Page 3 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

Enzo Marcini. Though he’s not a Rossi, he’s my late father’s second-in-command and now the present Don of the Rossi family. He sits on the couch like a king. His greying hair is combed back, suit jacket unbuttoned completely, revealing his slight potbelly. A cigarette dangles between his fingers. The ash at the tip glows as he lifts it to his lips and inhales.

For someone who barely shows emotion, I see the shift in his eyes when they settle on my face. “Peter called on your way here. The doctor is on his way,” he says, gesturing to the space beside him.

I unwind my arm from around Peter’s neck, much to his protest, then gently insist that he leave. I might need a few checkups for my head, but I can walk just fine.

In a few limps, I reach Enzo, but take the couch opposite him instead.

“With death threats hanging over your head, you can’t keep working late.”

“I have to push my newest collection,” I reply simply.

Enzo has grown into a father figure of sorts in my life. I like to think of him as a better man than my father. He shows genuine care even when my own father didn’t, despite the fact that we’re not biologically related. I’ve been told I look like his late daughter, whom he lost to this ruthless world years ago, and that sometimes he still sees her in me.

But I already know where this conversation is heading, and I don’t think I’d like it.

“You have to limit unnecessary outings until this cup passes over, Elena. Non devi nemmeno fare tutto questo… sforzo (You don’t even need to go through all this… effort).” He shakes his head like he feels all I’m doing is unnecessary. “One call and I’ll make sure your business stays at the top for years… Diavolo, ti farò persino entrare nella lista di Forbes (Hell, I’ll even get you into the Forbes list).”

I don’t say anything because he knows I don’t want that. Getting my make-up and skincare business into the Forbes 30 Under 30 list is my life’s goal. And I’m going to achieve that solely by hard work. Without favors.

He sets his cigar into his ashtray, clears his throat, and exhales loudly before flicking two fingers forward.

Someone I hadn’t noticed steps out from the corner, and my breath seizes. Almost immediately, I stagger to my feet, my heart roaring in my ears.

It can’t possibly be.

He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that outlines his broad shoulders and rock-hard abs. I take in his familiar eyes and, as my gaze deliberately slides lower to his arm, I catch the familiar ink of a tattoo.

It’s him!

My throat tightens.

Enzo’s voice drifts through the thick air, bringing me back to reality. “This is Adrian Cole. Peter also mentioned that he saved you. So from now on, he will be your personal bodyguard. He’s good. Saved my life once. I believe he’ll protect you with his life just like he did tonight.”

My head spins briefly as I whip my neck toward Enzo, who seems unaware that we’ve met once before this moment.

Fuck. He works here?

I can’t have a man I’ve fucked before as a bodyguard. That doesn’t make any sense.

“What!? No! I don’t need h—”

“You will listen to me, Elena!” Enzo stands abruptly, his voice rising. “I will not let you risk your life any further.”

Swallowing thickly, I do a double-take on the man’s arm again. It’s undeniably the same tattoo my fingers once traced in breathless, reckless desperation. Same one I dragged my nails across as I rode him, drunk on pleasure and insane lust.

“If anyone will do the job that those foolish bodyguards couldn’t do tonight, it’s Adrian,” Enzo’s voice hits me. “We don’t call him the silent precursor for nothing. He’s swift, sees what others don’t, arrives before the threat and moves before anyone realizes. He’ll protect you, Elena, from now on. You have no say in that.”

It all hits me at once. The thick arms, the chestnut hair, that defiant strand…

Shit. The man I fucked so hard, so raw, so dirty, is the same man who just crushed a skull to save me. The man standing five feet away, silently towering over me in the dark, is… Zeus.

Chapter one

Elena

Three Days Earlier

“Shit.” Nausea twists my stomach when I see the metrics. The irritating downward curve of a slope slashes my laptop screen in half, hinting at only one thing. Engagement is down.