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 victory was intoxicating, but in the world Luca Moretti inhabited, monsters did not die quietly.

Three days had passed since the gala. The society pages had gone nuclear. The audio recording had leaked to the press—likely through someone in the DA’s office—and the public outrage was swift and merciless. Isabella Rossi had been arrested, processed, and released on a two-million-dollar bail, confined to her family’s penthouse under electronic monitoring. Victor’s shipping licenses had been suspended pending a federal grand jury investigation.

The Moretti estate had become a fortress under siege.

Reporters camped at the foot of the long driveway, their telephoto lenses pointed at the wrought-iron gates. Luca had doubled the private security detail. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter with Belgian Malinois attack dogs, their silhouettes dark and sharp against the pristine snow.

Inside the mansion, an uneasy peace reigned.

Dr. Callahan had replaced my temporary fiberglass splint with a lighter, contoured brace. The pain had finally subsided to a dull, manageable ache, though my fingers remained stiff and purple.

I was sitting on the floor of the sunny nursery on the second floor, helping Sofia assemble a complex wooden castle puzzle with my left hand.

“Does this piece go here, Emma?” Sofia asked, holding up a small blue turret.

“Try turning it to the left, sweetie,” I smiled.

She twisted the piece, and it clicked into place with a satisfying snap. Sofia beamed, clapping her little hands together.

For the first time in months, the shadows under her eyes were completely gone. The nervous, flinching habit she had developed whenever heavy footsteps approached the room had vanished. She was laughing again. She was singing nonsensical rhymes while she played.

The door to the nursery opened softly.

Luca stood there, watching us. He had discarded his suit jacket, wearing only a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. He leaned against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, his gaze soft as he watched his daughter play.

“Daddy!” Sofia scrambled to her feet, running across the rug and throwing herself into his legs.

Luca caught her effortlessly, lifting her high into the air until she squealed with delight, before pressing a warm kiss to her forehead and setting her back down.

“Go wash your hands for lunch, princess,” Luca said gently. “Mrs. Gable made those apple turnovers you like.”

“With extra sugar?”

“With extra sugar,” he confirmed with a wink.

Sofia bolted out of the room, her laughter echoing down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Luca walked over to the bay window, looking out over the snow-covered lawn where two security guards were walking their patrol. The lines around his mouth were tight. The stress of the last seventy-two hours had carved deep grooves into his handsome features.

“Victor isn't giving up,” Luca said, his back turned to me.

I slowly pushed myself up from the floor, smoothing down my sweater. “What did he do?”

“He hired a private military contractor out of South Africa,” Luca replied, turning to face me. His eyes were dark, haunted by a cold, simmering fury. “Fourteen men. Heavily armed. They were spotted landing at a private airfield in Westchester an hour ago.”

My stomach dropped into a bottomless void. “He’s going to attack this house?”

“No,” Luca said grimly. “He’s not stupid enough to assault an estate with forty armed guards and private radar. That would bring the National Guard down on his head. He’s going to strike where he thinks I’m vulnerable. In transit.”

Luca walked toward me, stopping just a foot away.

“I have to go into the city this afternoon,” he said. “A mandatory deposition with the federal prosecutors to finalize Victor’s indictment. If I don't appear, the judge will dismiss the flight-risk warrant, and Victor will be on a private jet to a non-extradition country by midnight.”

“Then you have to go,” I said, my heart pounding with fear for him.

“I am taking a convoy of three armored Suburbans,” Luca said. “Decoys. But I cannot leave you and Sofia here.”

I blinked, confused. “I thought you said the estate was safe?”

“The estate is a target,” Luca countered, his voice tight. “If Victor’s mercenaries stage a distraction at the gates, if they cut the power grid... I won’t take the risk. Not with Sofia. And not with you.”

He reached out, his warm fingers gently closing around my uninjured hand, pulling me closer.

“My head of security, Marcus, is taking you and Sofia in an unmarked, commercial utility van through the back service roads behind the stables,” Luca explained, his eyes searching mine with fierce intensity. “You will take the old logging trail through the state park to a private safehouse in Connecticut. Nobody knows about it. Not my board. Not the staff. Only Marcus and me.”

“Luca...” The panic in my chest was rising fast. “You’re sending us away while you drive into an ambush?”

“I am the bait, Emma,” he whispered, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. “Victor wants me dead. He thinks if he eliminates me, Sofia becomes a ward of the estate, and as her nearest surviving legal sponsor through the pending corporate merger, he can tie up my assets in probate court for ten years.”

He stepped closer, his chest pressing lightly against mine. He raised his other hand, cupping my cheek, his touch sending a rush of heat straight through the terror paralyzing my veins.

“I need to know you are safe,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a raw, desperate register I had never heard from him before. “If I know you and Sofia are across state lines, I can do what needs to be done in Manhattan without hesitation. I can burn Victor Rossi out of this city once and for all.”

Tears pricked my eyes. “Promise me you’ll come to Connecticut.”

Luca stared down at me. For a long, agonizing moment, he didn't say a word.

Then, he leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.

The kiss was fierce, possessive, and electric. It tasted of danger, of desperate longing, and of promises made on the edge of a cliff. I melted against him, my left hand clutching the fabric of his shirt, anchoring myself to his strength while the world spun out of control around us.

He broke the kiss slowly, resting his forehead against mine, his breath ragged.