Then Natalia Kim put my mother's diamond ring on her finger.
The entire foundation of my sanity cracked.
I hit a key on the keyboard, saving the transit logs. We move on Jeff tomorrow. Tonight, we establish the cover. The Bellanti-adjacent charity gala starts tonight. Jeff’s ledgers point to a private auction hosted by men from Arthur Reeves’s old circle, and Romano—the financial backer behind Rourke’s laundering route—will be there with the network keys on his phone. We are running tight. We need to be seen. We need to be documented as an obsessed, newly engaged couple.
I push away from the steel desk. The metal door of the war room seals behind me with a solid, echoing thud. The rain-soaked suit from Il Corvo is hanging in a guest closet, ruined. I am back in fresh black silk and a tailored holster, the Chicago storm scrubbed off my skin in the basement shower. While she worked the Jeff files at my desk upstairs, I sent Turi up with a garment bag and a single addendum to my earlier order: review the ledgers first, then put on the black silk. I take the stairs two at a time, my blood already running hot. The compound is quiet. Turi is at the front gates, securing the perimeter. The guards are running their rotations. Everything is in order. Everything is under my control.
Except her.
I open the door to my bedroom.
The air leaves my lungs in a violent, silent rush.
Natalia stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She is wearing a dress made of liquid black silk. It clings to every curve of her body like a second skin. The fabric dips low in the back, exposing the elegant line of her spine, and hugs the flare of her hips with agonizing precision. The slit travels dangerously high up her left thigh. She is a weapon. A lethal, devastating weapon pointed directly at my throat.
She turns. Her eyes catch mine in the mirror. Defiance burns in her gaze, sharp and untamed. She hates that I control this situation. She hates that I dictated her move into my house. She hates being told what to do.
I love that she hates it. It makes the urge to conquer her burn hotter.
"Is this acceptable for your little mafia theater?" she asks. Her voice is a smooth, sarcastic drawl that does nothing to hide the slight tremor in her hands. She is nervous. She is out of her element. But she refuses to show fear.
I step fully into the room. The door clicks shut behind me. The sound is a gunshot in the quiet space.
"Turn around." My voice lowers, every consonant clipped to a single edge.
She bristles. Her chin lifts. "I am not a mannequin, Enzo."
"Turn around, Natalia."
She holds my stare for three long seconds before slowly rotating. The silk shifts over her curves. The movement sends a fresh wave of blood rushing straight to my cock. It takes every ounce of my legendary restraint not to cross the room, rip the fragile fabric from her body, and bury myself so deep inside her she forgets the word 'fake' forever.
"The dress is adequate," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She scoffs, turning back to face me. "Adequate. Thank you. I'm thrilled my wardrobe meets the rigorous standards of organized crime."
I cross the distance between us in three long strides. She freezes as I invade her personal space. Every variable I built this op around is now standing six inches from me in liquid silk, refusing to back down. She tips her head back, daring me to flinch first.
I reach out. My large hand settles on her bare waist. Her skin is scorching hot under my palm.
"We are entering hostile territory tonight," I tell her, my thumb tracing the curve of her hip. "There are Bellanti associates in that room. Rourke's men will be watching. You do not leave my side. You do not speak to anyone without my permission. You do not let go of my hand."
"Or what?" she challenges, her lips parting slightly.
"Or I burn the building down with everyone inside it just to get you out."
The words are true. The calculation is still running—it has simply produced an outcome I would have called impossible an hour ago. If anyone looks at her wrong tonight, I will end them. The realization should terrify me. It doesn't.
Her bravado falters for a fraction of a second. She searches my eyes, looking for the lie. She finds nothing but sincerity.
"You're insane," she whispers.
"I am protecting my investment." It is the weakest lie I have ever told.
I slide my hand from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her a fraction of an inch closer. The platinum ring on my right hand catches the warmth of her skin; I feel my mother's metal grow heavier under my cuff. She is staring at my mouth.
"Let's go," I command, stepping back before I lose the last shred of my control and ruin us both.
The armored SUV idles in the courtyard. The rain from earlier has stopped, but the damp chill of it still clings to the air as we step through the estate entrance. Turi opens the back door for us. The warm, weathered elder gives Natalia a kind smile.
