The waitress passed a note to the mafia boss — “Your fiancée has set a trap. Leave now.”
The Deal with the Devil
Barber was led to a room that was bigger than her entire apartment. It had silk sheets, a walk-in closet filled with clothes in her size—which terrified her—and a view of the stormy Atlantic Ocean crashing against the rocks below.
She showered, scrubbing the smell of smoke and fear off her skin. When she emerged, wrapped in a plush robe, she found a dress laid out on the bed—simple, black, and elegant.
She dressed and went downstairs. The dining room was a cavernous hall with a table long enough to seat twenty, but it was set for two.
Lorenzo was already there, swirling a glass of red wine. He had changed into a fresh suit, charcoal gray with no tie, and looked devastatingly handsome, which annoyed her.
“Sit,”
he commanded.
Barber sat as the food was brought out—truffle risotto. The smell reminded her of the restaurant and the note.
“Why?”
Lorenzo asked, cutting into his steak. He didn’t look at her.
“Why what?”
“Why did you write the note?”
He looked up, his gaze piercing.
“You knew who I was. You knew who Bianca was. The smart thing to do was to walk away, to let the bad men kill each other. Why risk your life for a stranger?”
Barber played with her fork.
“Because,”
she paused.
“Because my father was a bad man. He hurt people. And one day someone could have warned him, could have stopped him from walking into a fight, but they didn’t. They let him die because they thought he deserved it.”
She looked Lorenzo in the eye.
“I don’t get to decide who deserves to die, Mr. Moretti. I just saw a trap, and I hate traps. It’s cowardly.”
Lorenzo stopped chewing and stared at her for a long time. The silence stretched thick and heavy.
“Cowardly,”
he repeated, testing the word. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
“Most people call me a monster. You call my enemies cowards.”
He took a sip of wine.
“Bianca has been dealt with.”
Barber’s stomach churned.
“Did you kill her?”
“No,”
Lorenzo said calmly.
“Death is too easy. She is currently in a very uncomfortable room explaining to my associates exactly how Dante Russo infiltrated my operation. She will live, but she will never step foot in New York again.”
“And Dante?”
“Dante is celebrating,”
Lorenzo said, his eyes darkening.
“He thinks I’m dead. The news reported the explosion. I have kept my survival a secret. The media thinks I was in the car.”
Barber frowned.
“Why let him think you’re dead?”
“Because, piccola,”
Lorenzo said, the Italian endearment slipping out effortlessly.
“When your enemy thinks you are in the grave, he gets sloppy. He lowers his guard. He plans a victory party.”
Lorenzo stood up and walked around the table. He stopped behind Barber’s chair, and she could feel the heat radiating off him.
He placed his hands on the back of her chair, trapping her.
“Tomorrow night is the Gala of Shadows. It’s a masked ball hosted by the syndicate. All the families will be there. Dante Russo will be there to claim my territory.”
Lorenzo leaned down, his cheek brushing against her hair.
“I am going to walk into that ballroom and take back my kingdom. But I cannot walk in alone. If I go alone, I look like a survivor. If I go with a beautiful woman on my arm, looking untouched and arrogant, I look like a king.”
Barber’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“You want me to go with you? I’m a waitress, Lorenzo. I don’t know how to be—whatever you need.”
“I don’t need a mafia princess,”
Lorenzo whispered, his hand sliding down to rest on her shoulder in a possessive grip.
“I had one. She tried to blow me up. I need someone real, someone who has the courage to slip a note to a killer.”
He turned her chair so she faced him.
“Be my date, Barber. Be my shield for one more night. Do this, and I will pay for your brother’s surgery—full recovery, best rehabilitation in Switzerland. I will set you up for life.”
Barber looked at him. It was a deal with the devil, but for Toby, she would walk through hell.
“One night,”
Barber whispered.
“One night,”
Lorenzo agreed.
“But be warned, Barber. When we walk into that room, you are mine. You belong to the Moretti family. There is no going back.”
Construction of a Weapon
The preparation for the gala was not a makeover; it was the construction of a weapon. A team of stylists arrived at the fortress at dawn.
They didn’t speak English; they spoke the language of silk, diamonds, and concealment. Barber was polished, plucked, and painted.
Her hair, usually tied back in a messy bun, cascaded in loose, glossy waves down her back. Her makeup was sharp, with smoky eyes and blood-red lips.
Then came the dress. It was a custom piece Lorenzo had commissioned overnight: deep midnight blue velvet, off-the-shoulder, with a slit that ran dangerously high up her thigh.
It hugged every curve of her body like a second skin. Around her neck, they placed a diamond choker that felt heavy.
“It looks like a collar,”
Barber murmured to the mirror.
“It’s a claim,”
a deep voice said from the doorway.
Lorenzo stood there, wearing a tuxedo that fit him to perfection with a black mask in his hand. He looked devastating and dangerous.
He walked into the room, dismissing the stylists with a wave of his hand. He stood behind Barber, looking at their reflection in the mirror.
He looked like the darkness, and she looked like the moonlight caught in it.
“You are beautiful,”
Lorenzo said. It wasn’t a compliment; it sounded like an accusation.
“I feel like a fraud,”
Barber admitted, her voice trembling.
“I don’t belong in your world, Enzo.”
“You saved the king,”
Lorenzo said, his hands resting on her waist and his thumbs tracing the velvet.
“That makes you royalty.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. He opened it to reveal a ring—a massive sapphire surrounded by black diamonds.
“Give me your hand.”
Barber hesitated.
“What is this?”
“Bianca was my fiancée,”
Lorenzo said.
“If I walk in with a new woman, she cannot just be a date. She must be more.”
“You want me to pretend to be your fiancée?”
Barber gasped.
“For tonight,”
Lorenzo said.
“It insults Dante. It shows I replaced his spy in less than twenty-four hours. It is the ultimate power move.”
He slid the ring onto her finger; it was heavy and cold.
“Do not take it off,”
he commanded.
“As long as you wear this, no one can touch you. You are under the protection of the Capo dei Capi.”
