Trapped Between Enemies

⋄ 𝕸𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖆 𝕬𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖔 ⋄

I stare at the mahogany wood door, my heavy breathing giving away the chaos bubbling inside me.

Since my path crossed with the most infamous mafia in Sicily, I’ve been called into this room only a few times, and not once for anything good.

The first time was when I was fifteen years old, when my mother died along with Don Angelo Romano. The second, months later, when I was unfairly punished for the first time.

Then, right after I turned nineteen, when they called me in to say I’d finally begin my training…

And exactly five months ago, when they announced that my initiation would happen the night after my twenty-first birthday.

Now they’re calling me again.

My hands are sweaty, and I can feel a drop of sweat trickling down my bare back.

It’s okay, Marina… just one more month—just one more month.

And then, I’ll never have to deal with the Romano family again.

With a shallow breath, I wipe my hands on the sides of my red dress and turn the handle. The door opens with the same effortless ease that always surprises me, despite how massive and heavy it looks.

The first thing I notice is the blend of two familiar colognes and the strong smell of cigar smoke. One scent is woody, old, dry, with a hint of something slightly sweet. Subtle, like aftershave, yet still thick in the air, captivating. The other is bolder, sharper, warmer, and spicier. Pepper? Or ginger? Or both.

Then, more intensely, I feel the eyes… the weight of those brown eyes that never fail to send a chill down my spine.

“Come in, Marina.” Cesare’s order makes me straighten up even more.

I take just two steps inside, and slowly turn around, very slowly, pulling my long hair to the front, letting them see my tanned, bare back as I close the door… Just for a moment, before the black waves fall back into place and hide my skin again, right where a damn tattoo will be soon if I can’t escape in time.

Slowly, I face them again, two of the five Romano, sitting at the long table, made of wood even darker and thicker than the door.

Matteo, the youngest, is sitting in his usual spot, third on the right. His eyes, a bit darker than the others’, stare at me like they could skin me alive. His head is tilted slightly back in that lazy, arrogant way, giving me a clear view of the dark skull-and-thorns tattoo on his throat. His black shirt, half unbuttoned, reveals glimpses of ink proudly spelling his surname across his chest.

𝕽𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖔.

He doesn’t say a word, just watches me step closer, like a predator eyeing its prey. A dangerous beast that sets all my senses on high alert, nerves exposed in a way that goes far beyond fear—deep into something like fury in my veins. Something that makes me stare him down with open defiance.

But once again, that deep voice speaks, pulling my attention back: “Marina.”

My head turns slowly toward the man sitting at the head of the table, a seat that should belong to the Don, but is currently being occupied by the second-in-command.

Cesare Romano.

The second son**.** La Pantera.

The most dangerous man I’ve ever known.

“Did you finish your training?” he asks, his back relaxed against the leather chair, fingers tapping lightly on the armrest.

His eyes, lighter than his brothers’, a honey-brown with golden edges, are just as deadly. Not wild like Matteo’s. Not sharp, raging, and unhinged, like the eyes that earned the youngest his reputation for madness and bloodlust.

Cesare’s are cold, calculating, and ruthless. There’s emotional distance, yet an almost obsessive focus. He watches and studies, not like a man preparing for an exciting hunt, but like someone who knows that no matter how much the prey runs, fights, or screams, it will never escape.

“Yes.” I find my voice somehow, but it comes out hoarse and uncertain. I swallow hard and lift my chin a little higher, like that’ll make me look less weak. “Four months ago.”

Why did they call me here? Did someone say something again?

It really could be for anything; another lie cooked up by that bitch Chiara, or some complaint that Zio Arturo whispered in Cesare’s ear. None of that would be new.

But what really twists my stomach, what makes my chest go cold, is that, for the first time, I truly have something to feel guilty about… Something to fear—my seeking for freedom.

My betrayal.

But Cesare looks at me, calm, composed, cold. And that slightly eases my nerves. If he knew about my escape plan, he wouldn’t be so calm. I’d likely already be dragged to the Cripta del Dolore, a place that, as the name indicates, is literally a crypt built for pain.

When he finally speaks, though, my heart skips a beat: “Good. I called you here because I have a job for you.”

My brows knit together slightly, unable to hide my confusion. There’s still a month until my birthday, and a month until the initiation. I’m not part of famiglia yet.

What the hell does he mean, a job?

Matteo glances away, snorting—a low sound, but sharp enough to reach me. I glance at him just in time to see the blatant annoyance on his face. He doesn’t bother hiding it. He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the air thickening with the barely-contained madness radiating from him.

Cesare, on the other hand, doesn’t care in the slightest. His attention stays fixed on me as if nothing in the world could distract him, and that’s definitely not a good sign.

“What job?” I ask, realizing too late that he’s probably relishing my anxiety.

He leans back. At some point, he had leaned forward, and I wonder if it was on purpose, to intimidate me even more. But now, he’s back in that usual straight-backed, elegant, commanding posture. Like this, with his sharply cut features and that controlled expression, he looks older than just thirty.

“I want you to seduce Enzo Bianchi.”

I nearly choke.

Bianchi?

That name, slipping from Cesare’s lips with carefully measured disdain, sends an instant chill down my spine.

My eyes widen slightly, and every single muscle in my body tenses.

Cesare wants me to seduce a Bianchi.

The sworn enemies of the Romanos.

The biggest institution in the North—arrogant bastards with white collars and noble blood gone sour.

And not just any Bianchi… Enzo.

They’re reserved and discreet. Not as violently expressive as the Romanos, but just as dangerous… the kind of danger that makes anyone think twice before getting involved.

Of all four heirs, Enzo is the coldest and probably scariest. Very little is truly known about him, except for a few rumors swirling around Sicily’s underworld…

Rumors I now, desperately, hope are lies.

“Seduce Enzo,” Cesare repeats, his voice growing deeper, thicker, heavier. Demanding. “I want to know every single thing those fucking Bianchi are planning.” He holds my eyes. “Every one of Enzo’s little secrets, Marina… I want you to sing them all to me.”