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

Building the Queen

He pulled a velvet box from his pocket. He just happened to have it? No, he must have had it for someone else, or perhaps for a strategic play just like this.

He opened it to reveal a diamond the size of a quail egg. “Put it on,” he commanded.

Flora hesitated, then took the ring. It was heavy, cold.

She slid it onto her finger; it fit perfectly. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Moretti,” Enzo said.

“Now go to the bedroom, the master suite. You look like a mess. Shower, burn that dress. Tomorrow we go shopping. The press will be outside at dawn.”

“Wait,” Flora said as he turned to pour another drink. “Where will you sleep?”

Enzo paused, looking at her over his shoulder. The intensity of his gaze made her knees weak.

“I sleep in my bed, Flora. Try not to hog the covers.”

The Predator’s Narrative

Morning light didn’t gently wake Flora; it assaulted her through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. She blinked, disoriented, burying her face into a pillow that smelled of sandalwood and male musk.

Then memory crashed into her: the club, Ivan, the contract. She sat up abruptly.

The other side of the massive California King bed was empty, the sheets cold. “You sleep like the dead,” a voice came from the balcony.

Flora clutched the silk sheet to her chest. Enzo was sitting outside dressed in a casual white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, reading a physical newspaper.

He looked infuriatingly domestic for a man who ran the criminal underworld. “There is coffee?” He gestured to a silver tray on the nightstand. “Drink up. The styling team arrives in twenty minutes.”

“Styling team?” Flora asked, her voice raspy.

Enzo folded the newspaper and walked into the room. The casual air evaporated; the predator was back.

“You are marrying Lorenzo Moretti. You cannot look like a frightened waitress who buys her clothes at thrift stores. Today we build the queen.”

He tossed the newspaper onto the bed. Flora looked down; the headline screamed: “DA’s Son Claims Fiancée Abducted by Crime Boss.”

Her blood ran cold. “He… he called the police.”

“He’s spinning a narrative,” Enzo said calmly, taking a sip of espresso.

“He claims I dragged you out of that club against your will. If we don’t counter it within the hour, the SWAT team will be repelling down the side of this building.”

“What do we do?” Flora panicked, sliding out of bed. She was wearing one of his t-shirts, which hung to her knees.

Enzo’s eyes darkened as they swept over her bare legs, but he looked away quickly. “We go to lunch at Cipriani. We let the world see how much you adore me.”

“She’s Mine”

Two hours later, Flora didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. The team Enzo had hired was a military operation of beauty.

Her brown hair had been blown out into glossy, expensive waves. Her makeup was flawless, highlighting her eyes and giving her a sharpness she didn’t know she possessed.

She wore a cream-colored sheath dress that cost more than her car and heels that were essentially weapons. “Perfect,” Enzo said, walking into the dressing room.

He stood behind her, looking at their reflection. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Remember the rules, Flora. You touch me. You look at me like I am the sun and you are the earth orbiting me. If you look scared, Ivan wins.”

“I am scared,” she admitted, her hands trembling.

Enzo leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Then channel it. Make it look like passion. Fear and desire look remarkably similar to an outsider.”

They took the elevator down. As the doors opened to the lobby, the flashbulbs were blinding.

A wall of paparazzi and reporters was held back by Enzo’s security team. “Mr. Moretti, is it true she was kidnapped? Ms. Richi, blink twice if you’re in danger!”

Flora froze. The noise was a physical blow.

Enzo’s arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. He didn’t rush; he slowed down.

He smiled—a rare, devastating smile that the cameras ate up. “Kidnapped!” Enzo laughed, the sound rich and deep. “Gentlemen, please. Does my fiancée look like a hostage?”

He turned Flora toward him, his hand cupping her cheek. “Tell them, amore.”

Flora looked into his green-gold eyes. She saw the warning there: play the part.

She forced a smile, reaching up to touch his chest, letting her hand rest over his heart. “Ivan is confused,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “He didn’t take our breakup well. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Enzo didn’t let her pull away. He leaned down and kissed her.

