Six Months Contract With The Mafia God

The charity event was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one of those carefully curated affairs where Manhattan’s wealthy and connected gathered to feel good about themselves while wearing expensive clothes.

Angela arrived at 8:15 PM, dressed in a floor-length black gown that suggested wealth without demanding attention. She moved through the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged in these spaces, even if she’d only recently been introduced to them.

She’d been briefed on Eve’s schedule. The event. The time she’d arrive. The people she’d likely speak with.

Angela positioned herself near the wine bar, nursing a champagne flute, waiting for the moment when their paths would cross.

Eve arrived at 8:47 PM.

She was beautiful in the way that came from careful styling and absolute certainty, dark hair swept to one side, a sapphire gown that moved like water, the kind of quiet elegance that suggested someone who understood her own power.

But there was also something else. A tension around her shoulders. A wariness in the way her eyes moved through the crowd. The bearing of someone who was being protected, who understood she was a target.

Perfect.

Angela waited until Eve had secured a drink, waited until she’d exchanged obligatory greetings with two society women, and then she moved.

The introduction was orchestrated through a mutual acquaintance, a woman named Catherine who genuinely believed Angela was a talented new fashion consultant just moved to Manhattan. Catherine introduced them with enthusiasm, made a few complimentary remarks about both of them, then excused herself to talk to someone else, leaving Angela and Eve alone.

”I’ve heard Catherine rave about your work,” Eve said, and there was genuine interest in her voice.

”She’s very kind,” Angela said with a smile that was both genuine and calculated. ”I just moved to the city six months ago, so I’m still building my client base. It’s competitive, but I love the challenge of helping people discover their best selves through fashion.”

”That’s a beautiful way to frame it,” Eve said.

”It’s honestly how I think about it,” Angela said, and this part was true. She did think about fashion that way. The lie was in why she was having this conversation at all. ”Fashion is armor and art simultaneously. It’s how we tell the world who we are before we even open our mouths.”

Eve’s expression softened.

”I could use someone like that,” Eve said. ”Someone who understands that distinction.”

”Why do you say that?” Angela asked, injecting genuine curiosity into her voice.

”I feel like I’ve been wearing the wrong armor lately,” Eve said. ”Like I’m playing a role instead of being myself. And I’m not even sure what myself is anymore.”

Angela recognized the opening immediately. This was the vulnerability she’d been looking for.

”That sounds like you’ve been under a lot of stress,” Angela said gently.

”More than I’d like to admit,” Eve said. She paused, clearly calculating how much to reveal to a stranger. ”I’m in a relationship with someone very powerful. Very intense. It’s amazing, but it’s also... complicated.”

”Power dynamics always are,” Angela said. ”But the fact that you’re questioning whether you’re being authentic suggests you’re self-aware enough to do something about it.”

Eve looked at Angela for a long moment, and Angela could see the moment the decision was made...this stranger was trustworthy. This stranger understood.

”Would you want to get coffee sometime?” Eve asked. ”I feel like I need to talk to someone who’s not connected to my world, my best friend id away at the moment and i could use some company right now, someone who can be objective.”

”I’d love that,” Angela said, and she meant it. She loved this part...the connection, the opening, the moment when a target decided to trust you. ”There’s a place in the West Village I absolutely adore. Quiet, intimate, the kind of place where you can actually have a conversation.”

”That sounds perfect,” Eve said.

They exchanged numbers. They promised to follow up. And when Angela left the charity event an hour later, she had Eve’s personal cell phone number, access to her social media, and the beginning of everything she needed.

***

*Three Days Later*

The cafe in the West Village was exactly as Angela had described...intimate, quiet, the kind of place where conversations disappeared into the ambient noise of espresso machines and soft conversations.

Angela arrived first and secured a quiet corner table. She ordered two lattes before Eve arrived, positioning herself as someone who thought ahead, who anticipated needs.

Eve arrived at 2:15 PM, dressed in fitted jeans and a cream-colored sweater. She looked different from the charity event...more herself, Angela thought. Less armor, more authenticity.

They fell into conversation easily. Angela had been trained in extraction, in asking questions that seemed casual while gathering critical information. She asked about Eve’s background, her life before the relationship, her dreams, her fears.

And Eve, who’d been isolated by security protocols and the weight of being Dimitri Valentino’s woman, opened up.

”He’s incredible,” Eve said, stirring her latte. ”But sometimes I feel like I’m suffocating. There’s always security. Always people watching. Always the awareness that there’s a war happening and I’m somehow part of it even though I never asked to be.”

”That’s a lot of pressure,” Angela said sympathetically. ”Has something changed recently? You seemed stressed at the charity event.”

Eve hesitated, clearly weighing how much to share.

”There was an attempt on my life,” Eve said finally. ”A poison attempt at a gala. They caught it before I drank it, but...” Eve trailed off, and Angela could see the fear still lingering in her eyes. ”It made everything feel very real. Very dangerous. And Dimitri is dealing with all of this war stuff, and I’m just trying not to be a liability.”

Angela absorbed every word. The poison attempt. The security protocols that caught it. The fear that was eating at Eve.

”You’re not a liability,” Angela said firmly. ”You’re a person dealing with an impossible situation. And you deserve to have normal human connection while you’re going through this.”

”That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” Eve said, and she reached across the table and squeezed Angela’s hand.

Angela squeezed back, feeling the warm grip of Eve’s hand, understanding with complete clarity that she was building trust with a woman she was helping to set up for murder.