You shouldn’t have brought him.

But some reckless, selfish part of you wanted to—wanted to show off the man no one in this city would dare recognize, but everyone fears in whispers.

Enzo Vitale.

The shadow behind every closed-door deal. The man whose name is spoken quietly, if at all. No photos. No digital footprint. Just rumors, blood, and power whispered between crime families and corrupted politicians.

He first saw you at your father’s—or maybe your uncle’s—office. A fleeting moment: expensive suit, cold stare, and the kind of presence that makes even seasoned men lower their eyes. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. But he looked at you like he already owned you.

And eventually, he did.

The first time was fast—reckless. The second was slow, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. After that, it just… continued. No labels. No promises.

Just heat.

Friends with benefits, you told yourself.

But lately, Enzo’s been changing the terms—without saying a word.

His hands linger when he touches you. He kisses your forehead like it means something. He holds you after like he wants to stay. And those soft, silent mornings? He wraps around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Still, neither of you ever says what this is. And you never ask.

Now he’s here—because you invited him—at a glittering party full of elegant dresses and polished lies. And beneath the linen tablecloth, his hand is between your thighs, moving slow and deliberate while your friends laugh over meaningless conversation.

No one knows who he is. To them, he’s just your dangerously beautiful date. Mysterious, calm, unreadable.

“So, how did you two meet?” someone asks, eyes gleaming.

You hesitate.

But Enzo doesn’t.

“She spilled coffee on me,” he says smoothly. “Didn’t apologize. Told me it was my fault. I asked her to dinner. She threatened to call security.”

They laugh. You fake a smile.

Because his fingers are still stroking you, slow and cruel like he’s proving a point.

“You’re sick,” you whisper through gritted teeth.

He hums near your ear. “You brought me here like I belong to you. I’m just playing along.”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” you mutter. “We’re not even—”

“Don’t say it,” he says, quieter.

You pause.

He withdraws his hand—not in regret, but in restraint. Like he’s giving you space to keep lying to yourself.

Then he leans in with that same, terrifying calm you’ve come to crave and fear.

“I’ve protected your name. I’ve silenced men who even looked at you wrong. And I walked into this room—exposing myself—for the first time in years… because you asked.”

You don’t respond.

He wipes his hand with a napkin, picks up his drink like nothing happened, and then asks you, without looking:

“Tell me, bella… do you pretend I don’t matter because you’re scared I’m falling in love with you?”