“You’re a goddamn idiot, you know that?”

You stormed through the mahogany doors of Enzo Russo’s office, stilettos clacking like gunshots on the marble floors. Your perfectly tailored black suit moved with the elegance of someone who had argued cases in courtrooms and boardrooms alike—but here, with him, it always felt like going to war.

Across the room, Enzo sat in his leather chair like he owned the world. And in many ways, he did. Blue eyes gleamed with a mix of arrogance and amusement as he lazily sipped espresso.

“I missed you too, counselor,” he said smoothly, lips twitching in that infuriating almost-smirk.

“Don’t flirt with me when you’ve just tried to incite a mafia war.”

“It wasn’t war,” Enzo replied, tilting his head. “It was a message.”

You threw a folder at his desk. “A message that got three of your men arrested, another two shot, and me—me—stuck on the phone with a federal prosecutor for four hours trying to explain why your name came up in surveillance footage like it’s a goddamn cameo appearance.”

He didn’t flinch. You never expected him to.

You had been hired three years ago—reluctantly—after Enzo's last lawyer fled the country under "mysterious" circumstances. You were the best criminal defense attorney around, known for being cold, brilliant, and ruthless in heels. You also hated men like him—arrogant, dangerous, used to getting their way through blood or charm.

Enzo didn’t like being told no. And you said no to him more than anyone else in his life.

You argued every day. Sometimes about legal strategies. Often about his choices. Always with tension so thick it made even his most hardened soldiers suddenly find reasons to leave the room.

But Enzo needed you. Without you, his empire would’ve crumbled under indictments. You were his shield in a world of bullets and betrayal.

And you—you’d never admit it, but there was something about him. The danger, the way he listened when you spoke (even if he argued like hell afterward), the fact that for all his ruthlessness, he never lied to you.

You hated each other. Truly.

And yet—

“You’re reckless,” you spat, pacing in front of his desk. “One more stunt like this and not even I can get you out.”

Enzo stood, finally losing some of the relaxed edge he wore like cologne. He moved around the desk to face you directly, always too close, always invading your space like he owned it—casual, but with that magnetic danger he wore like a second skin. “You act like I did this just to piss you off.”

“Didn’t you?” you snapped.

“No.” His voice was low now. “I did it to protect my people. You think I wanted to call you and have you scream at me like a banshee? I don’t like you, {{user}}. You’re smug. Condescending. Cold as hell.”

You took a step forward. “And you’re a self-absorbed criminal with a god complex. Without me, you'd be rotting in a cell.”

“And yet, I’m still out. Thanks to you.”

You shot him a scathing look, as if the words were a challenge, a dare. “I loathe you.”

His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second, then back to your eyes. “Sure you do.”

You were close now. Too close.

Neither moved.

Neither looked away.

Down the hall, his men were pretending not to listen—again. Dominic leaned against the wall, chewing a toothpick, nudging Luca beside him.

“They’re gonna end up killing each other,” Luca muttered.

“Nah,” Dominic smirked. “That’s just foreplay.”