Accidentally Rob a Mafia Don

A Wolf's Snare

The air inside the safe house was heavy, thick with the copper tang of gun oil and the faint trace of dried blood. Shadows clung to the walls like whispers of unfinished business. Bianca sat cross-legged on the battered leather couch, hugging a pillow to her chest as if it could protect her from the chaos spiraling around her.

She couldn’t.

From the corner of the room, Lorenzo stood like a statue — tall, broad, and terrifyingly silent.

One of his men knelt on the floor, his lip split and blood dripping from his chin.

“I didn’t know, Boss,” the man stammered. “I swear, I didn’t know they’d hit the convoy—”

Lorenzo crouched down slowly, resting his forearm on his knee, his face inches from the man’s. His voice was soft. Too soft.

“And yet,” he murmured, “they knew exactly which road we’d take. Exactly when we’d leave.”

The man swallowed hard, shaking his head desperately.

“It wasn’t me—”

Lorenzo’s hand moved fast — a blur of black against the dim light — and suddenly there was a gun pressed under the man’s chin.

Bianca jerked upright, breath catching in her throat.

“I’ll find out if you’re lying,” Lorenzo said coldly. “One way or another.”

A long silence stretched, broken only by the man’s ragged breathing. Then Lorenzo stood, flicking the safety back on without a glance.

“Get out of my sight,” he ordered, his voice like ice cracking.

The man scrambled away, leaving a smear of blood on the floor.

Bianca pressed herself deeper into the couch cushions, silently praying Lorenzo wouldn’t notice her.

But of course, he did.

His steel-gray gaze slid towards her like a blade finding its mark.

“Something funny, Dolcezza?” he asked lazily, his head tilting.

She blinked, startled.

“What? No, I—”

Before she could finish, another of his men — tall, blond, charming in a rough-edged way — dropped onto the couch beside her, tossing an easy grin her way.

“Relax,” he said, bumping her shoulder lightly. “Boss looks scary, but he’s just broody. You’ll get used to it.”

Bianca couldn’t help it — she laughed, soft and nervous.

Across the room, Lorenzo froze.

His jaw tightened, his grip on his glass of whiskey going white-knuckled.

“Matteo,” he said without looking up, his voice dangerously calm.

The blond man stiffened immediately.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Move.”

Matteo shot Bianca a regretful grin and stood, retreating to the other side of the room.

Lorenzo didn’t say another word, but Bianca could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a flame.

Later that night, Lorenzo summoned her to his office.

Bianca stood in the doorway, crossing her arms.

“What now?”

“The Mancinis requested a meeting,” he said without preamble, not bothering to look up from the papers spread across his desk.

“So?”

“So, we’re going,” he said flatly. “And you’re coming with me.”

She blinked, stunned.

“I’m sorry, what?”

His gaze lifted at last, pinning her in place with cool precision.

“They don’t know you,” he explained. “You’ll sit at my side, smile when I tell you to, and distract them long enough for me to read the room.”

Bianca gaped at him.

“So… you want me to be bait.”

“Smart girl,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair.

“Are you insane?!” she burst out, throwing her hands up. “I’m not part of your stupid mafia games!”

Lorenzo stood slowly, bracing his palms on the edge of the desk as he leaned forward.

“You are now,” he said softly.

She shook her head, backing up a step.

“I’m not doing it.”

He moved around the desk with lethal grace, stopping when he was right in front of her. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"You want your freedom, Dolcezza? Earn it."

Bianca’s throat went dry.

“This is blackmail.”

“This is survival,” he corrected smoothly. “You’re coming.”

Two nights later, Bianca sat stiffly in the passenger seat of Lorenzo’s sleek black Maserati, every nerve ending on fire.

He hadn’t said a word to her the entire drive.

She kept her gaze fixed on the window, refusing to let her eyes drift to him — but she could feel his presence like a gravitational pull, silent and unrelenting.

When they arrived, the meeting place turned out to be an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Naples.

Inside, the Mancini brothers were already waiting, all silk suits and shark smiles.

One of them — tall, dark-haired, handsome in a slick, dangerous way — let his gaze rake shamelessly over Bianca.

“Interesting,” he drawled. “I wasn’t aware you kept such… company, De Luca.”

Bianca bristled, about to snap something, but Lorenzo’s hand tightened on the small of her back — just enough pressure to stop her.

“She’s not company,” Lorenzo said coldly. “She’s mine.”

Mancini’s grin widened.

“Then you won’t mind if I take a closer look.”

Before she could step back, his hand reached up, fingers brushing her chin.

Time slowed.

Bianca’s breath hitched — but before she could react, there was a sharp click.

Lorenzo had drawn his gun.

He didn’t even raise his voice when he spoke.

“Touch her again,” he said softly, almost pleasantly, “and you’ll leave without fingers.”

Mancini froze. Bianca’s heart thundered.

For one terrifying, intoxicating moment, she thought Lorenzo might actually pull the trigger.

The meeting collapsed into chaos minutes later when Lorenzo’s trap sprung — hidden shooters, flashing muzzles, and the roar of gunfire filling the warehouse.

Bianca barely had time to scream before Lorenzo grabbed her wrist, yanking her behind a stack of crates.

“Stay down!” he barked.

“I’m trying!” she yelled back, ducking low as bullets tore through the air.

A Mancini gunman flanked them from the side — Bianca saw the muzzle flash before she even processed it — and then Lorenzo was on her, slamming her back against the wall to shield her with his body.

Her chest was pressed into his. His hand cupped the side of her neck, firm and grounding, while his other arm braced beside her head.

For a moment, they both just breathed — fast, shallow, jagged breaths mingling in the scant space between them.

His steel-gray eyes locked on hers.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his voice rough.

“N-no,” she stammered, her pulse skittering wildly.

His gaze dipped briefly — lips, neck, back to her eyes — before he caught himself, jerking back half an inch.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, harsher this time, before tearing himself away.

But his hand lingered on her waist just a heartbeat too long before he let go.

Hours later, back at the safe house, Bianca slipped through the hallway and overheard voices again.

“It wasn’t Mancini who tipped them off,” one of Lorenzo’s men was saying. “It was someone inside. Someone close.”

Bianca’s stomach dropped.

Then, behind her, a low voice spoke.

“Eavesdropping again, Dolcezza?”

She spun around to find Lorenzo leaning against the wall, shadows carving his sharp features into something almost feral.

He stepped closer, one hand braced above her head, trapping her.

“If I thought for one second you were involved,” he murmured, voice silk over steel, “I’d put a bullet between your pretty eyes.”

Her breath caught — because she knew he meant it.

But then, softer, almost reluctant:

“And yet…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He just walked away, leaving Bianca trembling in the dark — with the terrifying realization that Lorenzo De Luca cared more than he should.