Page 18 of Sworn to the Enemy

Serafina

The night air is thick and heavy with the reek of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke as I step into the club, my boots clicking against the polished floor.

The bass thumps through my bones, the lights flashing in jagged streaks of red and purple.

It doesn't help to soothe my frayed nerves as I'm already on edge. My blood is roiling with purpose.

Aida had called this morning to relay Papa's message to me. It had elicited worry from me, because the matter was supposed to be relayed by him. I'd burdened myself with worry that his health is deteriorating fast, but Aida had allayed my worries. Papa simply doesn't want too much intervention.

It's about the money laundering business I run on the side for him.

At first, Papa had been content with me just staying under his wings after I graduated from Yale.

To him, I'd been groomed to become a proper lady—smile, charm, and someday, become some wife of a powerful don, hence my education and sophistication.

But, I'd known from a young age that it isn't what I want from life.

I'm just not cut for a life like that. So, I'd insisted he let me learn the family trade and if he's impressed with my performance, he'd let me handle some parts of his business.

He let me attend meetings with him, but I never headed them.

It'd be unheard of to have a woman head a meeting of mainly men.

Within two years, I exceeded Papa's expectations, and albeit grudgingly, he'd accepted for me to become part of the trade, but not mainly.

He gave rein of his money laundering business to me, although not completely.

In turn, I'd hired Aida to assist me, and together, we've secretly run it for two years.

Papa wouldn't admit it, but I believe he trusts me to run things smoothly, in his own little way.

Now, one of his associates, Milano, is trying to frustrate my efforts.

Aida had been going through account inventory when she realized someone had been draining our accounts.

She'd traced the source to Milano. He'd been stupid enough to be obvious about it.

According to Aida, he's been blowing cash on gaudy watches and private suites like he’s untouchable.

Papa’s too weak to handle it, Aida had said, so it’s on me to make this bastard bleed.

He could get some of his other men to handle it, but besides the fact that it's secret and exposure of it could blow its cover, I'm more than capable of taking care of it.

I can handle myself in the face of these bastards, but Papa would hear nothing of it, so he'd sent two men to protect me on this mission.

He literally loves me so much he'd married me off without a second thought. And here he is, showing that love again. Besides, I have first-hand experience with dealing with assholes. Isn't Enzo one of them?

I shudder to think of the kiss in that cellar. It's been three days since I delivered my ultimatum, and he hasn't made any moves to free Luis. Does he underestimate me? Does he belittle Papa's power?

I'd heard nothing of it, but it'd seem a party is coming up . Enzo told me nothing. Fuck him. I haven't seen him since that kiss. Admittedly, I've been avoiding him. The nights get colder and lonelier, especially when I torture myself with how blissful it'd be to share his bed.

I'd seen the preparations and asked Matteo jokingly if they were preparing Luis for the gallows and planning to celebrate it later on.

He'd been surprised that Enzo hadn't told me about it.

I had the pleasure of telling him what an asshole his boss is.

At that, he'd laughed, thoroughly charmed.

He then further explained that the party is being thrown in celebration of our marriage.

I almost laughed in his face. Our marriage indeed. And what a marriage it is.

Now, in the bar, I scan the crowds, flanked by two of Papa’s men, Vito and Paulo whose faces are hard and grim. We’re here for Milano. An insider had confirmed he'd be here, and I’m not leaving without his confession or blood at least… if it comes to that.

The club is a writhing mess of bodies slick with sex and seduction, grime and liquor thick in the air.

This is no place for a lady. Good thing I can be whoever the hell I want to, depending on the occasion.

I cut through grimly. My grey jacket is tight against my skin and my hair is pulled back in a no nonsense style, not exactly club style.

I’m here on a mission, not here to play.

The atmosphere in the club reminds me of my utter lack of shame with Enzo.

All my life, I've prided myself on control, only allowing its lapse that one night in the bar, and it had been because of Enzo, too.

And now, history is repeating itself. He's succeeded at reducing me to a desperate whore. And I'm allowing it.

I shove the thought down, focusing on the job at hand. We get to the middle where the mass of bodies part to reveal a narrow pathway. I almost don't see it, because my eyes are still scanning the crowd for Milano. But then, I see it, and sure enough, it's Enzo, my dear husband. I suck in a breath.

