Engaged to the Enemy

by Lucy Smoke

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

In this dark, steamy rom-com perfect for fans of Brynne Weaver, a woman finds herself working alongside her best friend’s new brother-in-law—one of the most notorious mafia bosses in New York and her worst nightmare.

Michelle Hanson is swearing off men forever. After her last truly disastrous date, she’s ready for a fresh start in her new job. Unfortunately, the freaking universe has other plans, because on her first day she accidently flashes her new boss… who just so happens to be one of New York’s most dangerously handsome mafia kingpins.

The last time Dante Luciani saw her, Michelle was dragging a dead body into an alley. Cute, right? So when he asks her to pose as his fake fiancée for the next few months, Michelle can’t exactly say no, thanks. After all, they both know she can keep a secret. She’ll just have to get through this strictly business engagement without falling for Dante’s charms.

But when your fake fiancé is a notorious mobster, "just friends" is never really an option.

Release date: November 17, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

If sexual orientation were a choice… the human race would be extinct.

No one chooses to be attracted to men.

I’ve been on a lot of bad dates, and I’m not talking about the quintessential “you have to kiss a few frogs to find your prince” kind. I’m talking the “is this guy going to murder me and wear my skin like a birthday suit?” kind.

Thankfully, I’m pretty sure my current date isn’t that brand of crazy. No, he’s just incredibly self-absorbed. So much so that he doesn’t seem to realize that I’m drifting further and further from the conversation with each word that comes out of his mouth.

I can deal with some self-absorption—I mean, we’re all born and live and die in our bodies, so why wouldn’t we be a little obsessed with ourselves? But this? This is some next-level bullshit. It’s narcissism at its finest.

“It was such a shitty thing for them to do—I mean, who would fire someone for being honest?” The man sitting across from me rolls his eyes. “How could I know that the manager was pregnant?”

Am I really sticking around for this? Seriously? I’ve been sitting here listening to him prattle on and on about how awful it is that he’s been fired from at least three jobs because he’d been an asshole. Oh, that’s not what he’s describing, but I can read between the lines.

Guy code: “being honest” basically means he was a douche canoe and someone got offended because he couldn’t keep his less-than-stellar opinions to himself. I sigh. The world could really do with more female serial killers. If I didn’t think I’d get caught immediately, I might offer to take up the mantle—women in male fields and all that.

What percentage of all known serial killers are female? It’s like 8–16 percent, isn’t it? That’s a pitiful amount, if you ask me. I could totally do it if I weren’t, you know, painfully normal.

Absently, I wonder if Daisy would mind taking this guy out. She’s already done it for me once; surely she wouldn’t mind a second go-round.

My mind drifts again, straight back to serial killers. Why do male serial killers have to be all weird about it? Women don’t need to fuck their victims in some deranged power trip. The killing part is their power trip. Go feminism.

Regardless, male serial killers are the dumb ones. Leaving their semen behind at a crime scene like dogs pissing on a fire hydrant. How stupid can they be?

“Don’t you think so?”

I blink, brought out of my own internal debate by the guy in front of me. He stares across the table with eyes that have far too much red around the whites. Fuck, what did he say?

“Uh… yeah?” My response comes out more like a question, but it’s all the encouragement my date needs to continue his spiel. He nods emphatically and slaps the table hard enough for the silverware to clatter together.

“Right!” His chin jerks up and down, making him look like a bobblehead reject. Then he’s off again, and I return to the safety of my own thoughts.

Why am I even doing this? I wonder. What’s the point anymore? It’s not like I don’t have more important things on my plate like bills, the new apartment I just moved into, and my parents’ recent problems.

My phone chooses that exact moment to buzz in my purse, and I reach down to retrieve it. As if my thoughts conjured her up from the depths, there it is—the reason I’m trying on this thousandth terrible first date. My best friend, Daisy La Rosa.

With a suspicious scowl, I glance around the small restaurant on the off chance she’s put a tracker on my cell and followed me here. When I don’t see hide or hair of my psychotic and bubbly bestie, I return my attention to the phone screen. Her beaming face is smashed against the frowning man who is now her husband in the little circle above her name along with a text message telling me that they’re getting back tonight and she can’t wait to see me later this week.

If I didn’t love her so damn much, I’d hate her for how fucking happy she is. Even if her husband isn’t exactly the kind of man either of us expected her to marry—i.e. a half-Italian mobster.

