THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME FEED HIS LITTLE BOY WITH A BANDAGED HAND—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CUT HERSELF OPENING A CAN IN THE KITCHEN,” BEFORE HE NOTICED THE BANDAGE.

The dining room fell into an icy, suffocating stillness.

Every breath felt trapped in my throat. Across the polished mahogany table, Isabella’s hands tightened around the delicate porcelain of her teacup, her knuckles bleaching white against her manicured skin. She tried to maintain that effortless, aristocratic composure she wore like armor, but her lips had lost their color.

“Luca, really,” she said, her voice pitching slightly higher than usual. “Don’t make a scene over kitchen clumsiness. If she’s bleeding onto the child’s table, she should simply be dismissed for the day.”

Luca didn’t blink. He didn’t even look in her direction. His dark eyes remained fixed entirely on me, holding a quiet, terrifying gravity that pinned me to my chair.

“Take off the bandage, Emma,” he repeated, each syllable measured, low, and completely immovable.

Matteo looked up at his father, sensed the sudden drop in temperature, and tucked his small chin toward his chest. His little hand lingered near my forearm, warm and innocent against my trembling skin.

“Mr. Moretti, it really isn’t necessary,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum of the central air. “I’m fine. I can finish Matteo’s breakfast—”

“You’re shaking,” Luca said.

He stepped forward. The shadow of his tall frame swallowed the space between us. Before I could pull away, his large, calloused fingers gently caught my right wrist. He didn’t grip hard—in fact, his touch was surprisingly reverent, almost gentle—yet there was no escaping it.

Isabella stood up abruptly, the legs of her antique chair scraping sharply against the hardwood floor. “Luca, this is ridiculous. You’re embarrassing her. You’re embarrassing all of us in front of the staff!”

“Sit down, Isabella,” Luca commanded, not raising his voice by a single decibel. The sheer authority in it struck like a physical slap.

Isabella stiffened, her jaw working silently, but she sank back onto the edge of her seat, her eyes blazing with raw venom directed entirely at me.

Luca turned his attention back to my hand. Slowly, with clinical precision, his fingers found the frayed edge of the medical tape I had clumsily applied in the middle of the night. He began to peel it back.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't bear to watch.

The tape gave way with a faint, sticky sound. Layer after layer of coarse white cotton unraveled into Luca’s palm. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the faint, copper scent of dried blood rose between us.

When the final layer fell away, a sharp hiss of breath broke the silence.

It came from the nanny assistant standing by the sideboard.

Luca’s thumb stroked the side of my wrist, completely stilling. I forced myself to open my eyes.

The cut on my palm was deep, jagged, and ugly—not the clean, straight slice of a tin can lid, but a violent starburst of shredded skin. Embedded deep within the flesh, glistening beneath the congealed crimson, were clear, unmistakable slivers of crystal.

But that wasn’t what made Isabella’s breath hitch.

Circling my wrist, dark and unmistakable, were four distinct, purple-black finger bruises where someone had clamped down with furious strength. And pressed directly into the sensitive skin below my thumb was a deep, crescent-shaped indentation—the exact size and cut of the heavy, vintage emerald ring glittering on Isabella’s right hand.

Matteo gasped softly. “Bad ouchie.”

Luca didn’t move. For several excruciating seconds, he simply stared at my palm. The silence in the room transformed from heavy to downright lethal. The veins along Luca’s neck stood out like corded steel. When he finally lifted his gaze to mine, the warmth he normally reserved for his son was entirely extinguished. In its place was a cold, calculating fury.

“A tin can,” Luca said softly.

Isabella swallowed hard. “She… she must have dropped the can when it slipped. She grabbed the edge—”

“A tin can doesn’t leave crystal in human tissue, Isabella,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He slowly tilted my palm toward the morning sunlight streaming through the arched windows. The crystal caught the light, sending a tiny prism of color dancing across the tablecloth. “And a tin can doesn't have fingers.”

Isabella’s throat bobbed. “Are you implying I had something to do with this? I came downstairs for water, Luca! She dropped something, she startled me, and I tried to catch her arm—”

“You told me she was careless,” Luca interrupted. He released my wrist with the gentlest care, laying my injured hand softly on a clean linen napkin. Then he turned his full, terrifying attention upon his fiancée. “You told me she cut herself opening food. You volunteered a lie before anyone asked the question.”

“I didn't lie!” she snapped, her voice cracking as panic set in. “I summarized! She made a mess, she was hysterical, and I tried to handle it without bothering you!”

“Miss Emma didn't make a mess,” Matteo spoke up, his small voice clear and remarkably steady. He looked directly at Isabella with that fierce, unvarnished honesty only children possess. “You yelled at her. You said she was just a servant and told her to drop the cup.”

Isabella went ash-white. “Matteo, darling, you were half-asleep—”

“You broke Mommy’s cup,” Matteo added, his lower lip beginning to tremble. “The pretty blue one.”

Luca froze.

The air seemed to leave the room entirely.

The blue Waterford crystal tumbler. It had belonged to Sophia, Luca’s late wife. It was the only cup Matteo would drink warm milk from when he had nightmares, because he believed his mother had left a piece of her magic inside it. I had been hand-washing it by the sink last night specifically so it wouldn’t get damaged in the industrial dishwasher.

Luca turned his head toward Isabella. His eyes were completely black, devoid of light.

“You touched Sophia’s glass?” Luca whispered.

“It was an accident!” Isabella cried, her facade completely shattering now. She rose to her feet, backing away from the table as Luca took one deliberate step toward her. “She was holding it like it belonged to her! She acts like she runs this house, Luca! She acts like she’s his mother! I am your fiancée! I am going to be the mistress of this estate, and she looks at me like I’m an intruder!”

“You are an intruder,” Luca said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Isabella looked as though she had been struck across the face. “What?”

“Get out of this dining room,” Luca commanded.

“Luca, please—”

“Get out before I forget that your father is my largest business partner,” he snarled, a sudden, thunderous crack breaking through his icy veneer. “Get out of my sight.”

Isabella stood trembling for a second, looking around the room for an ally. The staff looked at the floor. The chef stared intently at the stove. Nobody breathed. With a sob of sheer humiliation, she grabbed her designer purse from the chair and fled toward the grand staircase, the sharp click of her heels echoing through the marble corridors until a heavy oak door slammed in the distance.

The room returned to silence.

Luca stood in place for a long time, his back to me, his chest rising and falling with heavy, controlled breaths.

Matteo slipped his small hand into mine, being careful not to touch the raw skin. “Miss Emma? Don't cry.”

I hadn't realized a tear had slipped down my cheek until Luca turned around. He looked at me, then at his son holding my uninjured fingers.

Luca walked back to the table, pulling a sleek silver phone from his breast pocket. He tapped the screen once and held it to his ear.

“Dr. Evans,” Luca said without greeting. “Clear your morning. Come to the estate immediately. Bring a surgical kit for foreign body extraction.” He paused, his eyes resting on my face. “And bring painkillers. Strong ones.”

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

Then, billionaire Luca Moretti—a man whose name commanded fear and absolute submission across the entire city—pulled a chair up beside me, sat down, and took my trembling hand back into his own.