THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME DUST THE SHELVES WHILE HIDING A CUT ON MY PALM—THEN HIS FIANCÉE EXPLAINED THE INJURY BEFORE I EVER DID.

The third-floor study was a room I had entered only twice before, and both times it had been with a bucket of wax and strict instructions never to look at the papers on the desk.

It was Luca Moretti’s private sanctuary. Unlike the opulent, museum-like public rooms on the ground floor, this room was stark and functional. Walls of dark walnut, heavy velvet drapes that blocked out the night, and a single green banker's lamp casting a circle of golden light across a desk made of solid, unvarnished oak.

I sat on the edge of a high-backed leather wing chair, my dirty shoes feeling entirely out of place on the Persian rug beneath my feet. I had washed my face in the staff bathroom on the way up, but I still looked like what I was: an exhausted twenty-four-year-old girl in a wrinkled, blood-spattered uniform.

A soft knock came at the door, and Dr. Mercer entered.

He was a man in his late fifties, dressed in a sharp gray suit beneath an open camel-hair coat. His silver hair was neatly trimmed, and he carried a vintage leather medical bag with the quiet confidence of a man who had seen everything from corporate heart attacks to gunshot wounds in the back of unmarked limousines.

Behind him, quietly slipping into the room and closing the door with a muted click, was Luca.

My heart gave a sudden, nervous leap. I had assumed Luca would leave me to the doctor. A man of his stature didn't babysit the house help while they got patched up. Yet here he was, loosening his cuff links, leaning against the edge of his massive desk with his arms folded across his broad chest, watching.

"Let's have a look, young lady," Dr. Mercer said warmly, pulling up a low stool beside my chair and opening his case.

I offered my right hand.

Dr. Mercer took it with practiced gentleness, his cold fingers inspecting the wound under the lamplight. He clicked his tongue softly. "Clean laceration across the palm, but there's a foreign body right there. Transparent. Glass?"

"Crystal," Luca corrected from the shadows by the desk.

Dr. Mercer raised an eyebrow slightly, but asked no questions. In the Moretti orbit, survival was directly tied to knowing when not to ask questions.

"Well, it's wedged right up against the muscle sheath," Mercer said, reaching for an antiseptic wash and a silver syringe. "This will sting a bit, my dear. A little pinch, and then we'll extract it and close it with about five sutures."

The needle went in. I winced, my jaw clenching, but I didn't make a sound. I had learned early in life that crying never made the pain stop any faster.

Across the room, Luca’s eyes never left my face. He tracked every microscopic shift in my expression—the tightening of my eyes, the slight shallow breath I took, the way my left hand gripped the armrest until my knuckles turned white.

"She has high pain tolerance," Luca observed quietly.

"Most people who work for a living do, Luca," Dr. Mercer replied without looking up, picking up a pair of fine silver tweezers and a magnifying visor. "Hold still now, Emma."

I stared at the ceiling, focusing on the intricate plaster moldings to keep my mind off the cold metal probing into my torn flesh.

"How long has she worked here?" Luca asked.

"Six months, Mr. Moretti," I answered for myself, my voice tight.

"Where were you before?"

"The St. Regis downtown. Banquets."

"Why did you leave?"

"The hours were erratic," I said, breathing through my nose. "This house offered steady pay and guaranteed days off."

"And an elderly mother in an assisted living center in Oakridge," Luca added smoothly.

My head snapped toward him.

The pain in my palm was instantly eclipsed by a cold rush of adrenaline. I hadn't put my mother's facility on my public application; I had used a post office box for personal correspondence.

"How do you know that?" I whispered.

Luca didn't flinch. "I don't let anyone sleep under my roof or walk through my hallways without knowing their bloodlines, their debts, and their vulnerabilities. I know your father died six years ago leaving you with half a million dollars in uninsured medical bills. I know you work thirty-five hours here, and another fifteen on weekends cleaning an accounting firm on 4th Street."

I felt exposed, completely stripped bare before this man who commanded everything from the shadows.

"Is that a crime, sir?"

"No," Luca said, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register. "It’s resilience. But it makes you a target."

"Got it," Dr. Mercer interrupted, his voice breaking the suffocating tension.

He held up the tweezers. At the tip was a triangular piece of leaded crystal, the size of a pumpkin seed, coated in dark crimson. He dropped it into a silver kidney dish with a sharp *clink*.

"Now for the thread," the doctor muttered, reaching for his needle driver. "Five quick stitches and you'll be good as new, though you won't be lifting heavy trays for at least two weeks."

"She won't be lifting trays at all," Luca said.

I looked at him, panic seizing my throat. "Mr. Moretti, please! If I can't work, I can't get paid. I can manage with one hand, I swear I can! I can sweep, I can do laundry, I can—"

"You will be paid your full salary plus overtime for the next two weeks," Luca said, his tone silencing my frantic protests instantly. "You will be assigned light administrative duties. You will catalog the inventory of the west library and digitize the estate’s historical registries in the morning room. You will stay out of the kitchens. And you will stay out of Isabella's sight."

I sat frozen, the needle passing through my skin without registering any pain. "Why are you doing this?"

Luca looked at me, his gaze unyielding.

"Because a broken glass in a pantry doesn't scare you as much as an empty bank account," he said. "And because I despise seeing cruelty masquerading as authority in my house."

Dr. Mercer finished tying off the last knot, snipped the nylon thread, and applied a thick gauze dressing wrapped securely with white medical tape. He packed his instruments into his leather bag, snapped the brass latches shut, and stood up.

"Keep it dry for forty-eight hours, Emma. Come see me in ten days to take the stitches out," Mercer said. He turned to Luca, nodding respectfully. "I'll see myself out, Luca."

"Thank you, David."

When the door closed behind the doctor, the study became intensely quiet once again.

I stood up slowly, cradling my newly bandaged hand against my stomach. "Thank you, Mr. Moretti. I don't know what to say."

Luca pushed himself off the edge of the desk and walked slowly toward me. He stopped less than two feet away. He was tall—broad-shouldered, imposing, radiating an aura of dangerous, controlled power that made my breath hitch in my chest.

He reached out.

For a second, I thought he was going to touch my wound. Instead, his fingers brushed against the stray strands of brown hair that had fallen across my forehead, tucking them gently behind my ear.

His touch was electric. Warm, rough, and entirely unexpected.

"You don't have to say anything, Emma," he whispered, his eyes searching mine with a raw intensity that made my knees weak. "Just remember what I told you. In this house, you answer only to me. Not to the Romano family. Not to Isabella."

His hand dropped from my face, but the ghost of his warmth lingered on my skin.

"Go to bed," he said softly.

I nodded, my tongue feeling thick, and slipped through the door into the dimly lit corridor. As I walked toward the servants' wing, my heart was hammering violently against my ribs.

I knew I should have felt relieved. I was safe for the night, my hand was treated, and my paycheck was secure. But as I glanced down the dark hallway toward Isabella’s darkened wing, a deep, primal dread settled in my gut.

Luca Moretti had just chosen a maid over his future wife.