The wedding, marriage, and pretty much their whole courtship occurred in a flurry of activity and, according to Daisy, far less bloodshed than was expected. Still, the cloud of blissful happiness that she’s had hanging over her head for the last year has made me recognize my increasing loneliness after the end of my last shitty relationship.

Now it’s been over a year since I’ve had sex and far longer since that sex didn’t end in disappointment and a few minutes alone with my trusty B.O.B.—battery-operated boyfriend. I was hoping that, even with all of the shit going on in my life, maybe I could find a person of my own. If forget-her-own-head-if-it-weren’t-attached Daisy can find someone… I can, too, right?

“Don’t you think it’s kind of rude to be on your phone when someone’s talking to you?” My date, Jack, or Jonas, or Jeffrey—what the fuck was his profile name again?—huffs in annoyance.

His quirked brow and scowl combo is yet another thing I hate about this guy. He seemed normal in his messages. Why can’t guys just be fucking honest about who they are online? If they were, it might have saved me a fuck ton of time, energy, and effort. I got my fucking cooch waxed for this guy, and he doesn’t deserve that. No way in hell. I blow out a breath, lowering my phone back to my lap.

A female serial killer wouldn’t still be sitting here, I think absently. If she was confident enough to murder someone, then she’d be confident enough to have called it quits before she ever set foot in the restaurant. Jason-Jared-Josh seems to realize he has my attention again—or at least, he thinks he does—because he launches into the rest of whatever story he’d been telling.

“Anyway, that’s how you know there are real demons out there. That bitch was totally possessed.”

Staring back at him, I count back how many dates this makes in the last year since Daisy moved out and I moved on from Tony the Tool. When I get into the sixties, I cut myself off.

It’s time to go.

Ripping my attention away from my sad excuse for a date, I spot the waitress who delivered our drinks earlier walking by at a clipped pace. Not wanting to lose my chance of escape, I damn near rocket out of my seat to catch her. Her eyes widen and her hip swivels out to avoid me. I wince—I hadn’t meant to nearly knock her over, but a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do, and she didn’t look ready to stop at all.

The waitress casts me a nasty look and tries to keep going. No way, girly-pop. Our eyes finally lock, and I know she can see me. There’s no ignoring me now because she thinks she won’t get a good tip. I’ll give her every single cent in my wallet if it means I can get out of this any faster.

“Can I get my bill, please?” I ask, emphasizing the “my” since there’s not a chance I’m paying for Mr. Not-So-Perfect.

Been there, made that mistake. Paying for a guy pretty much results in one of two things: either they feel emasculated and you get no second date, or they think they’ve got a sucker and they latch on even harder. I want neither from this dude, but even if I did, I don’t exactly have the extra cash to spare—not until I start my new job. Even then, though, every spare penny will be going home.

The waitress stops trying to get away, halting in the middle of the row of tables set toward the back of this upscale Italian bistro, and scowls down at the arm I’ve got blocking her way now.

With a huff, she turns around. “Yeah,” she snaps out before heading back the way she came. If she’s pissed because the appetizers we ordered ten minutes ago just came out, I don’t care. There’s no fucking way I’m staying to see how the rest of this “date” goes—if it can even be called that. I retake my seat, setting my hands on the table as I pray she comes back fast.

“Bill?” The dude with the J-name seems to realize that I’m no longer pretending to pay attention to him and reaches out to grab my hand.

I yoink my shit back so hard that I nearly topple out of my chair. “Sorry, James?” I wince as the name comes out, once again sounding like a question when I meant for it to be confident. But oh well, to hell with it. I forge ahead like Columbus cutting down random-ass trees to get to some unknown golden location.

“I’ve got to get to bed early tonight. This was… well, I wouldn’t exactly say interesting, but it’s definitely over.” I force a lame-ass smile anyway as I hurriedly dig through my purse to find my debit card before Miss Hates-Her-Job gets back.

“But we just got the appetizers,” he says before blinking as if realizing the name I said, “and my name is Josh.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter. “I mean, right, sorry, I’m a little frazzled. All that wine—” I glance to the half-drunk single glass of Moscato sitting in front of my barely touched frittata. Wine in a New York restaurant? That shit isn’t cheap.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of our waitress heading in our direction. Before she reaches us, I reach forward, lift the glass up by the stem and slam it back. There’s no taste. No flavor. Just straight-up, nose-scrunching alcohol.

