Enzo does not blink. The cards continue their flawless, one-handed dance.Snick. Snick. Snick.
"There is no legal emergency," Enzo says. "Sit."
"I prefer to stand."
"Sit." The command does not raise in volume. It simply hardens.
My jaw locks. The arrogant, controlling authority rolling off him makes my blood run hot. I grab the leather chair opposite him and drag it out, the legs scraping loudly against the floor just to break his perfect, silent rhythm. I drop into the seat, crossing my legs. The slit in my red dress falls open, exposing my thigh.
His eyes flick down. A microscopic pause in the card shuffling. Just a fraction of a second. Then the gaze snaps back to my face, blank once more.
"Your firm handles the shell corporations for the West Loop transit hub," Enzo states, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaks under his lean frame. "You specifically audit the logistics ledgers."
"Client confidentiality prevents me from discussing?—"
"Jeff is the supply manager at the hub," Enzo interrupts, his voice flattening my objection like a steamroller. "He is currently compromised. A man named Rourke holds a thirty-eight-thousand-five-hundred-dollar gambling debt over his head. Rourke works for the Bellanti family."
The name hangs in the air, toxic and dense. The Bellantis. Even in the insulated glass towers of corporate law, the blood feud between the Costas and the Bellantis is common knowledge. Hits. Retaliations. Bodies on the wrong nights. Everyone in Chicago knows enough to look away.
"I am a litigation associate, Mr. Costa. I do not handle gang wars or gambling debts. If your transit manager is compromised, fire him."
"I do not want to fire him. I want to weaponize him." Enzo slides the deck of cards together, tapping the edges squarely against the table. "The Bellantis use a private, high-society social circle to front their money laundering network. Charity galas. Art auctions. Exclusive events requiring a specific pedigree to attend."
"And?"
"And I require access to those ledgers. The only way inside is through the social circle. The only way into the social circle is with a convincing cover."
He slides a manila folder across the smooth wood. It stops two inches from my fingertips. Perfect physics. Perfect calculation.
I stare at the folder. "What is this?"
"Your new life."
I let out a harsh, sarcastic laugh. "Excuse me?"
"You are impulsive, Miss Kim. You act on nerve. You secured four acquittals last year by intentionally antagonizing the prosecution into making procedural errors. You are currently eighty-four thousand dollars in law school debt. Your rent in the Gold Coast is two weeks past due because you refused to take on a misogynistic tech CEO as a client last month, docking your own bonus."
Heat flashes across my skin. My hands curl into fists under the table. The sheer audacity of him sitting in the dark, pulling apart my life like a hostile balance sheet. He acts as if my struggles, my principles, my financial reality are just numbers on a board to be manipulated.
"You hacked my financials," I snap.
"I did not have to hack anything. People give me information because it is safer than withholding it." Enzo leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The sleeves of his jacket pull tight across his biceps. The salt-and-pepper of his trimmed beard catches the lamplight, the only soft thing on a face cut from stone.
The scent hits me.
Worn playing cards, sharp and papery. The deep, resinous heat of sandalwood. A biting splash of whiskey neat. It is an intoxicating, hyper-masculine combination that short-circuits my brain for three agonizing seconds. The smell bypasses all my defensive walls, wrapping around my throat, heavy.
I force oxygen into my lungs.I will not swoon over a mafia spreadsheet in a custom suit.
"Get to the point, Enzo. Because you are currently wasting my extremely expensive time."
His calculating eyes lock onto mine. The cool, weighing patience in his gaze is infuriating. He looks at me like a chess piece three moves from the edge of the board. I want to flip the entire board just to see what he does.
"I need a fiancée," he says evenly.
Every sound in the room drops out. The espresso machine. My pulse. The cards in his hand.
I stare at him. I wait for the punchline. I wait for the arrogant smirk, the indication that this is some twisted intimidation tactic. His face remains carved from stone.
