Page 7 of Taken By the Enforcer

Cara materializes with two flutes of prosecco and a grin that says she missed nothing. “Here. Hydrate with bubbles.”

“Bubbles aren’t hydration.”

“They are tonight.” She clinks my glass, then follows the line of my gaze like a cat tracking a beam of light. “Oh, bella mia. If that is what your father wants for you, take notes now and save yourself some time.”

“He doesn’t,” I say without thinking, because the way Papà tensed proved it. “He prefers… other qualities.”

“Like obedience.” Humor fades from her mouth. “He wants safe and convenient.”

A smile that doesn’t reach my chest answers. “Something like that.”

“Then you better never get caught staring,” she warns lightly, though her eyes are kind. “Men like Aldo don’t forgive looks aimed at men like that.”

The quartet begins again, and the dance floor opens. Couples move out in polite pairs, hands positioned wherechaperones nod. Aldo offers his hand a second time. I take it because others would notice me saying no. We step into the pattern, my body following the steps carved into me since those first stilted lessons with a neighbor’s son and Mamma clapping in the doorway.

Donatello doesn’t dance. He watches other people move around a center he occupies without effort, then speaks to Marcello once more. They turn together toward the doors, business pulled by an invisible wire. He passes my orbit with a buffer of bodies between us, no brush, no scent, no chance to be unreasonable.

The smallest thing happens then—so small it might be an accident. His head tilts for the length of a breath, that not-smile tipping the corner of his mouth. A single buonasera dips in the air like a bow you feel rather than see.

My heart forgets its job for two full beats.

He disappears into the corridor with the other men. The room exhales and fills the space he leaves with chatter. Aldo says something about shipping schedules and the week’s carichi as if the word romance could ever be translated into freight. Cara squeezes my fingers hard enough to pull me back into my body.

When the dance ends, Aldo releases my hand with a squeeze meant to communicate possession. A ring of acquaintances closes around him. My role shrinks to the edges again. I take one last look across the room, at the space near the colonnade where he stood, then swallow the ache like a lesson.

“I saw that,” she sings under her breath. “If you marrysomeone else and never touch him, I’ll stage an intervention. And if you do touch him, tell me everything.”

“Cara.” My warning sounds weak. My insides feel weaker.

She bumps my shoulder, wickedness returning. “At least admit your body answered. Mine did.”

Admission sits hot on my tongue and settles in my chest like a secret. “Fine. It answered.”

“Brava.” The word is a toast and a hug. “Keep your face calm,” she advises. “Put all the tempest where no one can see it.”

Too late. The tempest already saw itself reflected in obsidian and decided it liked the weather.

Wanting something dangerous isn’t the same as reaching for it.

When I finally drag my eyes up, Donatello is already watching me. Here and now. Obsidian eyes lock with mine. Everything inside me clenches, twists, spirals. He sees me—really sees me—not as the Corsetti daughter, not as Aldo’s bride, not as the mafia pawn in lace.

Just me. Broken. Betrayed.

I realize too late my veil has slipped off my lap and pooled on the sticky floor. A white flag of surrender.

He bends, impossibly graceful for a man his size, and lifts it with careful fingers. The brush of fabric over his knuckles makes my breath stall. When he straightens, he holds it out, but he doesn’t let go.

“Your veil,” he murmurs, voice deep velvet wrapped around a blade. “Shouldn’t waste something this pure on a man who doesn’t deserve it.”

My throat closes. Words stick. I manage, “How… How do you know?”

His lips tilt, not a smile, not yet. “Because I know everything Aldo does. And I know what kind of woman he doesn’t deserve.” His eyes flick down the length of me, the ridiculous dress, the trembling hands, then back up. “Especially you.”

Heat blooms under my skin. It shouldn’t. God, it shouldn’t. But it does.

The glass trembles as I take another sip. Bitter, sweet, burning. My voice is a whisper. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” he says, stepping closer until his shadow swallows mine. “You cry on your wedding day. You drink alone in a bar instead of walking down the aisle. And you’re smart enough to run.” His fingers brush mine as he finally releases the veil. “Tell me I’m wrong.”