THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME SPOON-FEED HIS FRAIL GRANDMOTHER WITH TWO BANDAGED FINGERS—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CAUGHT THEM IN THE BEDROOM DOOR,” EVEN THOUGH I HAD TOLD NO ONE.

The Moretti estate was magnificent at night, a sprawling neoclassical mansion of white limestone and black wrought iron, lit by hundreds of soft amber lanterns.

By seven o’clock, the long gravel driveway was choked with black luxury sedans, Maybachs, and vintage Rolls-Royces. New York’s elite—hedge fund billionaires, shipping moguls, politicians, and socialites—flowed through the double front doors into the two-story ballroom.

I was not supposed to be working.

Dr. Hayes had ordered me to rest, and Luca had explicitly told me to stay in the family wing. But Mrs. Bellini had refused to attend the gala without me by her side.

“If I have to sit in a room full of vultures in designer gowns, Emma,” the ninety-one-year-old matriarch had declared, “I want at least one honest human being within arm's reach.”

So, there I was.

I wore a simple, high-collared navy dress that Mrs. Bellini’s personal stylist had produced from somewhere upstairs. It was elegant, modest, and completely out of place among the sea of sequins, diamonds, and backless silk gowns. My right hand was securely splinted and resting unobtrusively in the fold of a dark silk wrap.

I stood just behind Mrs. Bellini’s gilded wheelchair near the edge of the ballroom, watching the crowd.

Across the room, Luca was surrounded.

He wore a custom black tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders and commanding presence. Even in a room filled with powerful men, he drew every eye. He listened to a city commissioner with quiet, polite detachment, but his gaze kept drifting across the ballroom.

Every few minutes, his eyes found mine.

Each time our glances collided, my pulse jumped. It was inappropriate. It was dangerous. I was a caretaker; he was the head of the Moretti dynasty. But there was something in the way he looked at me—something possessive, fiercely protective—that made the noise of the ballroom fade into a distant hum.

Suddenly, the crowd near the grand staircase parted.

Isabella had arrived.

She looked breathtaking. She wore an emerald-green satin gown that clung to every curve, paired with an emerald and diamond necklace that must have cost more than my entire family would earn in three lifetimes. Her hair fell in sculpted golden waves, her lips painted a flawless crimson.

Beside her walked her father, Victor Sterling. He was a barrel-chested man with silver hair, sharp predatory eyes, and an arrogant smirk that suggested he owned the ground beneath his feet.

Isabella spotted Luca immediately.

She linked her arm through her father’s, whispering something to him, and they began carving a path through the guests straight toward Luca.

I braced myself.

Mrs. Bellini let out a quiet sigh. “Here comes the storm, darling. Keep your chin up.”

As the Sterlings reached Luca, Isabella smiled—radiant, dazzling, the picture of a devoted bride-to-be. She reached up and placed a hand on Luca’s lapel.

Luca took half a step backward, smoothly evading her touch.

The movement was subtle, but in a room where every gesture was analyzed by social gossips, it was an earthquake. Several women nearby exchanged pointed glances behind their champagne flutes.

Victor Sterling’s smile hardened. He stepped between Luca and Isabella, leaning in close to say something in Luca’s ear.

Luca didn't lean in. He didn't drop his head. He answered Victor Sterling aloud, loud enough for half a dozen nearby guests to hear.

“The terms of our harbor contract will be reviewed in my office on Monday, Victor. Tonight is my grandmother’s charity gala. Let’s keep our business professional.”

Victor’s face flushed a dark, mottled red.

Isabella’s eyes narrowed into slits. She turned her head, searching the room, until her gaze locked onto me.

The hatred in her eyes was like a physical blow.

She said something to her father, excused herself, and took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s silver tray.

Then, she began walking directly toward us.

My stomach plummeted. I wanted to turn and wheel Mrs. Bellini away, but Mrs. Bellini gripped the armrest of her chair, her back straight as an iron rod.

“Stand your ground, Emma,” the old woman commanded in a low, steely whisper. “Never run from a snake.”

Isabella stopped three feet from us. The sweet smile on her lips did not reach her eyes.

“Grandmother Bellini,” Isabella purred, offering a small nod. “You look remarkably well this evening. Considering your delicate health.”

