THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME BUTTON HIS DAUGHTER’S COAT WITH SHAKING FINGERS—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE JAMMED THEM IN A DRAWER YESTERDAY,” AND HE SLOWLY LOOKED AT HER.

The study smelled of aged leather, pipe tobacco that Luca rarely smoked anymore, and expensive scotch.

A roaring fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting long, amber ribbons of light across floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It was a masculine, intimidating room—a fortress within a fortress. In the three months I had worked for the Morettis, I had never stepped past the threshold. Staff were strictly forbidden.

“Sit,” Luca ordered, pointing to a deep burgundy leather armchair by the fire.

I sat down gingerly, keeping my injured right hand cradled in my lap. The throbbing had evolved into a steady, sickening burn. The two fingers—my ring and middle finger—were swollen to nearly twice their normal size, the skin taut, shiny, and an angry purplish-blue. Even the cuff of my cardigan touching my wrist sent sharp electric shocks up my forearm.

Luca walked behind a polished mahogany bar, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler, and brought it over. He held it out to me.

“Drink.”

“I don’t drink on duty, sir.”

“You are not on duty,” he said, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “Drink it. It will take the edge off before Callahan touches it.”

I took the glass with my left hand, my fingers trembling slightly. The scotch burned my throat like liquid fire, but as it settled into my stomach, a dull warmth began to radiate through my limbs, loosening the tight coil of terror in my chest.

Luca took off his heavy black overcoat and threw it casually over the back of the sofa. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, loosened his silk tie, and rolled his crisp white sleeves up to his forearms. His arms were corded with muscle, crisscrossed with a few faint, silvery scars that hinted at a past far darker than the glossy finance magazines ever reported.

He pulled a wooden chair from the desk and sat directly in front of me, his knees barely an inch from mine.

“Hand,” he commanded softly.

I hesitated. “Mr. Moretti, really, Dr. Callahan doesn't need to come all the way out here in this storm. I can put some ice on it, and if it still hurts tomorrow, I’ll take the bus into the clinic—”

“Emma.”

He didn't yell. He never needed to. He simply leaned forward, reached out with both hands, and gently slid his palms under my right forearm.

I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth.

His skin was warm, his touch remarkably light for a man of his size. He cradled my wrist, lifting my hand into the amber firelight. His eyes darkened as he examined the injury.

The bruises on my wrist were distinct now. Five dark, circular marks—the clear imprint of four fingers and an opposing thumb. Isabella had clamped down with all the strength of a desperate, spiteful woman before shoving me.

“She did this,” he stated. It wasn't a question.

I looked down at his cufflinks, unable to meet his eyes. “She was angry because Sofia was crying. Sofia wanted me to read her a book, not Isabella. Isabella felt... undermined.”

“So she assaulted you.”

“She pushed me,” I whispered. “I lost my balance. When I tried to catch myself, my fingers went into the corner seam of the vanity. She slammed the door to leave, and my hand was caught between the heavy mahogany post and the frame.”

Luca’s jaw clenched so hard I could hear the grinding of his teeth. The muscles along his neck stood out like taut cables. For several agonizing seconds, the only sound was the crackle of a pine log splitting in the hearth.

“Why didn't you scream?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “Why didn't you call security? There are three guards stationed on the second floor.”

“Because I need this job,” I blurted out, the raw truth tearing out of me before I could filter it. A tear slipped past my lashes, hot and humiliating against my cold cheek. “I don't have a family, Mr. Moretti. I don't have savings. If I made a scene, if Isabella told your head of staff that I was dangerous or careless, I would have been thrown out onto the road with one suitcase and no reference. Where was I supposed to go?”

Luca looked at me. Really looked at me.

His eyes were an intense, stormy hazel, flecked with gold from the firelight. For the first time since I had walked into this house, I didn't see an untouchable billionaire or a feared corporate titan. I saw a man carrying a heavy, suffocating weight of his own.

“You think I would let someone throw you into the street?” he asked quietly.

“She’s your fiancée,” I countered, my voice shaking. “Her father is Victor Rossi. You’re merging empires. I’m just... the girl who makes sure Sofia eats her crusts and learns her times tables.”

