The Mafia King’s Debt

CORA’S POV 🎵Ding Dong🎵 The bass from the speakers vibrated beneath my heels as I moved between the tables at Dodo Club, balancing a tray of champagne glasses while guests laughed, and flirted. “Hey! Don’t you think you need condoms tonight?” A voice came ringing in my ears as some guys laughed, holding their spouses while dancing. Friday nights were always busy, but tonight seemed particularly overwhelming, with expensive cars filling the parking lot, familiar celebrities occupying the VIP section, and the sweet smell of perfume mixing with champagne and freshly prepared cocktails. I had been working at Dodo Club for barely three weeks, and although the money was decent, I still hadn’t decided whether I enjoyed working in a place where people measured importance by the number of zeros in their bank accounts. Nevertheless, a job was a job. “Cora, table seven needs another bottle, and please hurry. Those gentlemen have already complained twice about the service tonight,” Clara called from behind the reception desk, barely looking up from the phone she was using. I turned toward her with a smile that required considerably more effort than it should have, because Clara had a remarkable talent for making ordinary requests sound like insults. “Tell them their bottle is coming, and perhaps you should remind them that I have only two hands instead of the six they apparently expect me to possess,” I replied, adjusting the tray against my palm. Clara glanced at me before returning to her phone, leaving me wondering how someone could spend an entire shift irritating people and still behave as though everyone else was the problem. I shook off the thought and continued toward the bar. I hadn’t accepted this job to make friends with Clara. I had my own reasons for working here, and until I figured out what I wanted to do next, I intended to earn money, keep my head down, and avoid unnecessary trouble. Unfortunately, my determination to remain unnoticed had one significant weakness, and that weakness happened to be the most attractive man I had ever seen. Adam Moretti. Even thinking about his name made me glance toward the private staircase overlooking the main floor, where he occasionally appeared to inspect the club or speak with guests who seemed considerably more important than the rest of us. Adam was the chief executive of Moretti Holdings and the owner of Dodo Club, a successful businessman whose reputation extended far beyond the impressive buildings bearing his company’s name. However, the people who visited the club rarely discussed his business achievements without eventually lowering their voices and mentioning the rumours surrounding his connections to a mafia gang. Some people called him a ruthless man, while others whispered that his wealth was connected to the mafia, although nobody seemed willing to explain precisely what they knew about him. I had never been particularly interested in rumours, but I would have needed to be completely blind not to notice how people straightened whenever he entered a room. His appearance certainly didn’t help matters, because Adam Moretti looked like the sort of man a sensible woman would admire from a distance while reminding herself repeatedly that good looks were not evidence of a good character. And his eyes were the worst part. They were dark, intense, and frighteningly observant. I had seen those eyes from across the club several times since beginning my employment, but I had never been unfortunate enough to discover what it felt like to have his attention. At least, that was what I believed until I turned away from the bar with a fresh bottle of champagne and found Adam standing near the bottom of the private staircase. My steps slowed involuntarily, and I quickly became annoyed with myself for reacting to the sight of a man who had probably forgotten my existence approximately three seconds after seeing me. Unfortunately again, my body seemed determined to embarrass me, because my heart raced, my fingers adjusted themselves around the tray, and my eyes travelled over his face before I remembered that staring at one’s employer was generally considered unprofessional. I quickly lowered my gaze and continued walking, silently praying that he hadn’t noticed my momentary lapse in concentration. “Cora Bennett.” His voice stopped me before I could take another step, and I turned around with the carefully composed expression I usually reserved. “Hello, Mr. Moretti,” I replied. Adam glanced at the tray in my hands before returning his attention to my face. “Is that how you greet everyone, or am I receiving particularly special treatment tonight?” he asked. I blinked at him, struggling to determine if he was teasing me or simply enjoying the opportunity to make an ordinary employee uncomfortable. “That depends on the person standing in my path, sir,” I answered, attempting to sound professional. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and for one terrifying moment, I wondered whether I had just insulted the man who signed my employment documents. Then Adam smiled. It wasn’t a broad smile, but the slight curve of his mouth transformed his face in a way that made me briefly forget the bottle of champagne balanced in my hands. Good heavens. That smile should have come with a warning label and perhaps a signed statement confirming that nobody was responsible for the foolish decisions a girl might make after witnessing it. “You’re rather comfortable speaking to your employer, Miss Bennett,” he observed, taking one step closer while keeping his gaze fixed on mine. “Only when my employer asks me questions that deserve honest answers, Mr. Moretti,” I replied. Adam looked at me for three seconds, and the silence became so uncomfortable that I began wondering whether he expected me to apologize or simply stand there. I had experienced men looking at me before, but this felt different, because Adam didn’t appear distracted, embarrassed, or particularly concerned. My fingers tightened around the tray, and I silently begged my heartbeat to behave like something belonging to a functioning adult rather than a teenager experiencing her first ridiculous crush. “Tell me something, Cora,” he said, lowering his voice slightly as he stepped aside to let a passing waiter move behind him, “do you always become this nervous when you speak to people?” I nearly dropped the champagne. “Who said I’m nervous?” I asked, lifting my chin. The last thing I intended to do was allow Adam Moretti to discover how thoroughly his attention was affecting me. “Your fingers have been gripping that tray so tight,” he replied, sounding far too pleased with his own observations. I looked down at my hands. “I’m carrying an expensive bottle, Mr. Moretti, and I would prefer not to explain to management why I dropped it,” I answered, attempting to recover whatever dignity remained available to me. “Then perhaps you should relax before you damage something that costs more than your monthly salary,” he remarked. I became annoyed at this point, because there were several ways to encourage an employee to relax, and reminding her of the price of champagne was certainly an unusual choice. I had heard people say that Adam Moretti rarely laughed, although I had always assumed such stories were exaggerated by employees who enjoyed turning their boss into a mysterious figure. Apparently, they hadn’t been exaggerating very much. “Are you always this difficult, Cora?” he asked, his voice dropping into a quieter register. “Only when someone gives me a reason, Mr. Moretti,” I replied, meeting his gaze. His eyes narrowed slightly, not with anger but with an expression I couldn’t quite interpret, and he remained close enough for me to notice the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. For one second, I imagined what it would feel like to have those same eyes looking at me across a dinner table instead of a crowded nightclub. I imagined him waiting for me after work, opening the passenger door of his car, and asking if I had eaten before taking me somewhere quiet enough for us to talk without shouting over music. Then my imagination became considerably less innocent. I wondered what those perfectly composed hands would feel like against my waist if he ever looked at me with something other than that infuriating amusement. My cheeks turned slightly red immediately, and I turned my attention toward the champagne bottle. Cora Bennett, get yourself together. You already have a boyfriend. You came here to earn money, not to develop an embarrassing fascination with a man whose private life was probably more complicated than the entire club’s accounting department. Besides, even if Adam Moretti were single, which I had absolutely no intention of investigating, a man like him would hardly be searching for a waitress. He probably dated beautiful women who wore designer dresses without checking their bank balances first. And I was simply Cora, a woman with bills to pay, responsibilities to manage, and absolutely no business imagining what it would feel like to have Adam Moretti call her his girlfriend. Still, the thought slipped through my mind before I could stop it. Gosh, I wish this guy were my boyfriend. Worse, I wished he would stop looking at me like an employee and start looking at me like the woman he couldn’t wait to fu*k.