Date guy is gaping at me when I slam the wineglass back onto the table. The waitress appears and sets down two separate black folders. She doesn’t wait around or ask if we need anything else before she strides away. I bite back an annoyed huff, looking to my frittata with stomach-aching sorrow.

There won’t be any waiting around for the waitress to return or trying to flag someone else down for a box. I shove my debit card back into my wallet and am thankful that I still have some of my tips from my last shift with the temp agency.

I count out the bills I need and shove them into the black folder.

“Well, it’s been… a night.” Josh looks from me to the folder sitting on his side of the table. “You haven’t even finished your appetizer.” He frowns at my still-mostly-full plate as if the sight of it resting there and the hurried movements I’m making to flee this place are confusing him.

“That’s alright; I’m not hungry anymore,” I say. “You can have it.” I grab the purse wrapped around the back of my chair and swing it up and over my shoulder. “Have a good night.”

The second I’m on my feet, I don’t wait for another protest before I’m making a beeline for the exit. Ducking and weaving around the various white-cloth-covered tables, I set my sights on the street beyond the front windows. Almost there. Just a few more steps, and then I’m home free.

There’s no way he’ll follow me or try to stop me once I get outside. Clutching the strap of my purse in one hand, I shoot my other one out, pressing against the front door to the restaurant just as my hand hits the glass.

Fresh air slaps me in the face, and nothing has ever smelled more liberating than the slightly acrid scent of weed on the air from one of the passersby moving by on the sidewalk. I turn and start the trudge toward the closest subway stop. With each step, the tightness in my chest eases.

Bad date number sixty-two (at least): done.

My phone rings a few minutes later, and I pull it out as I slow to a crosswalk with a blinking red hand on the other side. My mom’s face flashes over the screen.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, baby.” My mom’s slightly husky voice comes over the phone in a deeper drawl than anyone I’ve met in New York. Not a Southern accent but definitely a rural one. The sound of it makes me miss the open fields and starry night skies of the country. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I say as the hand disappears and a white man replaces him. I start walking at a rapid clip, ignoring the cars idling and waiting for their turn with silent agitation. “I just left a shitty date. I’m on my way home.”

“Oh, sweetie, why was it bad?” Mom’s voice softens further, and I wince, wishing I hadn’t said anything. Unfortunately, when I’m irritated, it’s like the filter I rely on most of the time goes straight out the window.

“He just…” The crush of people around me gets worse the closer I draw to the station. “It wasn’t right, that’s all,” I finish lamely.

“Maybe you should come home,” Mom suggests. “You know there’s plenty of boys here who would treat you like a princess.”

There are two problems with her assurance. Number one: the boys she’s referring to are just that. Boys. At least, mentally. The boys from my hometown of Williamsport, Pennsylvania, with its three stoplights and one motel, are the kind of guys who want a woman to stay home, cook, clean, and pop out three kids. I moved to New York mostly because Daisy wanted to work in the city, but also because I couldn’t imagine not being with her after four years together. It was supposed to be my chance to do something different, to see the world outside of my hometown and college. To meet diverse people who might like the same things that I do—travel and trying new things.

Reason number two, however, is the princess thing. Not that I mind a man treating me well, but sometimes, it might be nice if he was a little mean. Not like slap me around, but like maybe tie me up and fuck me to within an inch of my life. The “boys” at home probably only know one sex position—missionary.

“Mom…” I slow to a stop as I find the station and hesitate before going down the stairs. The second I do, the likelihood of losing the call is almost absolute.

“I know, I know,” she says quickly. “I just miss you, baby girl. Your daddy does, too. You and Daisy should come for a visit. Tell her to bring that man of hers; we’d love to meet him. You know she’s like a daughter to us, too.”

“I’ll ask her when she’s free,” I tell her. “And I start my new job on Monday, so once I get my first paycheck, I’ll send you guys some money.”

“Oh, honey, it’s fine, your daddy and I can take care of—”

“Mom,” I cut her off as I slide to the side as a man riding a bike nearly collides with me. Shooting him a nasty-eyed glare as he stops and gets off before carting the big thing down the stairs into the station, I have to force myself to refocus on the conversation at hand.

“Dad told me what happened with that stupid company,” I snap. “I know they’re making your lives difficult.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then her husky tone is back. “If only your father hadn’t fallen off Old Betty,” she mumbles. “He’d be able to work.”

