Matched to the Mafia (Seeking Curves)

I should have listened.

But I found myself licking my lips and not missing how he lowered his focus to watch the act. He made me feel desired and wanted and more beautiful than I ever had before.

I’d never been a self-conscious girl growing up. I was a confident woman who embraced my thick curves. I’d never been considered svelte or skinny by society’s standards. But that didn’t matter to me and didn’t impact how I saw myself. Because having incredible parents who always reminded you of your worth, told you how much respect you deserved, and how I'd become something great in that special person’s eyes, had given me the self-confidence to know I didn’t have to settle.

And I sure as hell wouldn't be with Enzo.

He looked at me like he was so hungry and I was the only thing that could satiate him.

I probably should’ve listened to those warning bells, should have declined because he was too cocky for me. But I didn’t.

Instead, I felt womanly and wild and free. I felt beautiful and sexy the longer he stared at me.

So I gave him a smile, leaned forward, and accepted his proposition.

3

Bianca

I leaned back on the couch, my wine glass filled to the brim with what I liked to call “liquid gold.” I brought the crystal to my lips and took a long, slow drink of the sweet, fruity red wine, savoring the flavor as it washed across my tongue.

Ever since Enzo left the office earlier today, he was all I could think about. God, I was insane, crazy, delusional to feel so strongly about a man I knew nothing about. At this point, it was purely physical attraction, but it was also more than that. It was the air of something strong and potent and so very male that called to the feminine, softer side of me.

Enzo Santini was all hard masculinity that had me weak-kneed and desperate for things I knew I’d never experienced in life.

I brought my glass to my lips again and took a much heartier swallow of the red wine. I might not have been a virgin, but I’d been celibate for longer than I cared to admit, and I knew for a fact that whatever sexual encounter Enzo could give me would be something I had never even dreamed of.

I stared at my cell, which sat on the tiny coffee table in front of me.

Although my mind was full of the events of today, and of course the sound of Enzo’s voice that echoed in my mind, the sound of traffic outside my apartment window couldn’t be muted. I brought my wine glass to my mouth again and took a long drink, staring out the window, seeing the flickering lights of the other buildings in the distance.

We’d exchanged phone numbers, and he told me he’d call me later tonight once he looked at his schedule.

I thought about him, how he made me feel, and then really thought about the looks and whispers he’d gotten that first time he stepped into the office over a month ago. I hadn’t heard any rumors, which I found strange for as much attention as he’d drawn. And I certainly hadn’t been brave enough to ask and didn't want to draw attention to myself by showing that I was interested.

I set my wine glass down and reached across the table to get my laptop, booting it up and setting it on my lap.

Then I searched for Enzo Santini.

The top results were awards and glowing words, all the pretty stuff the world wanted to see. Donations to charities, articles about his childhood and about how his mother and father immigrated from Sicily. I read about how he built his empire and was now a multimillion-dollar businessman.

It all looked so perfect, so cookie cutter. But I started delving deeper, knowing there had to be something more because of the danger and intensity I felt surrounding him. And then I started reading articles on other connections that he was claimed to be associated with, rumors about being involved in organized crime. The syndicate. The Italian mafia. The Family, as it was dubbed.

It sounded so ridiculously fictional, something you saw in a movie. And I could’ve pushed it off to people running with stories that seemed a little fantastical… if it didn’t seem so accurate when I thought about Enzo. The way he moved, looked… the air that surrounded him. The control and power and the arrogance made me feel that what I was reading about wasn’t fiction at all. But reality.

I slowly shut the top of my laptop and put it back on the table, then reached for my wine and took a long drink before realizing I swallowed the entire contents and now held an empty glass.

Could Enzo Santini really be part of the mafia?