No Secretary Survived a Week With the Sicilian Mafia Boss Until the Clumsy Girl He Hired by Mistake Found the Secret That Could Destroy Him

Costa stepped closer, invading their personal space. The scent of heavy cologne and stale cigar smoke rolled off him.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue,” Costa said softly, leaning toward Chloe. “In my city, women who speak out of turn lose the ability to speak at all.”

Before Lorenzo could move, Chloe shifted her weight. Her three-inch heel caught on the edge of a thick decorative rug. Gravity, her oldest nemesis, took over.

She pitched forward. Her crystal flute of expensive, sticky champagne launched from her hand, splashing directly across Costa’s face, soaking his silk tie, and ruining his custom Italian suit.

Costa shouted, stumbling backward into a waiter carrying a tray of crab cakes. The waiter went down. Costa went down. It was a catastrophe of seafood and alcohol.

Silence crashed over the gala.

Chloe stood frozen, her hands covering her mouth. “Oh my goodness, Mr. Costa! I am so incredibly sorry. The rug—it just grabbed my shoe.”

Lorenzo did not reach for his weapon. He did not need to. He simply looked down at the New York boss covered in tartar sauce and champagne, and his mouth curved into a terrifying, genuine smile.

“My CFO is notoriously clumsy, Vinnie,” Lorenzo said, his voice carrying across the quiet room. “You should be careful standing so close to her. It’s dangerous.”

Costa scrambled to his feet, his face purple with rage. His bodyguards lunged forward, but Matteo DeLuca materialized from the shadows, his hand resting casually inside his jacket.

“I’d think twice,” Matteo suggested gently.

Costa wiped champagne from his eyes, pointing a trembling finger at Lorenzo. “You’re dead. Both of you. You think you can go clean? I’m going to bleed your company dry, buy your docks, and burn your books.”

He stormed out, trailing crab cakes.

Lorenzo turned to Chloe, offering his handkerchief. “Was that an accident?”