The Mob Queen Wants to Claim Me for Herself (In a Reverse World)

Chapter 16: I’m Enya Debt

[Adam’s POV]

I’m laying on the bed in the presidential suite, eyes closed, listening to Enya. The ethereal vocals and soothing synths of “Orinoco Flow” wash over me like gentle waves, carrying my thoughts to distant shores far from this bizarre reality I’ve found myself in.

“Sail away, sail away, sail away.”

The melody fills the spacious bedroom, bouncing off the high ceilings and wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. I just found out about Enya today while browsing Spotify. I’ve heard of Enya before, but I didn’t know they wrote such bangers.

‘I wonder if Enya existed in my original world too. Maybe it was a guy there, though.’

It’s strange how something as simple as music can be a lifeline when everything else has been turned upside down. The songs feel familiar, like old friends visiting from a world I barely remember, but maybe they’re a little different too. [A/N: Enya is the same here.]

I hear the elevator doors opening, then closing. Footsteps approach, confident, measured steps that I’ve already learned to recognize. My heart does a little jump in my chest, anticipation and anxiety mingling in equal measure.

The bedroom door opens with a soft click.

I keep my eyes closed, allowing myself to exist in this moment of suspended reality, where I’m just a guy listening to music, not a man owned by a mob boss in a gender-flipped universe.

“Sail away, sail away, sail away...”

The mattress dips slightly as Caterina sits on the edge of the bed.

I finally open my eyes.

Caterina is watching me with those unsettling crimson eyes, her gaze intense yet somehow softer than usual. Her golden hair is pulled up in a tight bun, not a single strand out of place. She’s still in her work clothes—an immaculately tailored white suit that makes her look like some avenging angel of the corporate world.

“Are you listening to Enya?” she asks, her voice carrying a note of surprise.

I nod, reaching for my phone to pause the music. “I found them while you were gone,” I explain, watching as she reaches up and begins putting her hair down. “I was just browsing around Spotify.”

Her hands move to her hair, fingers deftly removing pins one by one. The golden strands release from their tight configuration, cascading down like a waterfall of spun gold, catching the late afternoon light streaming through the windows. The silken mass tumbles over her shoulders in waves, framing her face with a softness that transforms her usual sharp features.

When she finally looks at me again, I’m startled by what I see in her crimson eyes. Gone is the predatory gleam, the calculating coldness, the barely contained violence that usually simmers beneath the surface. Instead, her eyes are filled with something I never expected to see. Pity, raw, and overwhelming, tinged with a sadness so profound it makes my chest tighten.

Her lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think she might actually cry.

“Are you okay?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reaches for me with both arms, pulling me into an embrace so tight it nearly knocks the wind from my lungs. Her arms wrap around me with surprising strength, one hand cradling the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, rapid and strong.

I freeze momentarily, unsure how to respond to this unexpected display of emotion. Slowly, hesitantly, I bring my arms up to return the hug, my hands settling awkwardly on her back. The expensive fabric of her suit jacket is smooth beneath my fingertips.

She says nothing for a long moment, just holds me with a desperation that feels almost frightening in its intensity. Her body is warm against mine, solid and real in a world that increasingly feels like some fever dream I can’t wake up from.

When she finally pulls back, her crimson eyes

“But don’t you think it’s weird how I’m horny for you all the time?” I blurt out, pulling back to look at her face. “Most men aren’t like that, right? Not in this world, at least.”

Caterina’s brow furrows, a shadow passing across her features. She hesitates, clearly weighing her words carefully before speaking.

“Uhh... Dr. Ramirez said that happens to... assault victims sometimes,” she says reluctantly, her crimson eyes darkening with discomfort. “It’s a way of trying to reclaim control over your sexuality after it’s been violated.”

I sigh deeply, the sound dragging up from the bottom of my lungs like it’s weighted with lead. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “That’s fucking dark.”

She nods awkwardly and says, “Yeah.”

I stare at the ceiling for a moment, the weight of her misinterpretation settling over me like a heavy blanket. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the presidential suite, and the silence between us grows thick with unspoken words and misunderstood truths.

“Hey, how about a drink?” I suddenly suggest, pushing myself up from the bed. The movement is abrupt, almost desperate, anything to shift us away from this conversation that’s going nowhere.

“What?” Caterina looks genuinely surprised, her crimson eyes widening slightly.

“Do you ever do shots?” I ask, already moving toward the bar in the corner of the suite, needing distance, needing movement, needing anything to break the suffocating empathy that’s based on completely misunderstanding who I am.

She laughs, the sound unexpectedly light and musical, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had settled between us. “If the moment calls for it.” She says.

“Maybe shots will fix the vibe,” I say, picking up a bottle of expensive tequila and examining the label.

Caterina hesitates, her fingers absently playing with a strand of her golden hair. She studies me with those unnerving crimson eyes, and I can almost see her calculating, weighing options, considering potential outcomes.

“Are you sure you really want to get drunk?” she asks finally, her voice carrying a note of genuine concern.

I nod, already pulling out two shot glasses from beneath the bar. “It’s just too sad in here right now,” I say simply, the honesty of the statement hanging naked in the air between us.

Something in my words seems to reach her. Her expression softens, and a small, understanding smile curves her lips.

“Alright then,” she agrees, rising from like a Goddess summoned by my words. She removes her white suit jacket, draping it carefully over a nearby chair, leaving her in a crisp button-down shirt that accentuates the strong lines of her shoulders.

“Let’s have fun then.”