I shake my head more out of sheer aggravation than as any sign to her—since she can’t see me. “He’s in his sixties, Mom,” I tell her. “He should be focusing on retiring anyway. He shouldn’t have to deal with those corporate assholes trying to take your land. What are they even trying to build?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mom replies. “It might actually help the community. Maybe it’ll bring in a lot of jobs. We can sell the farm if we’ve got to, but I just wish we could leave you a piece of the home you grew up in when we go.”

“Mom, you and Dad aren’t dying. Dad’s just a stubborn old mule. You’ll be fine. I’ve got this new job, and it pays way better than the temp agency. I can send y’all some money, and you can finish paying off the mortgage faster—then they’ll have nothing to threaten you with.”

“Grace at the bank says they’re holding out,” Mom replies. “So we’ve got some time. We’re lucky she warned us that they were trying to buy up all of the mortgages around the land they’ve already got so they can expand. If it weren’t for her, I don’t know what we would’ve done.”

I grit my teeth, annoyed all over again at the sheer thought of some asshole in a suit walking over my parents’ farmland, thinking he could play such a dirty trick to take it from them. But she’s right; if the town weren’t so tight-knit, and Mom didn’t know everyone from the pastor to the Burger B’s manager, they wouldn’t have found out about the possibility of the bank selling their mortgage to a separate company. A separate company that would count on the common mistake of payments delaying and use that as an excuse to kick them out of the home they’ve had for twenty-five years. My hands curl into fists, but when I speak, I keep my tone civil.

“You’ll have to tell Ms. Grace I said hi,” I say.

“Oh, I will, honey, but really, you should visit and tell her yourself. She misses your pretty face, too.”

“I’ll ask Daisy about it,” I tell her again. “But I gotta go; I’m about to go into the station, and you know how spotty reception is down there.”

“Right, right.” Mom’s voice gets a little distant for a moment and then she’s back. “Love you, baby. Call me after work on Monday. I want to hear all about the new job.”

“Will do. Love you, too.” As soon as the call ends, I hustle it down the stairs, scanning my phone through as the next train car arrives.

I think about my parents’ problem all the way to my new apartment. Giulio had been nice enough to pay the rent for a full year, which had allowed me to save up enough for my own place now that Daisy’s living with him. If I’d known that the farm was in trouble before I’d moved, though, I would’ve funneled all of that saved cash to them.

Thankfully, Daisy’s new cousin-in-law managed to help me get this new job. There’s only five years left of their mortgage. With the amount I’ll be making as an admin assistant, surely I can help my parents pay off their mortgage sooner rather than later.

When the train car arrives at my new stop, I get out with a decision made. No more bad dates. No more attempts at finding a connection. All I need to do is lock in on this new job, and everything will be just fine.

Apples might keep doctors away, but a well-placed bullet works on everyone.

Some men think they’re above the law, and some men actually are. Regardless of whether they’re above the government’s law, they are never above mine.

I stare down at the sad sack of shit splayed out on the bloodied concrete floor beneath my boots. His eyes are open and unseeing, aimed up to the worn rafters of the industrial warehouse that’s probably listed on some business tycoon’s taxes as a write-off for storage space. It’d been a rather convenient location for the man on the ground to hide, though, as he’d had no actual connection to it.

Roger Wiggsley stands at my side, an older man and a Navy veteran with lines along the sides of his face and a long, greasy gray ponytail tied at the back of his neck. I pass him a collection of hundreds as a shadow moves against the back wall of the warehouse. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Wiggsley. Should you have any more information that would benefit the family, you know how to reach us.”

Roger nods and takes his compensation. Despite being full-blown American without a drop of Italian blood in him, he’s proven to be quite the righteous informant. When the Luciani Syndicate puts out feelers to those of the homeless variety, he’s always one to step forward.

It used to rankle when I had to hand over cash to someone I knew would blow it on heroin or alcohol as fast as they could, but I’ve known Roger for a while, and I know that he could live in a halfway house if he wanted. Hell, the man is smart enough, he could probably work for a corporation if he wanted.

He has his own reasons for being out here, though, and so long as it doesn’t disrupt my work, I don’t give a shit what they are. I’ve made him the offer of a better position before, and his only response was, “I don’t work for no liar, Mr. Luciani. I done that enough when I was in the military, and I ain’t gonna do it no more. This is as close to it as I’m getting ever again.” This, meaning the cash he’s now stuffing into his worn and stained jeans as he turns and walks away.

Alonzo and Gabriel wait until Roger is gone before they step out of the gloom and join me next to the body. “What do you think?” I ask as we peer down at the man. “Natural causes?”

