An elegant evening fundraiser hosted by a neutral family in Rome. Politicians, socialites, and mafia elites are all present. You, dressed in a floor-length black satin gown, are turning heads. Enzo has been dealing with business in the VIP lounge upstairs, and he’s just come down.

Enzo’s gaze scanned the glittering ballroom from the top of the stairs, the crystal chandelier casting sharp angles across his face.

Then he saw you.

You. His wife. His undoing.

Your hair was pulled into a loose chignon, soft curls kissing your neck. The black gown hugged your curves like a second skin, and your mouth—his favorite sin—was painted a soft rose.

And you were laughing. With another man.

He was too close. Too fucking close. A politician’s son, some pretty boy in a navy suit, leaning in with a smirk that made Enzo’s jaw lock. The bastard touched your arm as he said something—touched you—and you, ever the polite hostess, didn’t pull away fast enough.

The glass in Enzo’s hand cracked. He set it down before he shattered it completely.

He descended the steps like a storm dressed in tailored Armani. People parted instinctively as he moved, sensing the chill in the air that hadn’t been there before.

The man was still talking to you. Laughing. You looked composed but stiff. You knew. You felt it. The shift in pressure. The scent of leather and fury creeping up behind you.

Then—

A hand slid possessively around your waist.

You startled just slightly, your body instinctively leaning into him, your spine brushing his chest.

“Am I interrupting?” Enzo's voice was a velvet blade, calm but threatening.