THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME LIFT HIS TREMBLING PUPPY WITH ONE ARM PRESSED TO MY RIBS—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE FELL CHASING HIM DOWN THE STAIRS,” BEFORE THE DOG STARTED GROWLING AT HER.

The next morning brought no sunlight, only a heavy gray mist that hung low over the manicured grounds of the Moretti estate.

I woke up in a bed far too large and soft for someone like me. The guest suite on the second floor was adorned with silk drapes, antique walnut furniture, and an ornate fireplace that was already crackling with a warm, gentle fire. At the foot of the bed, curled up in a nest of cashmere blankets, the puppy lifted his head, thumped his tail twice, and let out a soft yip.

I winced as I pushed myself upright. The bandages held my ribs steady, but the dull, deep ache reminded me of every second of yesterday’s violence.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Before I could answer, the door swung open. It wasn't Luca. And it wasn't a guard.

It was Senator Castiglione himself.

The man was in his late fifties, dressed in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit that screamed old money and backroom political deals. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, his face weathered by decades of arrogance. Behind him stood Isabella, wearing a high-collared dress, her arms crossed, her eyes red-rimmed and venomous.

The puppy immediately sprang to his feet, a vicious growl rumbling in his throat.

“Hush,” I whispered, pulling the dog against my chest, my heart racing.

Senator Castiglione stepped into the room without an invitation, his expensive Italian leather shoes clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. He didn't look at the decor; he looked straight at me, his gaze cold, calculating, and dripping with condescension.

“So,” the Senator said, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “This is the little kitchen mouse that has caused such an uproar.”

“Father, look at her,” Isabella hissed from the doorway. “She’s sitting in the Queen Anne suite! Luca put *staff* in the family wing! It’s an insult to our name!”

“Be quiet, Isabella,” the Senator snapped without turning around. He took two steps closer to the edge of the bed.

The puppy bared his teeth, the growl turning into a sharp, warning snap.

The Senator scoffed, barely glancing at the dog. “Put the mongrel away before I have security shoot it.”

My blood ran cold, but I tightened my grip on the pup, refusing to back down. “What do you want, sir?”

“What do I want?” The Senator smiled, a thin, cruel gesture that didn't reach his gray eyes. “I want this absurd drama to end. Luca called me at midnight, raving about security footage and breached contracts. He threatened to revoke my port concessions—concessions that my family has held for three generations.”

He reached inside his breast pocket, pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope, and tossed it onto the blankets near my feet.

The envelope was unsealed. Peeking through the top was a stack of crisp, hundred-dollar bills. At least twenty thousand dollars.

“You are going to take that money,” the Senator said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “You are going to sign a statement written by my attorneys stating that you slipped on water near the conservatory doors. You will state that my daughter tried to catch you, but was unable to prevent the fall.”

I stared at the envelope. Twenty thousand dollars was more than I made in an entire year. It was enough to pay off my mother’s medical debts, move out of my crumbling apartment, and start over somewhere far away from Chicago.

“And if I don't?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

The Senator leaned forward, his smile vanishing entirely.

“If you don't,” he whispered, “you will find that Chicago is a very small, very cold city for an orphan girl with no family to look for her. People slip into the river every winter, Miss Emma. Accidents happen all the time.”

“Are you threatening my staff in my own house, Vincent?”

The voice cut through the room like a guillotine.

The Senator froze. Isabella gasped, taking a sudden step backward into the hallway.

Luca stood in the doorway.

He wasn't wearing a suit today. He wore dark tactical pants, a black long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and a shoulder holster housing a heavy black semi-automatic pistol. Behind him, Matteo and three other armed men blocked the hallway completely.

Luca didn't look angry. He looked like death incarnate.

“Luca,” Senator Castiglione said, recovering his composure with a strained laugh, though the twitch in his jaw betrayed his terror. “We were just having a private conversation with the young lady. Helping her understand the... delicate nature of our family’s alliance.”

Luca walked into the room. He didn't look at the Senator. He looked at the envelope lying on the bed.

Slowly, Luca reached out, picked up the envelope, and weighed it in his hand.

“Twenty thousand?” Luca asked softly.

The Senator cleared his throat. “A generous severance package for her trouble. We can find her employment in another city. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s what’s best for everyone, Luca. For our marriage. For the upcoming election.”

Luca pulled the cash from the envelope. He held the thick stack of bills in his left hand.

Then, with his right hand, he drew a gold lighter from his pocket.

*Flick.*

A bright blue flame danced in the quiet room.