Bound To My Mafia Stepuncles novel Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Enzo’s POV

The week had been a calculated exercise in frustration. Aria’s silence, her refusal to acknowledge our attempts, was a subtle form of defiance. A challenge she didn’t fully understand she was issuing. We’d pushed, perhaps too hard, but the sight of her the way that dress had clung to her curves, accentuating every inch of her–had been a provocation we couldn’t ignore. And her reaction… the raw, untamed need in her eyes, the way she had looked at us before forcing herself

र्व to look away… it had been intoxicating. A glimpse of the fire beneath the surface, a fire we intended to stoke.

She was resisting. Not out of hatred, not even out of true fear, but because she thought she had a choice.

She didn’t.

Dante and Matteo entered my office, their presence as imposing as ever. The air shifted, thickening with something unspoken yet understood between us. Matteo’s disheveled state hinted at recent exertion–the kind that left bruises and broken bones in its wake. His suit jacket was gone, his white dress shirt crumpled, a smear of something dark–blood, perhaps–on the cuff.

Dante, ever the epitome of controlled violence, carried himself with the quiet intensity of a predator who had only barely leashed himself. His knuckles were raw, his normally pristine dress shirt stained with crimson. A necessary reminder of the power we wielded, the weight of the world we controlled.

“Shipment’s in,” Matteo announced, voice clipped and efficient, always the one to keep things moving. “Warehouse is being loaded as we speak. No complications.”

I nodded in acknowledgment, my gaze shifting to Dante, whose silence was telling.

Aria.

He was thinking about her. We all were. She had seeped into our bones, lodged herself into our minds in a way we hadn’t

anticipated.

“Will she come?” Matteo asked, leaning against the desk, arms crossed.

Dante’s jaw tightened. “Doubtful,” he murmured, but there was an edge to his tone. Not regret, not concern–something far

darker.

We had extended an invitation, not just to Aria, but to Victor, his simpering wife, and Cassandra, her vapid sister. A necessary inconvenience. We had no use for them except as pawns in the greater game. If Aria would not come willingly, then Victor would see to it that she did.

“She will come,” I stated, leaving no room for argument. “Victor will ensure it.”

Matteo inclined his head in agreement, though I could see the flicker of doubt in his gaze. He had always been the most perceptive of us, the one to see the cracks before they spread.

A heavy silence settled in the room. It wasn’t uncommon–words weren’t always needed between us–but this one carried the weight of our own miscalculations.

“We overstepped,” Dante finally said, his voice a low rumble.

1/3.

Chapter 19

“Agreed,” I admitted.

Matteo exhaled, nibbing the back of his neck. “So what now?”

“Now,” I said, “we wait. And when she comes, we make sure she understands exactly what her place is.”

Matteo pushed off the desk, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll handle the flowers. It was his quiet way of maintaining contact, a constant, silent reminder of our presence. Not just a gift–a reminder of our presence.

He left without another word, leaving just Dante and me in the dim office, the tension thick as smoke.

Then my phone rang.

Victor.

The sound grated on my nerves, but I answered nonetheless, pressing the device to my ear.

“What?” I demanded, sharp and impatient.

“Enzo, my dear brother,” Victor’s voice slithered through the receiver, syrupy and insincere. “Is that any way to greet

family?”

I wasn’t in the mood for his theatrics. “The invitation. Aria’s attendance. Is she coming?”

A pause. A hesitation that told me more than his words ever could.

“Well, about that…”

“Make. Her. Come.” My voice left no room for negotiation. I didn’t wait for a response before ending the call.

Dante let out a low, humorless chuckle. “I despise him.”

“As do I.” Victor was a constant reminder of our father’s weakness, a stain on our lineage we had yet to scrub out. But he was useful, and as long as he remained useful, we would tolerate his existence. Barely.

I pushed back from my desk, rolling my sleeves up past my forearms. “I need a drink. You joining me?”

Dante didn’t answer, but he followed as I left the office, his movements fluid, predatory.

We stepped into the bar, the shift in atmosphere immediate. The office was cold, sterile–business. The bar was different. The lighting was low, the scent of aged whiskey and leather filling the space. A haven for men like us, a place where the weight of our world could be set aside, even if only for a moment.

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