Enemies In The Mafia Bed

The first thing I noticed was the weight of silk sheets against my thighs and the fact that the room smelled like expensive cologne and something darker underneath-cedar and smoke, like a match that had burned down too slow. My cheek was pressed to a pillow that wasn’t mine, my hair tangled around my neck, and my body-traitorous, warm, awake-already knew what my mind refused to accept.

I wasn’t alone.

A man’s chest rose and fell against my back, broad and steady, the heat of him seeping through my skin where the fabric of my camisole had ridden up. His arm was braced around my waist like a claim he didn’t need to speak. I froze hard enough to make my stomach hurt, then forced my eyes open and stared at the dark line of his throat just above my shoulder.

He was close enough that I could count the tiny grooves where his pulse shifted under skin. Close enough that I could taste the metallic tang of fear at the back of my tongue.

My voice came out rough when I tried to swallow it down. “No.”

The room answered with silence and the faint hum of a vent. Somewhere beyond the walls, a car hissed by on wet pavement. The world sounded normal, and the situation didn’t.

My fingers found the seam of the sheet and the instant I shifted, I felt him move with me-muscle flexing, sleep giving way to awareness like a switch thrown. His breath ghosted my ear, slow and deliberate.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

The voice was low, velveted with sleep. It hit me like a fist wrapped in perfume.

I jerked upright so fast my shoulder screamed. The sheet slithered down my legs. Pain flashed across my skin where it had been pressed, where he’d held me, and my anger surged to cover the panic.

He didn’t let me get far. A hand caught my wrist, not tight enough to bruise-just enough to remind me he could.

I turned my head and looked at him fully.

Devastatingly handsome didn’t even cover it. His hair was dark and messy at the roots, his jaw sharp enough to cut, his mouth set in a line that looked carved rather than formed. The kind of man who looked like trouble even when he was doing nothing at all. The kind of man the city whispered about with respect and fear tangled together.

The mafia boss.

My enemy.

His eyes opened, slow and dark, and the moment they met mine, something in his expression shifted-possessive calm, like he’d been certain I’d come back to him even while I was fighting it.

“Rina,” he said, like my name was a key.

My stomach dropped so hard I felt it in my ribs. “What did you do?”

The question tore out of me. I didn’t know if I was asking what he’d done to my body or what he’d done to my life. Both would’ve been reasonable.

He released my wrist. Not because he wanted to, but because he wanted me to see he could. His hand slid away with lazy certainty, and my skin prickled where he’d touched.

“I brought you somewhere safe,” he said.

Safe. The word tasted like a lie.

I scooted back against the headboard, clutching the sheet to my chest like it could shield me from the fact that I’d woken in his bed. The mattress dipped as he sat forward. The room was dim, lit by a lamp with a muted amber glow, throwing shadows across his shoulders and making him look even more carved.

My heart hammered anyway, relentless. I tried to remember the bar-flashing lights, cheap liquor, laughter that had sounded like it was supposed to heal. My breakup had been fresh enough to still sting when I blinked. I’d told myself one drink wouldn’t fix anything, but it would drown the ache for an hour.

I remembered my best friend-Sasha-ordering another round with a grin that was too bright, too brave. I remembered the way my ex’s name had still clung to the roof of my mouth, bitter and humiliating. I remembered how I’d wanted to stop thinking for one night.

I did not remember walking anywhere. I did not remember leaving.

“Where’s Sasha?” I demanded.

His gaze didn’t flicker at my question. It only sharpened, like he’d been waiting for me to ask the wrong thing first. “She’s fine.”

That was worse. Fine meant he’d handled it. Controlled it. Managed the aftermath like this wasn’t a crime.

“I hate you,” I said, and the words surprised me with how true they were. I meant it in the marrow of my bones. “I hate what you are.”

His mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “Hate is honest.”

I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight, dry. I could feel the pulse in my ears, loud as drums. “You drugged me.”

“I didn’t have to,” he said, and the calm in his voice made me furious. “You were already drowning.”

The insult landed like a slap. I forced myself not to flinch away from him, forced my gaze to stay on his face. “You don’t get to talk about my breakup.”

His eyes slid over me with a slow, measuring drag that made my skin crawl. Not lust exactly-something colder threaded through it. Possession. Calculation.

“You think I don’t know why you came in tonight?” he asked.

My blood turned to ice. “How would you-”

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