THE MAFIA BOSS FOUND ME ON MY KNEES SCRUBBING THE FLOOR WITH A SWOLLEN, BRUISED LEG—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE FELL WHILE CLEANING,” BEFORE I COULD ANSWER HIM.

The guest suite was larger than the entire apartment I shared with my mother in Pilsen.

It was outfitted in muted tones of cream, slate gray, and brushed gold. A king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets sat beneath a heavy down comforter, and the French doors opened onto a private terrace overlooking the manicured, rain-soaked gardens below.

A silver tray sat on the nightstand, bearing fresh fruit, warm broth, and a glass of water, brought up by Mrs. Gable an hour ago. The stern older woman hadn’t said a word to me. She had merely placed the tray on the table, looked at me with eyes full of warning and pity, and left without looking back.

I couldn't blame her.

In this world, sudden elevation wasn't a blessing. It was a target painted directly onto your back.

The grandfather clock in the distant hall chimed two in the morning.

I couldn't sleep. The throbbing in my thigh had subsided into a dull, heavy ache thanks to Dr. Evans’s pills, but my mind was a racing engine of anxiety. Every creak of the old house sounded like footsteps coming down the hall. Every rustle of the wind outside sounded like someone forcing the latch on the terrace doors.

Thirsty and restless, I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress. My left leg was stiff, but the tight bandage gave it enough stability that I could put light pressure on my foot. Limping slowly, I made my way across the thick carpet toward the small kitchenette attached to the suite.

When I opened the door, a low murmur of voices drifted through the heavy oak door connecting my suite to the third-floor hallway.

I froze.

The house was supposed to be completely asleep. The security guards stayed on the ground floor and patrolled the perimeter walls; only Luca’s most trusted inner circle ever had access to this level.

Moving as quietly as a ghost, I pressed my ear against the wood.

“—cannot afford this fracture right now, Luca,” a deep, gravelly voice was saying. It wasn't Luca. It sounded like Matteo Rossi, Luca’s primary lieutenant and childhood friend—a man whose brutal efficiency was whispered about by the kitchen staff in terrified tones. “Vance controls the shipping docks on the south side. If you break the engagement, he shuts down the distribution lines. We lose thirty million in the next quarter alone.”

A heavy pause followed. Then, Luca’s voice, cool and razor-sharp, cut through the wood.

“Then we find another way to move the product, Matteo.”

“Over a maid?” Matteo’s tone was incredulous, bordering on angry. “Are you out of your mind? You’re risking a full-scale war with the Vance family over a girl who has been cleaning your carpets for six weeks? What is this really about?”

“It isn't about the girl,” Luca replied, though there was a slight pause that made my heart hammer violently against my ribs. “It is about leverage. Isabella has been getting sloppy. She thinks wearing my ring makes her untouchable.”

“She’s Richard Vance’s only daughter!”

“And she is feeding information to someone outside this organization,” Luca said.

The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.

“What did you say?” Matteo’s voice dropped into a tense, dangerous whisper.

“Three shipments from the docks were intercepted by federal agents over the last four months,” Luca explained calmly. “All three routes were finalized inside this house, in my personal study, on nights when Isabella was staying here. She isn't just an arrogant socialite throwing tantrums at the staff, Matteo. She’s looking for something. And today, when she cornered Clara in that pantry, Clara interrupted her while she was searching the private accounts hidden in the lower cellar safe.”

My hand flew to my mouth to stifle a gasp.

The memory flashed through my mind: when I had walked into the secondary pantry that afternoon, Isabella hadn't been standing there casually. She had been kneeling behind the dry-storage racks, where an iron grate led down to the old wine cellars. She had jumped when the hinges squeaked, shoving a small leather-bound notebook into her designer bag before spinning around to accuse me of breaking the porcelain bowl.

She hadn't attacked me out of pettiness.

She had attacked me because I had caught her in the act.

“Does the girl know what she saw?” Matteo asked.

“No,” Luca said. “Not yet. She thinks Isabella was just being cruel. Which is why Clara needs to stay right here, under my direct supervision. If Vance’s people realize Clara saw Isabella by that cellar entrance, they won't just fire her. They’ll put a bullet in the back of her head to tie off the loose end.”

“And what happens when Isabella tells her father that you humiliated her?”

“Let her tell him,” Luca said coldly. “It forces Richard Vance to show his hand early. He will either ask for a concession, or he will declare war. Either way, the board is set.”

A slow, chilling realization washed over me like ice water.

Luca wasn't just protecting me out of some sudden, chivalrous impulse. I wasn't just a bruised housekeeper he felt sorry for.

I was a piece on his chessboard.

By keeping me close, he was using me as a shield—and a piece of bait. As long as I was alive and breathing in the private wing of the Moretti estate, Isabella was off-balance, and her father was on the defensive.

My safety wasn't an act of mercy. It was an act of war.

Tears of frustration and fear burned behind my eyes. I pulled back from the door, my heart pounding so loudly I was terrified they would hear it through the wood. I turned around, intending to limp back to the safety of the bed, to pretend I had never heard a single word.

*Click.*

The sound of my door handle turning shattered the silence.

I gasped, stumbling backward. My injured leg gave out beneath me, and I lost my footing, tumbling onto the thick rug with a muffled thud.

The heavy door swung open.

Framed in the soft, warm light of the hallway stood Luca.

He had discarded his tie, his top three shirt buttons were undone, and his dark hair was slightly mussed. In his right hand, he held a sleek black Beretta, its muzzle pointed downward toward the floor. Behind him, down the hall, Matteo stood frozen, his hand resting beneath the lapel of his tailored jacket.

Luca’s eyes instantly locked onto mine as I sat crumpled on the floor, breathing heavily, looking up at him with terror written across my face.

He didn't raise the weapon. He slowly engaged the safety and slid the gun into the holster concealed beneath his left arm.

“Matteo,” Luca said without breaking eye contact with me. “Go home. We finish this at dawn.”

“Luca—”

“Go.”

Matteo lingered for a second, then his heavy footsteps faded down the hall toward the elevator.

Luca stepped inside my room and closed the door behind him, turning the brass lock until it clicked.

He didn't ask what I was doing out of bed. He didn't ask if I had been listening at the door.

The cold, assessing look in his eyes told me everything: he already knew.

“You shouldn't be standing on that leg,” he said softly, walking slowly toward me.

“You're using me,” I whispered, my voice trembling, tears spilling over my lashes and trailing down my cheeks. “You didn't save me from her. You’re using me to start a war with her father.”

Luca stopped two feet in front of me, looking down with a face that revealed nothing.

“You're smart, Clara,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, hypnotic cadence that made the rest of the world fade away. “I knew you were smart the moment you refused to back down in the foyer. But you are wrong about one thing.”

He slowly knelt down on one knee, reaching out to cup my jaw in his warm, calloused palm. His thumb brushed away a tear, lingering against my trembling bottom lip.

The heat of his touch sent a shiver straight down my spine.

“I didn't need an excuse to go to war with Richard Vance,” Luca murmured, his dark eyes burning with something raw, possessive, and terrifying. “I have been waiting for a reason to destroy that family for five years.”

He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet the dark storm in his gaze.