AUCTIONED TO THE WRONG MAFIA

Chapter 2:The Enemy Of My Enemy

Frankie Morano

It’s only been a week, but the memory of her lips still lingers like a curse.

That taste — warm, sinful, unforgettable — haunts me more than any ghost of blood I’ve spilled. Her perfume still lives on my skin, that soft whisper of jasmine and danger. And the sound of her moan... God, it’s burned into my head like a sin I’m not ready to confess.

We both knew what we were doing was wrong. But hell, right and wrong stopped meaning anything in my world a long time ago.

Only this time, something was different. The heat between us had cooled. The way she kissed me wasn’t hunger — it was hesitation. Like she was already halfway gone.

“Lizzy,” I murmur, brushing her cheek with my thumb. “What’s wrong?”

Her lips part, but no words come out. The weight of something heavy sits on her tongue. Her eyes dart away — guilty, scared, maybe both.

“Talk to me,” I press. “What’s your old man up to this time? You know you can tell me anything.”

She turns her face to the side, silent. My patience burns thin.

“Elisabetta,” I whisper, voice sharper now. “What is it?”

She pulls the duvet up to her chest, hiding the body I’d just traced like scripture. Her throat works as she forces the words out.

“I’m getting married,” she says softly. “To Vinnie... the Bull.”

For a second, my breath freezes in my chest. Then it bursts out in a dry cough that turns into a laugh — the kind of laugh that isn’t funny at all.

“What the f**k do you mean?” I snap. “Who the hell would marry the Bull?”

Her eyes glisten. “It’s not my choice. It’s an arrangement. My father’s sealing a deal. I’m... collateral.”

The word hits harder than a bullet. Collateral. That’s all she thinks she is.

I stare at her — this woman who tasted like heaven and sinned like fire — and something ugly twists in my chest.

“Your father’s selling you to that psycho?” I ask, voice low, dangerous. “You’re not property, Lizzy.”

She doesn’t answer. Just wraps the blanket tighter. The silence in the room grows heavy, filled with everything neither of us wants to say.

Do I let her go? Do I sit back and watch Vinnie take what I love — what’s mine?

No.

I lean in and grab her hand. “Listen to me,” I whisper, fierce. “I won’t let that monster take you. I don’t care who he thinks he is — I’ll burn the whole f*****g city before I watch you walk down that aisle.”

Tears shine in her eyes. “Frankie... you don’t understand. Vinnie’s dangerous. He—”

“I know exactly what he is,” I cut her off. “A maniac. A psychotic bastard who thinks fear is love. He killed Romero, didn’t he?”

Her eyes widen. “You knew?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. And I think I know what to do now.”

There’s a flicker of hope on her face. “What are you planning, Frankie Morano?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” I say. “Just trust me when the time comes.”

She looks like she wants to ask more, but I silence her with a look.

“I’ve got a meeting tonight,” I tell her. “Old friends. Don’t wait up.”

---

The night bleeds red inside La Sombra Nera.

The place hums like the devil’s heartbeat.

Smoke coils through the air, twisting around golden chandeliers that swing above the crowd. The low pulse of jazz crawls through the floor, deep enough to make the whiskey glasses hum. Onstage, a woman sings — her voice a mix of velvet and venom, her song wrapped around the moan of a saxophone.

Amber light floods the room. It touches the silk dresses, the sharp suits, the loaded guns hidden under tables. Shadows huddle in the corners, whispering about money, blood, and betrayal. Every man here has killed. Every man here will again.

The waiters move like ghosts, black suits pressed, eyes dead. They glide between tables carrying bottles older than most of the dancers. The clink of ice and the soft exhale of cigars fill the air like prayer.

The dancer on stage sways under crimson light — her hips slow, deliberate, dangerous. Every motion is control disguised as seduction. The men watch her with the same hunger they use to measure power.

At the far end, the bar gleams — dark wood polished like a mirror, bottles lined up in molten gold light. The bartender wipes his glass slowly, his reflection unreadable. Behind him, money trades hands, promises shift, and silence means more than words.

Above, through tinted glass, the private gallery watches everything. The Boss sits there — still as stone, flanked by his men and diamond-soaked women. Nobody looks up. But everybody feels him watching.

That’s how power works — unseen, but everywhere.

The air here is thick. Perfume, sweat, cigar smoke, and fear. The kind that tastes sweet and burns slow. Laughter rings out — too sharp, too fake. Every smile is a weapon.

This isn’t just a club.

This is the beating heart of the city’s underworld — where sin wears perfume and loyalty smells like whiskey.

---

A tall, dark man in a black hat brushes past me, the barrel of a gun pressing into my spine.

“Move,” he mutters.

I lift my hands slightly and let him lead me through the back corridor. The music fades behind us, replaced by the low hum of voices — men waiting. Dangerous men.

He opens a door. The VIP room. Smoke thickens the air. A chandelier swings lazily above red leather couches. There are four of them, sitting already — the Morano old guard. Faces I haven’t seen in years.

I walk in slow, sit back, and pour myself a glass of whiskey. The room feels heavier with every second.

They’re watching me like hawks, waiting to see if I’ll flinch.

“First,” I start, raising my glass, “let the soul of Romero Rodrigo rest.” My voice is calm, but I feel the tremor under it. “He didn’t deserve to die that way. We all know it.”

The eldest, a thick-necked brute with cold eyes, leans forward. “You playing with us, boy?”

I look up at him. “No. I know who killed him.”

That gets their attention. The room stills. Smoke hangs in the air like it’s listening too.

“But if we strike now,” I continue, “we’ll lose. His forces are bigger. Smarter. He expects revenge. But on his wedding day... he’ll let his guard down. That’s when we strike.”

“Who?” the elder asks, his voice shaking with fury. “Who’s the bastard?”

I stare at the amber in my glass, then lift my eyes to meet his.

“Vinnie the Bull.”

The room explodes in curses. Chairs scrape. Fists slam the table.

“Why should we trust you?” another man spits. “You were under his flag once. What if this is a trap?”

I lean forward, let the fire in me speak. “I’m not with him anymore. He left me and my men to die. You think I’d forget that? Romero was my friend — high school, before any of this life. I owe him that much. And for trust?” I smile thinly. “I’ll be the one at the front. You’ll have your revenge.”

They exchange looks. Silence. The kind that decides who lives and who doesn’t.

Finally, the oldest man nods once. “You’re crazy, Frankie.”

“Maybe,” I say, standing. “But the Bull bleeds like any man.”

I grab my coat, take one last drink, and start toward the door.

Then — the sound.

A single click.

Every instinct in me freezes.

The guard behind me c***s his gun.

I glance over my shoulder. The man in the black hat has his pistol raised, eyes cold. “The Bull says hi,” he growls.

Before I can reach for my gun, the lights flicker — once, twice — then everything goes black.

The sound of a shot cracks through the dark.