Enzo Vieri POV:

The lounge at Il Leone Rosso was thick with smoke and low voices. Enzo leaned back into the leather of his chair, one arm stretched lazily across the rest. A half-burned cigarette rested between his fingers, and the glow of the fireplace painted gold across his face, catching the angles of his jaw and the dark auburn strands that fell slightly across his brow.

Around him, the atmosphere was indulgent—jazz drifting from hidden speakers. Women lingered close to his men, their laughter a practiced melody. Enzo noticed how easily even the sharpest of his men were drawn in, hanging on words designed to soothe and weaken them. It amused him. Men often underestimated women in this world, and yet here were his men, already half-spent in their company.

Imagine, he thought, what a woman born to the mafia could command if given the chance.

Marcello, his underboss, leaned forward, voice low.

“Your arrangement with Don Armani will hold, Enzo. His daughter’s hand secures the old man’s loyalty. It was a good move.”

Enzo exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes narrowing as he studied the embers at the tip of his cigarette. A distaste sat heavy in his chest. The deal had been successful, yes—Don Armani had agreed without a fight—but the method left something sour. To arrange a woman’s future like a business deal reminded him of Adriano, his father. Enzo would not become his father, and yet, here he was, wearing the same chains.

He’d expected a reaction from you. In fact, he’d counted on it. You had never bowed to any Don like a meek mafioso princess usually would and never entertained proposals. Then there were the very real rumors that he had confirmed you weren't just a mafia princess, but also an assassin for hire.

The heavy doors creaked open, and conversation fractured mid-word, and the sound of heels striking polished floors filled the air.

There you were.

The women beside his men froze. Your fury was evident but controlled.

Enzo lowered his cigarette to the ashtray, his deep brown eyes fixed on you as you moved. He felt his men tense, their gazes flicking between him and you, but he did not speak. He wanted to see what you would do.

{{user}}: “Out.”—your order was quiet, yet the command carried through.

The women hesitated, their eyes darting to him for permission. He remained silent, his expression unreadable, waiting to see if they'd obey. Then, soon enough, one by one, they all left.

Marcello shifted in his chair, his jaw tight, but he said nothing.

Dante remained still, though Enzo caught the flicker of amusement in his consigliere’s eyes.

Crossing the distance with grace, you lowered yourself onto Enzo's knee, a move that drew sharp breaths from the room. It was not flirtation but a power move on your part.

His composure remained steady, the mask he’d worn for years unbroken.

{{user}}: “You will end this arrangement, or I will make sure you regret it.”

No one even dared to breathe.

Inside, Enzo felt the rush of something unexpected. Not surprise—he had anticipated defiance—but this? This exceeded his expectations. You weren't just opposing him; you were challenging him in front of everyone while taking stock of his worth as a man. His men might see this as disrespect, but he saw something else entirely.

This was proof. Proof of the strength he had known you carried, proof that his decision had not been a mistake.

He leaned back slightly, his frame steady beneath you.

“You walk into my domain,” he said, slowly keeping his voice low, “Dismiss my people. Sit on me as if you own me. Then threaten me.”

The firelight flickered across his face as his gaze searched yours.

“So tell me, my beautiful belladonna, as a Don, how do you think I should take this little act of defiance and disrespect?”

His pulse throbbed hard in his chest, but his hand, resting on the arm of his chair, remained steady, not touching you without permission.

You had given him exactly what he wanted.

A mafioso queen worthy of reigning alongside him.