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.

Two weeks passed.

In the Moretti estate, two weeks felt like an eternity. The house had shifted from a quiet, somber fortress into an armed camp. Men in dark suits patrolled the perimeter twenty-four hours a day. Black SUVs with tinted windows were parked along the sweeping gravel drive, their engines idling in the freezing Chicago drizzle.

My ribs were healing, though every sharp movement still reminded me of Isabella’s shove.

Dr. Phillips visited every other day, changing the wraps and checking my progress. But more than my physical recovery, it was my place in the house that had completely altered.

I was no longer allowed to wear the gray housekeeper uniform.

Instead, warm cashmere sweaters, tailored wool trousers, and soft leather boots had been delivered to the guest suite—courtesy of Luca’s personal shopper. When I protested to Matteo that I couldn't accept such expensive gifts, the hardened head of security had simply chuckled and shook his head.

“Miss Emma, you don't argue with the boss. If he says you wear cashmere, you wear cashmere. Besides, the puppy looks good on your lap, and cheap cotton doesn't suit him.”

The puppy—whom I had taken to calling Leo, for the lion’s heart he had shown that day in the foyer—never left my side. He had grown noticeably in two weeks, his golden coat thickening, his floppy ears gaining definition. He ate steak scraps from the kitchen, slept at the foot of my bed, and accompanied me on short, cautious walks through the glass-enclosed winter garden.

Luca was rarely around during the day.

The fallout from the broken engagement had sent shockwaves through the city. Senator Castiglione had tried to fight back through the press, leaking vague rumors about Luca’s illegal operations, but Luca’s retaliatory strike had been swift and merciless. Within forty-eight hours, federal prosecutors had received an anonymous tip containing the Senator’s offshore banking records. The Castiglione family was disintegrating under the weight of an imminent federal indictment.

Yet, despite his grueling schedule, Luca returned to the estate every evening.

And every evening, he came to the winter garden.

Tonight was no different. The snow had begun to fall, thick white flakes clinging to the glass panes of the conservatory ceiling. Inside, the air was warm, smelling of damp earth, blooming jasmine, and cedar mulch.

I sat on a wrought-iron bench with a book in my lap, while Leo chased a fallen leaf across the flagstones.

The heavy glass door clicked open.

Luca walked in. He looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and the sharp lines of his face were drawn tight. But the moment his eyes found me sitting by the orange trees, the tension in his shoulders visibly dropped.

Leo barked a happy greeting, trotting over to Luca and sitting politely at his feet.

Luca reached down, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Evening, Leo.”

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, starting to stand.

“Sit,” he said softly, walking over and taking a seat on the bench beside me. He didn't sit far away; his thigh brushed against mine through the heavy wool of our clothes, sending a pleasant, tingling warmth through my skin. “How are the ribs today?”

“Much better,” I replied, offering a small smile. “Dr. Phillips said the cracks are knitting together nicely. I can probably return to my duties next week.”

Luca turned his head, looking directly at me. His dark eyes were hooded, filled with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher.

“You’re not returning to your duties, Emma.”

My smile faded. “Sir? Are you... are you letting me go?”

“No,” he said instantly, the word carrying a sharp, possessive edge that made my breath hitch. “Never. But you will not clean this house. You will not serve meals. You will not scrub floors.”

“Then what am I supposed to do here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Luca looked away for a moment, staring out into the dark garden where the snow was piling against the glass.

“The Petrovs are moving,” he said quietly, changing the subject. “Castiglione’s Russian partners. They lost thirty million dollars when the shipments were seized at Pier 42. They blame me.”

A chill ran down my spine. “Are you in danger?”

Luca gave a cold, humorless chuckle. “I am always in danger, Emma. That is the nature of my life. But they know they cannot strike at me directly in the city. The Moretti family is too entrenched. So they will look for leverage.”

He looked back at me. His gaze was searing.

“They will look for what matters to me.”

My heart skipped a beat, then began to race wildly.

*What matters to me.*

Before I could process the weight of his words, Leo’s ears suddenly snapped forward.

The puppy jumped up from Luca’s feet, his body going completely rigid. He turned toward the dark glass wall facing the estate’s outer perimeter—the heavy iron fence that bordered the thick forest behind the property.

A low, vibrating growl started deep in Leo’s chest.

Luca was on his feet in an instant.

The exhaustion vanished from his face, replaced by pure, lethal predator instinct. He didn't hesitate. His hand went inside his jacket, drawing the heavy black pistol from its holster with silent, practiced efficiency.