
Those last words tasted like acid on my tongue.
