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.

By dawn, the Moretti estate was locked down like a military compound.

The iron gates at the perimeter were chained shut, guarded by half a dozen private security guards armed with tactical rifles. The long driveway was lined with black SUVs, their engines idling in the gray morning mist.

Dr. Mercer had already come and gone, having stitched Luca’s forearm in the third-floor study with the same quiet efficiency he had treated my palm with four days earlier.

Now, the grandfather clock in the main gallery chimed seven.

I stood in the center of the vast west library, wearing a fresh, simple woolen sweater and black trousers Mrs. Gable had brought me. My hands were wrapped around a steaming mug of black tea, though I hadn't taken a single sip.

The double doors swung open, and Luca walked in.

He wore a dark charcoal turtleneck that concealed the bandage on his arm, dark slacks, and a leather shoulder holster holding his firearm. He looked exhausted, the shadows beneath his eyes deep and pronounced, but his posture was that of a king preparing to ride into battle.

Behind him came Charles, carrying a heavy brass tray holding a landline telephone connected to a secure satellite uplink.

"Put it on the desk, Charles," Luca ordered.

"Yes, sir. The line is open. Victor Romano has been holding for twenty minutes."

Luca nodded. Charles bowed respectfully, shot me a look that was equal parts pity and awe, and slipped quietly out of the library, pulling the doors shut.

Luca didn't pick up the phone immediately.

He walked over to the desk, his eyes drifting to me. "You didn't sleep."

"Neither did you," I replied softly.

"I don't need sleep right now," he said. He walked over to where I was standing by the window and looked down at my hand. "How is the palm?"

"The stitches held through the run," I said. "Dr. Mercer checked it while he was here."

Luca reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the tips of my bare fingers. "Good."

He turned back to the desk, pressed the speakerphone button on the base of the phone, and leaned his hands on the dark wood.

"Victor," Luca said, his voice flat, emotionless, and terrifyingly cold.

A rough, wheezing breath came through the speaker, followed by Victor Romano’s furious, gravelly voice.

*"Moretti. You think you're clever, don't you? My men tell me the loading dock was a mess."*

"Your men are dead, Victor," Luca replied smoothly. "All four of them. Their bodies are currently being processed in an incinerator near the docks they used to patrol."

A heavy silence fell over the line.

*"You crossed the line bringing that peasant to the gala,"* Victor snarled. *"You humiliated my family in front of the entire syndicate! Isabella hasn't stopped weeping since last night!"*

"Isabella should be weeping," Luca said, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "Because her father just threw away three generations of Romano wealth over a bruised ego."

*"What is that supposed to mean?"*

"At six this morning, my legal team filed the foreclosure paperwork on the Brooklyn piers," Luca stated calmly, picking up a pen and twirling it between his fingers. "At six-fifteen, the city bank froze every operating account associated with Romano Maritime pending a federal audit of the unsecured loans you defaulted on last night. And by noon, the dockworkers' union will receive notice that their pension funds—which you skimmed twelve million dollars from—have been fully restored by the Moretti Foundation."

*"You son of a bitch!"* Victor roared through the speaker, his voice cracking with pure panic. *"You can't do this! We had an agreement! The marriage—"*

"There is no marriage," Luca interrupted, his tone final and absolute. "The contract is void. The Romano name is finished in this city. If I see your face, your daughter's face, or any man carrying your banner within fifty miles of my estate, I won't call the marshals, Victor. I will call the cleaners."

*"Moretti, listen to me—"*

Luca hit the disconnect button.

The line went dead with a sharp, hollow click.

The library was plunged into silence once more, broken only by the faint hum of the rain tapping against the tall leaded glass windows.

Luca stood over the desk for a long moment, staring down at the polished wood. The tension in his broad shoulders was palpable, an immense weight that he carried entirely alone.

I set my mug of tea on the side table and took three slow steps toward him.

"Luca," I said softly. It was the first time I had ever called him by his name without a title.

He turned his head toward me.

"Why did you really protect me?" I asked, needing the truth more than I needed safety. "From the very first moment in this library. You knew who Isabella was. You knew what her family was capable of. A broken glass was nothing. You could have replaced me in five minutes. Why tear your entire world apart for a maid?"

Luca straightened up. He walked around the massive desk, his steps silent, until he stopped directly in front of me.

He didn't speak right away. His dark eyes searched my face, tracking the line of my jaw, the curve of my lips, the fierce, defiant light in my hazel eyes that even terror hadn't been able to extinguish.

"Because the first day you started working in this house," Luca murmured, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely allowed to surface, "I watched you through that very window."

I blinked, stunned. "What?"

"It was November," Luca said, his hand rising slowly to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing the soft skin beneath my eye. "It was freezing rain. You were carrying three heavy crates of firewood up the service steps because the delivery boy had dumped them in the mud and left. One of the crates broke. Wood scattered everywhere."

His fingers slid into my hair, holding me gently, his touch sending a tremor straight down my spine.

"You didn't curse. You didn't cry. You picked up the logs, one by one, your bare hands freezing red, and carried them inside," he whispered, his eyes locked onto mine. "And when you finished, you wiped the mud off the steps so no one else would slip."

A lump formed in my throat.

"I've spent my entire life surrounded by people who take," Luca said, his voice dropping into a raw, gravelly cadence. "People who wear diamonds bought with other people's misery, who smile while holding knives behind their backs. Isabella. Her father. My own board members. They are parasites, Emma."

He stepped closer, pulling me against his chest until there was no space left between us.

"And then you walked into this house," he whispered against my lips. "Quiet. Unbreakable. Carrying the weight of your entire family on your shoulders without asking for pity from anyone."

His hand moved down to my waist, his grip tightening, pulling me flush against his hard frame.

"The moment Isabella made you bleed," Luca breathed, his forehead resting against mine, "she signed her own death warrant. Because I swore to myself the day I learned your name... that no one in this city would ever make you bleed again."

My heart hammered so hard against my ribs I thought it would break.

"Luca..." I whispered.

He closed the distance.

His lips crashed onto mine, fierce, possessive, and hungry, sweeping away six months of silence, hierarchy, and fear in a single, devastating kiss. I gasped against his mouth, my uninjured hand sliding up his chest, clutching the wool of his sweater, pulling him closer as the world outside ceased to exist.

He kissed me like a man who had been starving in the dark, his hands tangled in my hair, holding me as if I were the only real thing in a world made of smoke and mirrors.

When he finally pulled back, both of us breathing heavily, his eyes were blazing with a dark, untamed fire.

"You don't work for me anymore, Emma," he whispered against my lips.

"Then what am I?" I asked, my voice trembling with breathless wonder.