THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME CARRY HIS SLEEPING DAUGHTER DOWN THE STAIRS WHILE LIMPING—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE FELL WHILE CHASING HER,” EVEN THOUGH I HAD TOLD NO ONE.

Carrying Sofia back up the grand staircase felt like scaling a mountain of broken glass.

Every press of my left foot sent a sickening bolt of heat straight up my shin. My teeth were clenched so tightly my jaw ached, but I kept my arms locked firmly beneath the little girl. She was so light, a fragile bundle of warmth smelling of lavender soap and clean cotton, yet the physical effort made beads of cold sweat prickle along my hairline.

Behind me, the silence of the foyer was absolute.

I didn’t look back. I didn't need to. I could feel two sets of eyes tracking my ascent—one burning with aristocratic hatred, the other cold, calculating, and dangerously observant.

When I finally reached Sofia’s bedroom, the soft glow of her star-shaped nightlight washed over the pale pink walls. I eased her down onto the mattress, sliding my arms out from beneath her shoulders and knees with millimeter precision. She let out a tiny, contented sigh, her dark eyelashes resting softly against her cheeks. She looked so much like Luca. She had his raven-black hair, his sharp jawline softened by childhood, and the same quiet intensity that made adults look twice.

I pulled the white duvet up to her chin and tucked her favorite worn velvet rabbit under her arm.

"Don't go, Emma," she mumbled in her sleep, her tiny fingers catching the cuff of my uniform blouse.

My heart tightened painfully. "I'm right here, sweet girl," I whispered, gently untangling her hand and pressing a light kiss to her forehead. "I'm just outside."

I stood up, and my ankle immediately buckled.

I had to catch myself against the heavy mahogany bedpost, biting my lower lip until I tasted the sharp, metallic tang of iron. I looked down. Even through the black fabric of my trouser leg, the swelling was obvious. The joint was puffed out like a baseball, throbbing in sync with my racing pulse.

*He asked for the truth.*

The words echoed in my mind, heavy with unspoken consequences. Luca Moretti was not a man people lied to. He controlled shipping lines, high-rise real estate, and political careers with the stroke of a pen. He was ruthless in boardrooms and terrifyingly quiet in his own home. But Isabella Caldwell was the daughter of a former state senator, an heiress whose family name was carved into the cornerstone of half the museums in Manhattan.

And me?

I was Emma Hayes. A girl from South Boston with twenty-eight dollars in my checking account and a sick younger brother whose specialized medical bills were paid entirely through the generous healthcare stipend Luca provided with this job.

If I crossed Isabella, she would crush me.

If I lied to Luca, he would discard me.

I forced myself out into the corridor. The hallway was empty, the dark oak floorboards gleaming under the soft sconce lighting. Every step down the back servants' stairs was an exercise in pure agony. I leaned heavily against the brass railing, dragging my bad leg behind me like dead weight.

By the time I reached the ground floor and crossed toward the eastern wing, my shirt was sticking to my back.

The double doors to Luca’s private study were cracked open. A thin blade of amber light sliced across the dark Persian runner in the hall.

I raised a trembling hand and knocked twice.

"Enter."

His voice was a low baritone that vibrated through the wood.

I pushed the door open and limped inside, keeping my left side slightly behind the heavy oak frame.

The study was massive, smelling of old paper, leather, and cedar smoke. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three walls, while the fourth was dominated by arched French doors overlooking the rain-lashed gardens. Luca stood by the marble fireplace, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler.

He hadn't taken off his suit jacket. His shoulders were broad, imposing, cutting an intimidating silhouette against the flickering orange flames.

"Close the door," he said without turning around.

I did as I was told, shutting the heavy door until the latch clicked. The sound felt final, like a cell door sliding shut.

Luca took a slow sip of his drink, then turned to face me. His dark eyes immediately dropped to the floor, tracking the way my weight was shifted entirely onto my right hip.

"Sit," he commanded softly, gesturing toward the deep leather chesterfield sofa facing the hearth.

