Don't Mess With the Don

I hid my identity as a Mafia Don to get a few days of peace and close a major deal. I never thought my neighbor in the next suite would be the one to pick a fight he can't win.

I'd just wrapped up an encrypted call with Milan when my phone started blowing up.

On the hotel's internal VIP guest system, a guy named Carl @'d me.

"Hey, penthouse guy. You're alone. What do you need a whole infinity pool for? My wife's doing a luxury brand livestream event. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow."

"Don't worry, we'll give you three grand a month as a 'venue fee.' You do jack shit and pocket the cash. You should be thrilled."

I stared at the screen. This was a joke.

Three grand?

I paid more than that every single day just to keep the security team that guaranteed this suite's privacy. And this stay? I was here to close a deal poolside—a negotiation that would reshape my family's entire financial empire.

I shot back two words: "Dream on."

Less than ten minutes later, Carl was back.

"Ooh, feisty, are we?" He dropped a taunting emoji. "Three grand not good enough? Name your price, then. It's a waste sitting there anyway."

"What's a single guy gonna do with it? Take a few thirst traps for Instagram? Post and ghost?"

My thumb hovered over the screen. I took a deep breath, pushing down the instincts my family drilled into me. I tried to handle it like a normal person.

"First, it's the penthouse's exclusive amenity—written into the room rate. Second, you can't afford what I'd charge. And third, I'm using it. I have private meetings."

Carl exploded.

He dropped a voice note, his voice shrill and grating. "Can't afford? Give me a break! You stay in a hotel like this, you follow the guest rules! My wife Pamela is the founder of the Pamela Beauty Empire! You have any idea how much traffic and exposure she brings this place? And you? Who the hell are you?"

"She just wants to use your pool for one brand event, give back to her followers, and you're being this selfish?"

"I really wonder how a young guy like you can afford the penthouse suite anyway. Renting it by the hour? Gotta be. You don't look like any real trust fund kid. That whole outfit you're wearing—rented too, right? Just for the photoshoot?"

I gripped my phone. Ice flooded my veins.

Just as I was about to fire back, the hotel manager, Marcus Morrison, chimed in.

"Mr. Ricci, I think Mr. Stalin has a point." His profile picture had a "Hotel Manager" certification badge underneath. "As members of our VIP club, we should all contribute to the overall atmosphere and guest harmony."

"Besides, you can't possibly use such a large pool all by yourself. And... frankly, a young gentleman like you, occupying an entire penthouse suite alone—other long-term VIP guests are starting to talk."

"Talk about what?"

"About how young people these days like to put on airs. Rent a suite for two days, take some photos, and act like they're somebody. To avoid unnecessary gossip, I'd suggest you keep a lower profile. Cooperating with Carl's request would do wonders for your image. People would think you're generous, a team player. Not... that lone wolf type who only cares about looking cool."

I looked at the screen and saw it all clearly.

This wasn't a negotiation. This was a shakedown.

A pathetic loser living off his wife's influencer clout, and a spineless ass-kissing manager, helping him shake me down.

Carl posted again: "See? Even management is on our side! Marcus, could you send housekeeping to redecorate the pool area tomorrow? I want a French garden-themed livestream set."

"Of course, Mr. Stalin," Marcus replied instantly. "Anything for the vibrant atmosphere of our hotel."

I took a deep breath and tossed my tablet onto the couch.

I didn't want trouble. The deal with the Milan family's banking house was signing in Zurich on Monday—it was a critical time. But that didn't mean I was going to hand over my slice of peace to this kind of trash.