It wasn’t a stage kiss; it was possessive, demanding. His lips were firm, moving against hers with a skill that made her toes curl.

For a second, the cameras, the noise, and the danger faded. There was only the heat of him, the taste of espresso and mint.

Flora found herself kissing him back, clutching his lapels, breathless. When he pulled away, he looked at her with a hooded expression that sent a jolt straight to her stomach.

“See,” Enzo told the cameras, wiping a smudge of lipstick from his mouth. “She’s mine.”

The Red Wedding

The wedding took place three days later at a private estate in the Hamptons. It was a rush job, but with Moretti money, a rush job looked like a royal decree.

White roses covered every surface. The guests were a mix of terrifying-looking men in sharp suits and politicians who pretended not to know them.

Flora stood in the bridal suite, staring at herself in a lace gown that fit like a second skin. It was backless, exposing the vulnerability of her spine.

“You look beautiful,” a voice said.

She turned. It wasn’t Enzo; it was Ivan.

He was standing by the balcony door, dressed in a tuxedo, holding a glass of champagne. He had slipped past security.

Flora backed up until she hit the vanity table. “How did you get in here?”

“My father is the District Attorney, Flora. We have friends everywhere, even on Moretti’s payroll.” Ivan smiled, but his eyes were dead.

He took a step toward her. “Take it off.”

“What?”

“The dress. Take it off. We’re leaving. I have a car waiting. We’ll go to the police station. You’ll tell them he threatened to kill your brother, and this whole nightmare ends.”

“The only nightmare I have is you,” Flora hissed, finding a courage she didn’t know she had.

“Enzo hasn’t hurt me. You broke my arm, Ivan. You isolated me from my friends. You stalked me.”

My Monster Now

Ivan’s face twisted into an ugly snarl. He lunged, grabbing her by the throat.

“You stupid bitch. You think he cares about you? You’re a prop. Once he’s done with you, he’ll toss you in the river.”

He squeezed. Flora clawed at his hands, gasping for air, black spots dancing in her vision.

Suddenly, the door was kicked open. It didn’t swing; it splintered off the frame.

Enzo was there. He didn’t shout; he didn’t pause.

He moved with the terrifying speed of a viper. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbed Ivan by the back of his neck and his belt, and threw him physically across the room.

Ivan crashed into a glass coffee table, shattering it instantly. Enzo stood over him, adjusting his cufflinks.

“I thought I told you,” Enzo said, his voice eerily calm. “If you touched her again, I would send your head to your father.”

Ivan groaned, rolling over, blood dripping from his nose. “You can’t kill me here. Too many witnesses. My dad is downstairs.”

Enzo crouched down. He pulled a gun from his tuxedo jacket—a sleek, suppressed pistol.

He pressed the barrel right into the center of Ivan’s forehead. “Enzo, no!” Flora screamed, her voice hoarse. “Not here. You’ll go to prison.”

Enzo didn’t look at her; his eyes were locked on Ivan. “Prison is a holiday compared to what I’ll do to you if you ever come within ten miles of my wife again.”

He pistol-whipped Ivan—a brutal crack that knocked the other man unconscious instantly. Enzo stood up and turned to Flora.

His eyes were full, his chest heaving. He looked at the red marks forming on her neck. “Did he hurt you?” Enzo demanded, closing the distance.

“I’m fine,” she wheezed.

“He touched you.” Enzo touched the bruising on her neck with trembling fingers. His rage was palpable, vibrating off him in waves. “I should have killed him.”

“If you kill him, we lose,” Flora whispered, grabbing his hand. “We have to go out there. We have to get married. If we don’t, he wins.”

Enzo stared at her for a long moment, then he nodded. He went to the bathroom, grabbed a cold towel, and gently pressed it to her neck.

He applied foundation from her makeup bag, covering the marks with surprisingly steady hands. “You are stronger than I thought, Flora,” he murmured.

“I have to be,” she said. “I’m marrying a monster, aren’t I?”

Enzo paused, looking deep into her eyes. “Yes. But I’m your monster now.”