"I can stand, Mr. Moretti. I don't want to take up your time—"

"I didn't offer it as a suggestion, Emma. Sit down before you fall down."

The steel in his tone left no room for defiance. I swallowed hard and crossed the remaining ten feet of the room, every step a sharp humiliation. When I sank into the leather, an involuntary gasp of relief slipped past my lips. My ankle was throbbing violently now, the heat radiating through my shoe like a brand.

Luca set his glass on the low walnut coffee table. Then, to my utter disbelief, he walked over to the corner bar, retrieved a silver ice bucket, wrapped a linen napkin around several cubes, and walked back toward me.

Before I could process what he was doing, the most powerful man in the city dropped down on one knee in front of me.

"Mr. Moretti—no, please—" I stammered, pulling my foot back in panic.

His hand shot out, his long fingers closing firmly around my calf. His touch was warm, shockingly gentle, but immovable. Through the thin cotton of my trousers, his grip anchored me in place.

"Stop moving," he murmured, his gaze lifting to meet mine. Up close, his eyes weren't just dark; they were a complex shade of deep amber, ringed with slate gray. "You worked an entire four-hour shift on this, didn't you?"

"I... I had to finish Sofia's routine."

He didn't answer. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers found the laces of my shoe. He untied them with methodical precision, his knuckles brushing against my skin, sending an entirely different kind of tremor through my veins. He eased the leather shoe off my heel.

When he rolled down my black sock, a dark, bruised knot the size of a plum was revealed against the pale skin of my outer ankle. Deep purple and angry red mottling had already begun spreading toward my arch.

Luca’s jaw set like granite. A muscle ticked beneath the smooth skin of his cheek.

"A simple slip," he said, his voice deceptively flat. "That’s what she called it."

He pressed the ice-wrapped linen against the swelling. The shock of cold made me hiss and grip the edge of the leather cushion.

"She said you were chasing Sofia," Luca continued, his eyes staying on the bruise. "Sofia told me you were crying. My daughter does not lie, Emma. And she does not invent stories about people she loves."

The word *loves* hung in the quiet room, heavy and dangerous.

"Mr. Moretti, it's really nothing. An accident," I whispered, desperate to de-escalate the terrifying calm settled over him. "I lost my balance near the linen press. Miss Caldwell was only trying to explain—"

Luca suddenly reached up. His fingers caught the collar of my uniform blouse, sliding the fabric aside just an inch.

My breath hitched.

There, just beneath the collarbone where Isabella had grabbed me before shoving me back, were four distinct, fading red marks where long, manicured nails had dug into my flesh.

Luca stared at the marks. His breathing slowed, becoming unnervingly quiet. When he looked up, the air in the room felt suddenly pressurized, as if a storm had gathered beneath the high ceiling.

"She touched you," he said.

It wasn't a question.

"Luca, please," I pleaded, using his first name without realizing it, terror for my future overriding my sense of propriety. "She’s your fiancée. You’re getting married in six weeks. The Caldwell family... you have contracts with them. If she thinks I'm trying to cause trouble, I'll lose this job. I can't lose this job."

Luca rose slowly to his full height. He towered over me, a dark, terrifying figure carved from wealth and power, but the anger in his eyes wasn't aimed at me. It was aimed at everything beyond the heavy oak door.

"Isabella doesn't sign your paychecks, Emma," he said, his voice dropping to an icy, lethal whisper. "I do."

Before I could answer, the door handle rattled, and the study doors swung open with a sharp, arrogant force.

Isabella stood in the threshold, her silk wrap clutched around her shoulders, her eyes wide with fury as she took in the scene: the ice bucket, my bare, swollen ankle, and Luca standing guard over me.

"What is the meaning of this?" Isabella demanded, her voice trembling with rage. "Luca, are you seriously tending to the servant in your private quarters at midnight?"

Luca didn't flinch. He didn't even look startled. He simply turned his head, his profile cold and merciless in the firelight.