“I’m ninety-one, Isabella,” Mrs. Bellini said dryly. “I’m old, not delicate. And I still see quite clearly.”

Isabella ignored the jab, turning her attention to me. She looked down at my splinted hand resting against my navy dress.

“Emma,” Isabella said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “How tragic about your little accident this afternoon. I was so worried about you.”

“I’m managing, Miss Sterling. Thank you.”

“Such a shame,” Isabella continued, taking a slow sip of her champagne. “A girl in your position needs both hands, don’t you think? It’s hard to clean floors, change bedsheets, and fetch tea when you’re crippled. I wonder how long Luca will keep paying your wages out of pity.”

“Isabella,” Mrs. Bellini said, her voice dropping into a dangerous chill. “Leave this corner.”

“I’m just checking on the staff, Grandmother,” Isabella said, smiling wickedly.

Then, with calculated clumsiness, Isabella shifted her weight.

Her elbow struck the second champagne flute in her hand. The crystal glass tipped forward, sending a full cup of sparkling wine directly toward my face and chest.

Instinctively, I brought up my left arm to shield myself.

The cold liquid splashed across my dress and splint. But before the glass could hit the floor, a blur of motion appeared between Isabella and me.

A strong, muscular arm reached out, catching the falling champagne glass by the stem before it shattered on the parquet floor.

Luca.

He had crossed the ballroom so fast nobody had seen him coming.

He stood directly between Isabella and me, towering over his fiancée like an encroaching shadow. In his right hand, he held the caught champagne glass. In his left hand, he held a dark linen napkin.

The ballroom around us went completely, utterly silent.

The string quartet stopped playing. The low chatter of two hundred guests evaporated in a single heartbeat.

Luca didn't look at Isabella.

He turned his back on her completely. He unfolded the linen napkin and gently dabbed at the wine splatters on my dress and the bandage around my splinted hand.

“Are you hurt?” he asked me.

His voice was soft, rich, and entirely focused on me, as if the two hundred billionaires and socialites watching us didn't exist at all.

“No, Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, my face burning with embarrassment. “I’m fine.”

Luca nodded once. Then, he turned slowly around to face Isabella.

He was holding the champagne glass he had saved from smashing. Slowly, deliberately, he tipped his wrist.

The remaining liquid poured out, splashing onto the hem of Isabella’s emerald-green designer gown, soaking the fine satin.

Isabella shrieked, jumping back. “Luca! What are you doing?!”

Victor Sterling rushed over, his face purple with fury. “Moretti! Have you lost your mind?!”

Luca let the empty crystal glass drop. It shattered against the hardwood floor with a sharp, violent crack that echoed to the high vaulted ceiling.

“Marco,” Luca said.

The head of security appeared instantly from the edge of the room, flanked by two burly guards.

“Sir?”

Luca looked at Isabella, then at Victor Sterling. His voice was steady, resonant, and carried to every corner of the silent ballroom.

“Escort Miss Sterling and her father off my property.”

Gasps erupted across the room.

Victor Sterling looked as if he were about to suffer an aneurysm. “You cannot do this! We have an agreement! We have contracts!”

“The contracts are null and void,” Luca said coldly. “The engagement is terminated. Effective immediately.”

Isabella trembled, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Luca… you can't… over *her*? Over a maid?”

Luca took one step closer to Isabella, his eyes blazing with a fury so cold it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“She has more dignity in her broken fingers than you will have in your entire lifetime,” Luca said, each word landing like a hammer blow. “Get off my estate. If either of you ever sets foot near Emma or my grandmother again, I will release the footage from this afternoon to every news outlet in North America.”

Victor Sterling grabbed his daughter’s arm, his face pale with sudden, horrifying realization. He knew what kind of footage Luca had. He knew what a criminal assault charge would do to the Sterling family stock price.

“You’ll regret this, Moretti,” Victor hissed under his breath. “You think you’re untouchable? You haven't seen what I can do.”

“I’m waiting,” Luca said.

Marco and the security guards closed in, politely but firmly guiding the disgraced Sterlings toward the grand front doors.

The ballroom remained frozen in shock.

Luca didn't care about the whispers. He didn't care about the scandal. He turned back toward me, his dark eyes softening into something raw and vulnerable.