She Sat On A Mafia Boss’s Lap To Escape Her Toxic Ex — His Whisper Changed Everything That Night

The Contract

She realized then how intimate their position was. She was straddling the most dangerous man in America.

She scrambled to get up. “Thank you, oh my god, thank you. I… I should go.”

She tried to stand, but the hand on her hip didn’t move. It clamped down like an iron shackle.

“Sit,” Enzo commanded. She froze, looking down at him, terrified.

Enzo brought his lips close to her ear. The heat of his breath sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a sudden, confusing attraction.

“You don’t get to use me as a shield and then walk away to Sorro,” he whispered, his voice vibrating through her very bones.

“You just started a war with a District Attorney’s son. You think he won’t wait for you outside? You think you’re safe?”

“I…” Flora stuttered.

“You belong to me tonight,” he whispered, the words brushing against her earlobe.

“Because you sat on the throne, and the only way you leave this club alive is if you walk out holding the king’s hand.”

Jumping into the Volcano

The ride from the club was a blur of neon lights and tinted windows. Flora sat in the back of a black Maybach, the leather interior smelling of rich cedar.

Enzo sat beside her typing on his phone, seemingly ignoring her existence. Yet the air between them crackled with static electricity.

She hugged her arms, shivering. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the cold reality of her situation.

She had escaped Ivan, yes, but she had jumped from the frying pan into a volcano. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice small.

Enzo didn’t look up. “Somewhere Vain can’t reach you, unless you prefer I drop you on a street corner.”

“No,” she said quickly. The look in Ivan’s eyes when he left—he would kill her tonight if he found her.

“But I can’t pay you. I’m a waitress. I have three hundred dollars in my bank account.”

Enzo finally looked at her. In the passing streetlights, his eyes glittered.

He chuckled, a dark, dry sound. “Do you think I need your tips, Flora?”

He knew her name; he hadn’t asked for it. “How do you know who I am?”

“I make it my business to know everything that happens in my territory,” Enzo said.

“Flora Richi. Art student dropout. Brother in rehab upstate. Waitress at the Azure for three months. Hiding from Ivan Vain, who put your arm in a cast last July.”

Flora felt sick. “You investigated me.”

“I investigated you in the three minutes it took my driver to bring the car around,” Enzo said, closing his phone. “I don’t let strangers sit on my lap without running a background check.”

One Year to Destroy a Legacy

The car slowed, pulling into the private underground garage of a building that looked more like a fortress than a residence. It was a massive penthouse tower overlooking Central Park.

“Come,” he said, the door opening before the car even fully stopped. Flora followed him; she had no choice.

She was a ghost in the system now, existing only under his protection. They took a private elevator to the top floor.

The doors opened directly into a living room that was larger than her entire childhood home. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls revealed the glittering skyline of Manhattan; it was breathtaking, cold, and lonely.

Enzo tossed his suit jacket onto a white leather sofa and walked to a wet bar. “Drink water,” he said, standing awkwardly near the elevator.

He poured her a sparkling water and himself another scotch. He walked over and handed her the glass, his fingers brushing hers—electric, hot, and jarring.

“Here is the situation, Flora,” Enzo said, leaning against a marble pillar, studying her like a piece of abstract art he hadn’t decided if he liked yet.

“Ivan Vain is a problem, not just for you but for me. His father has been trying to build a RICO case against my family for two years.”

“Ivan has been using his father’s influence to muscle in on territories that don’t belong to him.”

Flora blinked. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Ivan is obsessed with you. He’s sloppy when it comes to you,” Enzo explained, taking a sip of his drink.

“Tonight I humiliated him. He will come for you with everything he has. If I let him take you, I look weak. If I protect you, I declare open war on the DA.”

“I… I didn’t mean to cause this,” Flora whispered, tears pricking her eyes. “I just wanted to get away.”

Enzo stepped closer, encroaching on her personal space. He reached out, his thumb brushing away a tear that had fallen on her cheek.

His skin was rough, calloused—the hands of a man who worked, who fought. “I don’t do charity, Flora,” he said softly. “Protection costs.”

“I told you I have no money.”

“I don’t want money.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes.

“I need a distraction. I need a weapon against the Vain family, and you just dropped into my lap—literally.”

“What are you asking?”

“Marriage,” Enzo said. The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

Flora dropped her glass; it shattered on the marble floor, water splashing her shoes. “What?”

“Fake, of course,” Enzo said smoothly, stepping over the broken glass as if it weren’t there.

“A contract. You become Mrs. Moretti for one year. In the eyes of the law and the underworld, you become untouchable.”

“Ivan can’t touch a made man’s wife without signing his own death warrant. His father can’t prosecute me while his son is stalking my beloved wife. It creates a conflict of interest and a media circus I can exploit.”

Flora’s head was spinning. “You want me to marry you to stop a lawsuit?”

“I want you to marry me to destroy a legacy,” Enzo corrected.

“And in exchange, you get to live. You get your brother’s rehab paid for at the best facility in Zurich, not the dump he’s in now. And after one year, you walk away with ten million dollars and a new identity.”

He extended his hand. “Or you can walk out that elevator right now. Ivan is likely tracking your phone; he’ll find you in an hour.”

Flora looked at the elevator doors. She thought of Ivan’s fist; she thought of the fear she had lived in for six months.

Then she looked at Lorenzo Moretti. He was dangerous, yes; he was a killer, probably.

But in his eyes, she didn’t see cruelty; she saw calculation. She saw a transaction, and for the first time in a long time, she saw a chance to stop running.

“One year?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“One year,” Enzo confirmed. “But you have to sell it, Flora. You have to make the world believe that you belong to me, in public and in private.”

“What does ‘in private’ mean?” she asked, wary.

Enzo smirked, a dangerous glint returning to his eyes. “It means you sleep in my bed. It means you wear my ring. It means you don’t flinch when I touch you.”

He leaned in, his whisper returning—the same one from the club. “Can you handle that, little bird? Or are you too scared of the big bad wolf?”

Flora lifted her chin. She was done being a victim. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Liar,” Enzo murmured, and he looked delighted by it. “Good. Fear keeps you sharp.”