Before Luca could answer, a discreet knock sounded at the heavy double doors.

“Come in,” Luca called, not letting go of my wrist, his thumb resting gently against my pulse point, which was fluttering like a trapped sparrow.

The door opened, and Dr. Callahan hurried in, shaking melting snowflakes from his wool cap. He was an older man, silver-haired, carrying a worn leather medical bag. He took one look at the tension in the room—Luca sitting inches from me, holding my hand, the untouched glass of scotch—and his professional mask snapped into place.

“Luca,” Callahan greeted cautiously. “The roads are turning into an ice sheet out there. What happened?”

“Examine her,” Luca said, rising smoothly to his feet and stepping back to give the doctor room. “Tell me how badly she’s hurt.”

Dr. Callahan set his bag on the side table, pulled over the desk lamp, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He gently took my hand from where it rested on my knee.

“Hello, Emma,” he said kindly. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

He touched the swollen joint of my middle finger. A lightning bolt of agony flared straight to the back of my skull. I gasped, arching my back, my left hand clutching the armrest of the chair until my knuckles went white.

Luca immediately stepped closer, his hand coming to rest on the back of my chair, his presence a solid, grounding wall behind me.

“Fracture,” Callahan murmured, his fingers working with clinical precision. “The third metacarpal has a clean crack, and the proximal phalanx of the fourth digit is hairline fractured. Severe soft tissue contusion on the carpal tunnel.”

He looked up at Luca.

“And the wrist?” Luca prompted, his voice flat.

Callahan hesitated, his eyes lingering on the unmistakable finger-shaped hematomas. “Blunt force trauma consistent with aggressive manual restraint. Someone grabbed her, Luca. Hard.”

Luca turned his head toward the window, looking out into the blinding white snow.

“Can you set it here?” Luca asked.

“I can splint and immobilize it for tonight,” Callahan replied, opening his bag and pulling out gauze, medical tape, and a rigid fiberglass brace. “She needs proper x-rays at my private clinic tomorrow morning to ensure the bone fragments are aligned. She won’t be using this hand for at least six weeks. No lifting. No carrying. No heavy labor.”

“She won’t be lifting a single plate,” Luca said.

“Mr. Moretti, please,” I pleaded, turning to look up at him. “I have to take care of Sofia. I can dress her with one hand, I swear I can—”

Luca leaned down, placing both hands on the arms of my chair, trapping me in the warm circle of his attention.

“You are not dressing anyone, Emma,” he said, his eyes searing into mine. “Starting tonight, your only job is to recover. And to let me handle what happens next.”

The door to the study swung open without a knock.

Isabella stood in the entryway, wrapped in an exquisite white mink coat, her diamond earrings catching the firelight. Behind her stood two uniformed men from the estate’s security detail.

“The bags are packed,” Isabella announced, her voice dripping with venom. “My father just called from his car. He’s turning around. If you think you can humiliate me in front of the servants and send me away to the guest cottage over this peasant, Luca, you have vastly underestimated what the Rossi family will do to you.”

Luca didn't flinch. He slowly straightened up, turned to face her, and casually buttoned his suit jacket.

“Victor is turning his car around?” Luca asked coolly.

“Yes,” she smirked, thinking she had gained the upper hand. “He’ll be at his penthouse in Manhattan within the hour. And every shipping berth in Newark will be locked against your vessels by sunrise.”

Luca checked his platinum wristwatch.

“Good,” he said. “Tell him to save his fuel. Because by sunrise, the New York State Attorney General will be executing five separate search warrants on your father’s shell corporations.”

Isabella’s smirk died on her lips.

The color vanished from her skin entirely, leaving her looking hollow, like a wax mannequin melting near the heat of a furnace.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“You thought I brought Victor into my logistics network because I needed his money?” Luca asked, taking three slow, measured steps toward her. The security guards behind her immediately dropped their eyes to the floor, terrified of meeting his gaze. “I brought him in so I could audit him. I’ve known about his illicit offloading in Queens for six months. I kept quiet because I was honoring a dead man’s promise to your grandfather.”

Luca stopped just inches from Isabella’s face.