I remember my role. I need to sell the lie to his brothers. I need to prove to Enzo that I can play this game better than him.
I shift in my chair. I turn my body toward him. I reach out, resting my hand flat on his muscular thigh.
The muscle beneath his dark slacks goes rigid. He is tense.
"Darling," I murmur, tracing a slow circle on his thigh with my thumb. "You promised no work talk until after we eat. You work too hard."
I wait for him to flinch. I wait for the calculating machine to awkwardly accept the touch. I expect him to give a stiff nod and play along.
I am wrong.
Enzo does not flinch. He does not act. He turns his head, his calculating gaze dropping to my mouth. He shifts his weight, moving into my space. His large hand drops beneath the table. He covers my hand on his thigh. His grip is warm.
His thumb strokes across my knuckles. The movement is terrifyingly slow. Deliberate.
"My apologies," Enzo murmurs. His voice lowers, deliberate and unhurried, and the sound lands straight in my chest. "You are right. The ledgers can wait."
He doesn't look away from my lips. His thumb continues to trace the sensitive skin of my knuckles, sending tiny sparks of electricity shooting up my arm. He leans closer. His chest brushes against my shoulder. The heat radiating from his body is intense.
I swallow hard. Oxygen abandons my lungs.
My corporate cynic brain scrambles to categorize this behavior.Selling the lie. Excellent actor. That is all this is.
But his eyes...
The calculation in his gaze is still running. It is just losing—to something dark and consuming behind his eyes. He looks at me like a man who has finally found the variable he cannot solve. He looks at me like he wants to drag me out of this kitchen, carry me up the stairs, and lock the bedroom door for a week.
His hand slides off mine, moving higher. His palm rests firmly on my hip, his long fingers wrapping around my waist. He pulls me flush against his side. The movement is smooth and powerful.
My pulse hammers against my collarbone. I am suddenly intensely aware of every point of contact between our bodies. The solid wall of his chest against my arm. The pressure of his hand on my waist. The heat of his thigh pressed against mine.
I am performing. I am reciting the lines he wrote for me.
Enzo Costa is not performing.
He lifts his free hand, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my cheek. My breath hitches. I try to maintain my confident smile, but my lips tremble under his touch.
"Eat," he commands softly, his eyes never leaving mine.
Across the table, Matteo chuckles. "I think the fixer is finally fixed."
Dante watches us with narrowed eyes. He leans back, his protective tension easing. He buys it. They all buy it.
Because it doesn't look like a lie. It looks dangerously real.
I pick up my fork with a shaking hand. I force myself to eat the food Matteo places in front of me. Every bite is ash in my mouth. I cannot focus on the flavor. I can only focus on the hand resting on my hip, the thumb slowly stroking the curve of my waist.
The conversation around the table shifts back to the operation. They discuss shipping routes, shell corporations, and the logistics of intercepting Jeff.
Enzo participates in the tactical discussion. He outlines the legal loopholes I will use to access the transit hub's secondary servers. He issues orders with cold, lethal precision. He plans the downfall of the Bellanti enforcer with terrifying efficiency.
But he never lets go of my waist.
He never creates an inch of distance between us. Whenever Gemma asks me a question about my law firm, Enzo's grip tightens slightly, a silent reminder that I am his. Whenever Matteo offers me more wine, Enzo glances at me first, waiting for my nod before he answers for both of us.
There is no room to think around him. No room to breathe without breathing him in.
I survive the dinner through stubborn willpower. I play my part. I laugh at Matteo's jokes. I nod at Dante's warnings. I leaninto Enzo's touch, pretending that the fire blazing through my veins is affection, not sheer panic.
