The Mafia’s Favorite Threat

When it was time to leave for the auction, Lucien finished dressing and went to Meret's room to get her, only to find it in quiet disarray.

The floor was littered with scraps of fabric and clipped threads, bits of lace and silk that looked vaguely familiar. At first glance, it seemed like she'd torn the designer dresses apart like a spoiled brat who didn't want a toy and ripped the head off. 

He stepped in, scanning the space. No movement. No sound. No Meret.

A sharp edge of suspicion cut through him.

He moved to the window. For a moment, he fully expected to see torn fabric knotted into a rope, fluttering down the villa's stone wall. By now, he didn't put anything past her.

But the view below was undisturbed. No rope. No damage. No sign she'd escaped that way.

He pulled back from the glass, jaw tight, already reaching for his phone to check the tracker, then paused when he heard the dressing room door open. 

He turned just in time to watch Meret step out with little to no care and wearing a gown Lucien didn't recognize. 

He hadn't bought that one.

 It clung in all the right places, cut in all the wrong ones, and yet, it worked. Effortlessly.

"I didn't like any of the dresses you picked," she said flatly, catching his stare. "I take it you're not very experienced at treating a woman properly. If you were, you might've asked for my waist size. Or my length. Maybe even my shoe size."

Lucien's brow lifted. "You seemed to manage just fine."

His gaze swept across the room—fabric scraps, broken straps, ruined couture scattered like shrapnel.

"Well. At least now I know what chaos looks like in silk."

He turned toward the door. "Let's go. The chopper's waiting."

But as Lucien turned to leave, he paused.

Something tugged at the edge of his focus.

He slowly turned back toward the window—the same one he'd inspected earlier when he thought she'd escaped—and frowned.

There had been a curtain there. He was sure of it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't bother to check it. Just dismissed the thought, turned back, and grabbed Meret by the wrist.

Behind him, Meret calmly kicked a bundled scrap of black fabric to the side.

Part of the missing curtain.

Then she followed him out, unfazed.

*****

The helicopter touched down on a private rooftop in the city's old quarter.

From there, they descended into what used to be a cathedral. Now it was stone, steel, and silence, dressed up as an auction house.

The air here was different. Not colder like the weather, but colder in tone. Wealth pressed into the seams of tailored suits and embroidered gowns. Power moved in tight circles, measured and unspoken.

But even here, none of it touched Lucien.

He was the Don, after all. 

Heads turned the moment he stepped inside. Postures adjusted. Conversations faltered. It wasn't just Lucien that drew attention. It was the fact that he wasn't alone. A woman walked beside him, and that alone shifted the room's temperature because no one was used to seeing him with company. At most, maybe a bodyguard. But a woman?

Meret felt the weight of every stare as they moved deeper into the room. Then she felt his hand slide to her waist. She stiffened. Slowly, she turned to him with a sweet, practiced smile.

"Not too much now." She told Lucien but he didn't take his hands off, instead, they went lower. 

His gaze held hers but he didn't smile back "You blend better when I look like I own you. Which for tonight I do."

"No one owns me."

A flicker of a smile tugged at Lucien's mouth. It vanished as quickly as it came.

"Not yet."

They descended the stairs with Meret measuring the weight of his hand like a blade pressed to her back and the hush of shifting conversations still trailing them.

Halfway across the room, they stopped when Lucien plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to her.

Meret took the glass with a sugar-sweet smile, voice pitched low. "Someone's coming. This is my cue to leave."

Lucien didn't so much as glance toward the approaching figure. "Do you need me to spill my champagne on you?"

She choked mid-sip, coughing into the rim of her glass. Her composure faltered just long enough for him to enjoy it.

Setting the drink down with a sharp glare, she muttered, "You're impossible," and turned on her heel.

"Well," Lucien said under his breath, watching her retreat, "that did it."

As Meret disappeared down the hall, presumably toward the restroom, Lucien found himself quickly surrounded by a few familiar faces. He spoke to them offering nods, clipped greetings, and the occasional half-smile, but he didn't hear a word of what anyone said.

His attention was elsewhere, fixed on the question of how Meret planned to get her hands on the Signet of Arlecchino. If he already had it.

He took a sip of his wine, hiding the smirk that threatened to surface.

The Signet of Arlecchino wasn't just a ring. It was proof of bloodline. Old money. Mafia roots deeper than most men dared to ask about.

The man who wore it didn't have real power, not the kind Lucien respected. He snitched when it suited him, bought loyalty on borrowed reputation. And has numerous broken Mafia codes. But because of the ring, everyone turned a blind eye. 

Take it away, and he was just a man in an expensive suit with too many enemies.

Lucien didn't need to kill him. He just needed to snip a thread and let the enimes do the job. That way, nothing would be traced back to him.

He'd done it a week ago.

The ring was already his—secured on the island with some of his collections with no special protection so it wouldn't draw one curiosity. 

He wanted to watch her try.

Wanted to see how she moved when the stakes felt real.

Wanted her to come back to him breathless, teeth gritted, and admit she'd failed, something he doubted she'd had to do in a long, long time.

Let her crawl through the fire first.

Then he'd remind her who really held the match

A voice cut through Lucien's thoughts.

"Lucien!"

He turned.

Dario Bianchi.

A family friend from way back… practically family now. Lucien had called him "uncle" growing up. His favorite, once. Too cheerful. Too loud. And far more dangerous than he looked.

Lucien let a rare smile tug at the corner of his mouth as Dario approached.

"The don himself!" Dario grinned, offering a mock salute. "Congratulations!"

Lucien's brow lifted. "I haven't bought a single piece yet. What exactly are you congratulating me for?"

"Your engagement!" Dario announced, far too loud for Lucien's liking.

Heads turned.

So did whispers.

Lucien's smile didn't move, but the chill behind it dropped ten degrees.

And soon after, the crowd thickened. People came from all sides, clapping his back, some raising glasses while others simply congratulated him. 

He smiled through clenched teeth, said thank you, and let them believe he was pleased.

All the while, his eyes were already searching for Meret in the crowd.

He was already regretting not ending her when he had the chance because whatever she'd just done had raised the stakes.

And worse, she'd made herself look untouchable.

If he made any move to end her life now or air her identity to the public, it would stain his name.

He almost laughed at how cleverly she had twisted the whole game with one move.

At that moment, Lucien realized Meret wasn't just a threat.

She was more dangerous than half the names on his list.

And far more tempting to keep.