There he is, sprawled in a velvet booth like he owns the damn place. I narrow my eyes. What the hell is he doing here? Does he somehow know I'll be here and has come to sabotage my plans. Even as I think it, I know it's highly unlikely. But he's here, and he's real. Does he frequent here?

He's dressed in his signature attire, black tailored suit. His jacket is open to reveal his shirt that fits snugly to his pecs. The bastard's hot and he knows it. Two women are draped over him, their hands on his chest and thighs. That's my job. He's mine.

One of the women is whispering in his ear and her lips brush his skin in a provocative manner.

My stomach twists, a hot, bitter spike of jealousy stabbing through me.

And rage, white-hot and consuming. The other woman is giggling, her fingers tugging his collar.

I clench my fists. I hate it, hate how the sight of him with other women makes my chest tight.

He’s my husband, goddammit. I could gouge his eyes out. I'd specifically told him I want no scandal. This is him cheating out in public. I'd warned him to keep his whores out of my face.

But he isn't exactly in my face right now, is he? He doesn't know I'm here.

Or maybe he does, and he's just doing it to punish me because he knows I'll react. I shouldn't feel the overwhelming jealousy that clogs my throat, making it close up. He’s not mine, not really. Seeing him like this, shouldn't elicit such a strong response from me.

Damn him.

Before he can see me, I turn away and force my eyes to hunt for Milano.

I'll deal with Enzo in good time. I spot my target at the bar, his loud laugh grating over the music. Aida was right. The man is frivolous. Even standing far from him, I can see a gold ring glinting as he downs a shot. He’s surrounded by three goons, all muscle and definitely no brains.

I nod to Vito and Paulo, my voice low. “That’s him. Let’s move.”

They fall in behind me, and I stride forward, my boots heavy. My heart pounds and I grit my teeth, shoving the image of Enzo with his whores out of my shoving head. I need to focus on Milano. He's my target tonight. He doesn't know it yet, but I don't intend to go easy on him.

I reach the bar and plant myself directly in front of Milano, blocking his view.

His eyes snap up at the rude intervention.

His eyes freezes on my face and the smile on his face slips the moment he sees me.

Recognition lights up in his bloodshot eyes.

“Milano,” I say, loud enough to cut through the chatter surrounding him. “We need to talk.”

He looks me up, then down, as if sizing me up.

I plant my feet apart, my gaze unwavering on his face.

He looks past me to the men at my back, and his smile fades.

He’s stocky, with a face like a pitbull.

While I’m not fazed because I’ve faced worse and walked away standing, I realize how this must look to him—me apprehending him with two huge men flanking me.

“Fina,” he says, his voice oily and it grates on my nerves.

He's aiming for charm. “Didn’t expect you here. Drink?” He lifts his glass in a slight offering to me, but I don't miss the way his eyes flick to his goons.

The fucking retard knows he's fucked and is already trying to escape. Clever, except it isn't.

“Cut the shit,” I snap through gritted teeth. “You’ve been stealing from Domenico's accounts, spending it like it’s yours. You think we wouldn’t notice?” I'd opted to call Papa the general name he's known as and not personalize his title.

His face hardens, but he laughs out loud, like the sound is forced from his mouth.

It raises my ire. It’s like nails raking on my nerves.

“You’re wrong, sweetheart,” he says, leaning back, his goons shifting closer to tower over me.

It's a stupid move at intimidation, and even he must know.

Paulo and Vito move to intercept them, and the four of them eye each other warily. “Just business, you know how it goes.”

Where does he think he gets the nerve to use that endearment on me? Does he think I'm here to play games? The earlier he knows who's running this whole thing, the better. Lord knows I'm already on edge from seeing Enzo frolicking with women.

“Business?” Is he shitting me? My eyes cold on his fat face, I lean towards him and in a completely unexpected move, I grab his wrist and twist hard.

Vito grabs his other arm so he can't swing at me.

His glass crashes to the bar, the sound piercing through the electric atmosphere.

His goons move in a bid to grab me, and Paulo blocks their attempts.

He's bigger than them and it'll be easy for him to overpower them.