Gabriel lowers himself down onto his haunches, his stoic expression not giving a hint as to his actual thoughts as he examines the mark. “Depends on what you think is ‘natural,’” Alonzo answers.

“Was he murdered or did he do this to himself?” I clarify.

“The blood would suggest that he was murdered,” Alonzo replies.

“Or it would suggest that he was a dumbass who overdosed, causing organ failure so intense that he vomited blood,” Gabe states as he gets to his feet.

My eyes follow the fluid, almost dangerous movement of his body. “Is that your professional opinion?”

Gabe’s face doesn’t change. “Could be, or it could be bad drugs. Whatever the case, your rat ate poison, and it didn’t agree with him.”

I don’t point out that drugs are poison. It’s still possible that someone didn’t want this guy telling us something, and now that he’s dead, we’ll have to find answers through the only means left to us: his body.

Annoying. All of this is so fucking annoying. Turning away from the pathetic excuse for a man, I retrieve my phone and shoot off a quick but vague text to let Giulio know the situation. He’ll be back at work later this week after he and Daisy have had a chance to settle in post-honeymoon. My lips twitch. A honeymoon in which the bride’s only request had been the torture and murder of a piece of shit from her past. Giulio couldn’t have gotten luckier if his life depended on it.

Once the message is on its way, I turn back to Alonzo and Gabe. “Get him on ice,” I tell them. “I want our docs to take a look and determine if he was poisoned or if it was a normal overdose. We were supposed to meet him in a few days’ time, and I want to make sure his sudden death isn’t a result of someone trying to keep us in the dark.”

“You got it, boss,” Alonzo says. Gabe remains stubbornly silent. I turn away from the both of them and make my way out of the warehouse. The dark, unmarked sedan waiting on the corner of a nearby street flashes its lights when I hit the key fob.

As I slide into the driver’s seat, I grimace at the rough faux leather against my back and ass. If my Audi R8 weren’t so conspicuous, I would be riding comfortably on my way back to the city. Just my luck that the night Roger gives us a call about the other informant’s body would be the night that I have a damn sedan. My back’s going to be killing me by the time I roll into the office on Monday.

Halfway home, the Bluetooth goes off, ringing through the interior of the vehicle with a sharp note until I hit the green button and answer.

“Speak.” The single word sits in near silence for a moment before the other man’s reply comes through.

“Bad night?” Giulio asks, his tone slightly amused. I roll my eyes. Of course it is. He enjoys nothing more than my annoyance nowadays. I miss when I was the fun one and he, the broody asshole.

“You got my message?” I say in response.

“About the informant? Yeah. Who called it in?”

“Wiggsley.”

Giulio’s deep baritone hums through the line. “He’s good,” he says. “You offer him a better position again?”

“No,” I say. “He doesn’t seem interested in it—what do you think about the other one?”

“Well, even if he’d been interested in a more permanent job, he’s not exactly in the running now.” G’s sarcasm has my blood pressure rising.

I grip the steering wheel as the lights of the interstate fly by. “You know that’s not what I meant,” I growl. “Tell me you don’t think it’s suspicious that a few days before we’re supposed to meet, he goes and dies on us.”

“Oh, it’s totally suspicious,” a familiar feminine voice agrees. “It’s like the opening of a Sherlock novel.”

Slowly, I drag my gaze from the road to the name on the screen of my dashboard. Nope. It still reads Giulio La Rosa. Not Daisy La Rosa.

“G.”

“Yeah?” My brother’s voice comes over the car speaker once more.

“Do you have me on fucking speakerphone with your wife while I’m talking about a dead man?”

Daisy’s snort makes the lower part of my right eye twitch. “Oh, come on, Dante, it’s not like I haven’t heard and seen it all before at this point. You know what we did on our honeymoon.”

My eyes find the road again, and I direct them up to the sky for a brief second, silently asking the Big Man if this is my punishment for being a bad man. If it is, maybe I should think about going back to church. I know my father would like it.

“This was a business conversation, Daisy,” I finally say after collecting myself. “You shouldn’t be here for it. You don’t work for us.”

“Isn’t the publishing house under one of the companies you do own?” Daisy asks. She doesn’t give me a chance to reply, though, before she’s forging ahead. “If that’s the case, then, technically, I do work for you.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, praying for patience. “Giulio.”

“Cara,” Giulio says, his voice softening as he speaks to his wife. “Stop tormenting Dante. Why don’t you. . .