Chapter 1 - The Midnight Call and the Dangerous Secret
The cool Milan air bit into my skin as I stood frozen on the pavement, the yellow lights of the passing taxis casting long, distorted shadows against the historic stone facades of the city. My phone was still pressed tightly to my ear, though the dial tone had long since vanished into dead, humming silence.
Enzo Lombardi had hung up on me.
In the eight months I had worked as his personal assistant, coordinating the high-stakes logistics of his antiquities empire and managing the labyrinth of his tightly controlled daily schedule, Enzo had never once raised his voice, let alone slammed a phone down in a fit of undisguised fury. He was a man carved from marble and quiet menace—a syndicate leader who operated in the shadows of Italy’s elite circles, where power was measured in silence and absolute control.
Yet, tonight, that iron control had fractured over a single photograph.
I looked down at my phone screen, pulling up Instagram once more to stare at the image Marco and I had taken outside the charity gala. There we stood: Marco with his arm slung familiarly over my shoulder, laughing openly at the camera, while I smiled back, radiant and carefree. To anyone browsing the social pages, it looked like a classic romance snapshot—an intimate embrace between a stunning young woman and her handsome companion.
To Enzo Lombardi, it had apparently looked like a declaration of war.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The realization began to bloom in my chest, terrifying and intoxicating all at once. Enzo wasn't just reacting to an unprofessional post by his employee. He was reacting with the visceral, possessive fury of a man who had secretly claimed something as his own, long before he ever had the right to say it out loud.
I shook my head, walking briskly toward my apartment building down the cobblestone street. You’re losing your mind, Mia, I scolded myself. He’s a mob boss. You’re his assistant. Men like Enzo Lombardi don't fall for quiet, invisible girls who organize their schedules.
And yet, the memory of his voice—raw, desperate, and uncharacteristically pleading just seconds before he disconnected—refused to leave my mind.
“Because it does.”
When I finally reached my apartment, I kicked off my heels, tossed my clutch onto the entryway table, and walked straight to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. The flat was quiet, bathed in the silver glow of the moon filtering through the tall french windows. I set the glass down on the marble counter and stared at my reflection in the dark glass.
My phone buzzed violently against the counter.
I jumped, my breath catching in my throat. I picked it up. A direct message on Instagram.
From: @enlombar
Two words. No punctuation.
Delete it.
My fingers hovered over the screen. A part of me—the sensible, cautious part that wanted to keep my job, my safety, and my sanity—wanted to immediately scrub the photo from existence and pretend the phone call never happened. But another part, fueled by months of unspoken tension, hidden glances, and the intoxicating thrill of pushing against the iron walls he built around himself, rebelled.
I tapped out a quick reply.
Make me.
I hit send before I could lose my nerve, tossing the phone onto the sofa as if it were a live grenade.
May you like
Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. Then a full minute.
Suddenly, the sharp, relentless ringing of my front doorbell pierced the silence of the apartment, echoing off the walls like a gunshot in the night.
