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 dress arrived at four o'clock in a garment bag that looked like it cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.

When the seamstress unzipped the black canvas, I actually took a step back. It was midnight blue, made of heavyweight French silk that seemed to absorb the light in the room. The bodice was structured, with an off-the-shoulder neckline that dipped modestly across the collarbones, cascading down into a sleek, flowing skirt with a slit that ran up the left leg—tasteful, but commanding.

"Put it on, dear," the seamstress said with a brisk French accent. "Mr. Moretti’s orders were very specific. Not a single millimeter out of place."

When I finally stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest suite on the second floor, I didn't recognize the woman looking back at me.

My hair had been pinned up in an intricate, elegant chignon, leaving a few soft tendrils framing my face. Light makeup had concealed the dark circles under my eyes, accentuating my cheekbones and making my hazel eyes look enormous. On my right hand, the white medical gauze had been replaced with a sleek, fingerless evening glove of black lace that completely concealed the sutures while looking like a deliberate fashion statement.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," I whispered, my voice trembling.

The door opened, and Luca stepped inside.

He was wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that accentuated the broadness of his shoulders and the lean, powerful frame beneath. His tie was perfectly knotted, his cuff links gleaming onyx set in platinum. He stopped three feet inside the room, his dark eyes sweeping over me from head to toe.

For a long, suffocating moment, neither of us said a word.

The air in the room grew thick, charged with an undeniable, heavy tension that made my skin prickle.

"You clean up remarkably well, Emma," Luca said softly, his voice low and raspy.

"I feel like an imposter, Mr. Moretti," I admitted, my fingers nervously smoothing the silk over my hips. "Everyone in that ballroom will know I don't belong there. They will look at me and see a girl who scrubs their toilets."

Luca walked toward me. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of me, so close that the hem of my gown brushed against his polished leather shoes.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, black velvet box.

With a snap of the brass latch, he opened it.

Inside lay a necklace of raw, unpolished black diamonds intertwined with white gold. It wasn't delicate like Isabella's sapphire collar; it was fierce, modern, and striking—like a collar of armor.

"Turn around," he commanded gently.

I turned, my heart hammering in my ears.

Luca lifted the heavy necklace. As he brought it around my neck, his cold fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my throat, sending an electric shock straight down my spine. I involuntarily gasped, my head tilting back slightly.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his knuckles lingered against the nape of my neck for a second longer than necessary before he secured the clasp with a soft *click*.

"Look at yourself," he whispered, placing his hands on my bare shoulders and turning me back toward the mirror.

I looked.

The black diamonds caught the chandelier light, framing my throat like dark stars. Combined with the midnight-blue silk, I didn't look like a maid playing dress-up. I looked dangerous. I looked like a queen being led into battle.

"In that room tonight," Luca said, his voice steady and resonant right beside my ear, "there will be billionaires, governors, judges, and men who have ordered executions over breakfast. They will smile at you. They will try to read you. But remember this: not one of them has your spine."

He looked at my reflection in the glass, his eyes locking onto mine.

"You bled on broken glass and didn't cry," he said. "They cry when their stocks drop half a point. Do not lower your eyes for anyone tonight, Emma. You are with me."

"And if Victor Romano tries to corner me?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Luca’s expression darkened into something lethal.

"Victor Romano will not corner you," Luca said. "Because if he takes one step out of line, I will dismantle his family piece by piece before the dessert is served."

He offered his arm.

I looked down at the dark wool of his tuxedo sleeve. My bandaged hand, hidden beneath the black lace glove, rose slowly. I slipped my fingers through the crook of his elbow.

His muscle was rock solid beneath the fabric. He placed his other hand over mine, his palm warm and steady, anchoring me against the rising tide of panic.

"Let's go," Luca said.

We walked out of the suite, down the grand marble staircase, and through the towering front doors. A sleek, armored Maybach was waiting on the gravel driveway, its engine purring like a sleeping beast.

Charles held the door open, bowing deeply as we approached. For the first time in six months, he didn't look at me as domestic help. He looked at me with profound, nervous respect.

As the car pulled away from the estate and merged onto the dark, rain-slicked highway heading toward the city, I looked out the tinted window.

The headlights of the following security detail illuminated the wet asphalt behind us.

I was leaving the world I knew behind. There was no going back to the feather dusters, the service pantries, or the quiet corners of the library.

I was entering the lion’s den on the arm of the lion himself. And as the city skyline loomed ahead in the dark, blazing with millions of cold, indifferent lights, I realized that the hardest part wasn't surviving the Romano family.