"The staff talks," he says, his tone level. "The soldiers patrolling the perimeter talk."
"I need my own space to review the Jeff ledgers."
"You will review them at that desk."
"I need my clothes."
Enzo walks to an oak dresser. He pulls open a drawer, retrieves a soft black t-shirt, and tosses it to me. I catch it against me. The fabric is thick, expensive cotton. It smells intensely of him.
"Your boxes arrive tomorrow," he says, leaning back against the dresser. "Your boxes arrive tomorrow. You can change into that after dinner. Now compose yourself. We are going down to dinner. The performance starts the moment we leave this room."
I grip the shirt tight, my knuckles aching. He is so arrogant. So perfectly controlled. He thinks he can just hand me his clothes, brand me with his mother's ring, and expect me to fall in line like an obedient soldier.
"Fine," I snap. "But if you think I am going to act like a submissive little mob wife downstairs, you’re severely miscalculating."
The corner of his mouth twitches. A millimeter of a smirk. "I never calculated submission, Natalia. I calculated chaos. Try not to burn the house down."
He walks past me, opening the door. He waits.
I throw my ruined heels into the corner of the room. I smooth down my damp dress, paste a razor-sharp corporate smile on my face, and march out the door. Let the performance begin.
We descend into the heart of the compound. The industrial kitchen is gleaming with stainless steel and butcher block counters. The smell of roasting garlic, seared meat, and rich tomato sauce fills the air. A tote bag of laminated multiplication flash cards leans against the leg of one stool, half-spilled across the floor—somebody's third-grade lesson prep abandoned mid-sort. It is a chaotic, loud space, at odds with the sterile silence of the second floor.
A huge man stands at the stove. He wields a chef's knife, chopping herbs with terrifying speed. A blackout tribal sleeve covers his left shoulder; a gold medallion swings at his collarbone; flour dusts the cuff of his rolled sleeve. This must be Matteo.
In the corner booth, another man sits with his back to the wall. His eyes track the doorway with lethal focus. Dante. His shoulders are tense, coiled tight, relaxing only when a curvy woman with bright eyes and flour on her apron rests a hand on his shoulder. Gemma. She laughs at something Matteo says,leaning into Dante's side. Dante wraps an arm around her waist, burying his face in her neck for a brief second.
The contrast is staggering. These men are killers, enforcers, mob royalty. Yet in this room, they are anchored by the women beside them.
Enzo steps into the kitchen. The knife stops. The laughter stops. Every Costa in the room registers him at once.
Dante's eyes snap to me. Matteo lowers the knife. The scrutiny is absolute. They are assessing the stranger. They are looking at the ring on my finger.
I shift into my courtroom persona. I roll my shoulders back. I plaster an adoring smile on my face.
I step closer to Enzo. I slide my hand through the crook of his arm, pressing my breast against his bicep. "Smells amazing," I say, pitching my voice to a softer, sweeter register. "Enzo didn't tell me I was moving in with a master chef."
Matteo blinks, then a wide grin splits his flour-dusted face, the gold medallion catching the kitchen light. "He didn't tell you because he eats protein bars and black coffee. Welcome to the family, Natalia. Sit. Eat."
Enzo guides me to the large wooden dining table. He pulls out a chair. I sit. He takes the seat directly beside me, boxing me in between his shoulders and the edge of the table.
Gemma brings over a platter of roasted meats. She gives me a warm, knowing look. "Don't let them intimidate you. They just glare a lot."
"I deal with angry men in suits for a living," I reply smoothly, maintaining the bright smile. "I think I can handle a few glares."
Dante grunts, his eyes flicking to Enzo. "She has teeth. Good. She'll need them to cross-reference Jeff's doctored ledgers against the originals."
The business talk begins. The warmth of the kitchen instantly evaporates, replaced by cold strategy. Matteo sits across from us, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Jeff is spiraling," Matteo says, his voice dropping an octave. "He missed the dead drop yesterday. Rourke is applying pressure. The thirty-eight-thousand-five-hundred-dollar debt is just the leverage. The Bellantis want the transit hub."
Enzo leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The shift in his posture is immediate. The lethal fixer takes over. "Jeff is a coward. He will hand over the shipping schedules the moment Rourke threatens his family. We need the secondary ledgers before he cracks."
"And if he cracks tonight?" Dante asks, his hand tightening protectively on Gemma's hip.
"Then I take the hub off the board," Enzo states. "Rourke loses his laundering corridor. The Bellantis lose the lever. Jeff becomes our asset by default."
A chill runs down my spine. The casual discussion of sabotage and ruin happens over plates of roasted pork and wine. This is the reality of the ring on my finger.
