The Mafia's Vengeful Queen

Later, she noticed him in conversation with Franco, the bar manager. Their eyes occasionally drifted toward her.

Franco fingers fidgeted nervously as Massimiliano spoke, his hands making small, placating gestures. Massimiliano's expression remained unreadable, but she recognized the tension in his shoulders.

He's digging into my background, she sighed internally. But she knew it was inevitable, for a man as sharp as him, she knew he would be digging sooner or later.

But that's also why she's three steps ahead. Prepared. T

he discrepancies were there by design. She had left breadcrumbs leading to false conclusions that would satisfy his suspicion without revealing her true identity.

An hour later, Massimiliano returned to the bar. The crowd had thinned, leaving empty seats on either side of him.

"Tell me something, Tatiana." He pronounced her name deliberately, testing it on his tongue like a fine wine. "What brings someone with your... skills... to a place like Nocturne?"

She continued drying glasses, her movements unhurried despite her racing heart. "Money. Opportunity. The usual reasons."

"There are easier bars to tend. Safer ones."

"Easier doesn't pay as well." She placed a glass on the shelf behind her. "And I've never been interested in safe."

"No?" Something dangerous flickered in his eyes, sending heat pooling low in her belly. The sensation was unwelcomed, something she had no business feeling, least of all for him.

Her pulse betrayed her, quickening despite the warning sirens blaring in her head. This wasn't part of the plan. This wasn't supposed to happen. "What are you interested in?"

She turned to face him fully, allowing herself the smallest hint of the fire that burned within. "Survival, Mr. De Luca. And success. In that order."

His lips curved into a cold smile that somehow managed to be both terrifying and appealing. "Practical."

"Always."

He studied her for a long moment, then said, "Have dinner with me tomorrow."

Not a question. A command disguised as an invitation. Her pulse spiked.

Tatiana raised a single eyebrow. "I'm working tomorrow night."

"I own the bar. You're off."

"That's presumptuous."

His expression hardened slightly. "It's an opportunity. Most would recognize it as such."

"Most would be intimidated by you," she countered evenly.

"And you're not?"

"Should I be?"

The challenge hung between them, electric and dangerous. His eyes darkened as he leaned closer, his cologne wrapping around her senses.

"Eight o'clock. I'll send a car." Again, not a question.

Tatiana let the silence stretch, knowing her hesitation would irritate him more than an outright refusal. He wasn't used to people considering his invitations. People simply accepted, grateful for his attention.

Finally, she nodded once. "Eight o'clock."

Satisfaction flickered across his features. "Wear something nice."

"I always do." She turned away, dismissing him as she had the night before. A calculated risk.

She felt his tension like a gathering storm — the predator in him irritated at her dismissal. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she'd pushed too far.

But after a moment, he simply stood and adjusted his cufflinks — a habit she'd noted in her surveillance. A tell when he was restraining himself.

"Tomorrow, then." He placed a hundred-dollar bill on the bar for a thirty-dollar drink.

"Tomorrow," she echoed, not touching the money.

He strode toward the elevator, Antonio falling into step behind him. Tatiana allowed her eyes to follow, knowing he would sense her gaze. Sure enough, he paused just before the doors, turning to catch her watching.

Their eyes locked across the space, and for a moment, everything else faded — the bar, the remaining patrons, even her mission. There was only his piercing gaze and the dangerous current flowing between them.

The doors closed, breaking the spell but not the tension.

Only when he was gone did she allow herself a small smile of triumph, her fingers finally reaching for the hundred-dollar bill. The hook was set. Now to reel him in, slowly, carefully, right to the edge of his destruction.

––––––––––

Massimiliano's penthouse occupied the top three floors of a building he owned in Tribeca. The elevator required a fingerprint scan and opened directly into a foyer of Italian marble and discreet security cameras.

He loosened his tie as he crossed to the bar, pouring himself another drink, his fourth of the night, unusual for a man who prided himself on control.

Antonio waited silently by the elevator, knowing better than to speak first.

"What did you find?" Massimiliano finally asked, staring out at the city below.

"Inconsistencies." Antonio approached, placing a folder on the glass coffee table. "Her employment history checks out on paper, but when we spoke to previous managers in person, descriptions don't match. Different height, different hair color."

"False identity."

"Most likely. But high quality. She's been building it for years. That's dedication."

Massimiliano swirled the liquid in his glass. "Competition investigating us? Law enforcement?"

"Possibly. Or someone with a grudge." Antonio hesitated. "Your father had many enemies."

"Most are dead."

"Most."

Massimiliano took another sip, letting the burn center him as his mind turned over possibilities. Who would send someone this skilled? What was their endgame?

"Continue surveillance. I want to know where she goes, who she talks to. And dig deeper on that background. Everyone has a past that bleeds through eventually."

"And tomorrow night?"

A cold smile touched Massimiliano's lips. "Tomorrow I'll see what she reveals when she thinks she's getting closer."

Antonio nodded and retreated to the elevator, leaving Massimiliano alone with the city lights and his thoughts.

He shouldn't be this fixated on a bartender, even one with secrets. Women had never been his weakness; they were commodities, pleasures to be enjoyed and discarded. Useful tools, occasionally. But never distractions.

Yet something about her challenged him on a level he wasn't accustomed to. The way she looked at him without fear or desire. The calculated competence in her movements. The mystery she represented.

He'd seen honey traps before — sent by law enforcement, by rival families, by men who thought they could outplay him. Women who draped themselves in seduction like a weapon, practiced in their deception but transparent in their intent.

They flirted too easily, touched too soon, their eyes giving away the hunger for power, for survival, for whatever they'd been sent to take.

But this one?

She wasn't baiting him. She wasn't trying to tempt or manipulate, wasn't waiting for him to make a move. She played no role, gave no tells.

If she was a trap, it was the kind designed to be impossible to detect until it was too late. And that? That made her dangerous.

He placed his glass down with deliberate control. Whatever game she was playing, whoever had sent her, they had made a critical mistake.

They had caught his interest.

And Massimiliano De Luca always won the games he chose to play.