THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME STRUGGLE TO CARVE THE ROAST WITH A BRUISED WRIST—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE HURT IT CARRYING A CLEANING BUCKET,” AND HE QUIETLY ASKED, “HOW DO YOU KNOW?”

At eight o'clock sharp, I walked down the grand staircase.

Mrs. Gable had brought me an emerald-green silk dress from the upstairs guest wardrobes—an elegant, understated gown with long sleeves that gracefully concealed the thick bandage around my wrist. My dark hair was swept up into a soft twist, leaving a few tendrils curling against the nape of my neck.

I felt like an imposter. Every step down the marble stairs felt like a trespass into a world I had no right to occupy.

The double doors to the formal dining room were open.

The long mahogany table was set, but not for twenty guests like the night before. Only two place settings were laid out at the head of the table, illuminated by the soft, warm glow of tall white taper candles. The massive chandelier overhead was dimmed, casting intimate, dancing shadows across the high plaster ceiling.

Luca stood by the grand bay window, looking out over the dark, rain-swept grounds.

He was dressed in a crisp black suit, his tie loosened slightly at his collar, his hands resting in his pockets. He looked tired—dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes—but the dangerous, commanding aura that surrounded him was as potent as ever.

When my heels clicked softly against the parquet floor, he turned.

His breath caught.

For three long, agonizing seconds, Luca Moretti—a man who never showed weakness, who never hesitated before making a million-dollar decision or pulling a trigger—simply stared at me. His grey eyes swept over the emerald dress, lingered on my face, and softened in a way that made my pulse race wildly.

“Emma,” he said, his voice a low, rough rumble.

“Mr. Moretti.”

A faint smile touched the corner of his lips. “I think we’ve moved past 'Mr. Moretti', don't you think?”

He stepped forward, pulling out the chair at the right hand of the table. He didn't wait for a footman. He did it himself, offering me his arm.

I hesitated, then stepped forward and took his arm. Through the fine wool of his jacket, I could feel the hard, coiled muscle beneath. The heat radiating from him made the cold dread inside me begin to thaw.

I sat down, and he pushed my chair in gently before taking his seat at the head of the table.

There were no footmen in the room. The food had already been served beneath silver cloches: tender roasted duck, caramelized root vegetables, and wild rice.

“Where is Sofia?” I asked, looking around the quiet room.

“Asleep,” Luca said, pouring a glass of dark red wine for himself and sliding a glass of sparkling water toward me. “Mrs. Gable is sitting beside her bed. She had a full dinner and two cups of hot chocolate. She thinks today was an adventure from one of her storybooks.”

“I’m glad,” I whispered. “She shouldn't have to carry the weight of this world.”

Luca leaned back in his leather chair, swirling the wine in his glass, his eyes fixed on me. “Neither should you, Emma.”

“I’m used to it,” I said simply. “When you grow up with nothing, you learn that every day is a negotiation for survival. You duck your head, do your work, and hope the people with power don't notice you.”

“And look at where that got you,” Luca said softly. “Sitting at my table. Wearing emerald silk. Holding the keys to my house.”

“I don't belong here, Luca,” I confessed, the name slipping past my lips before I could stop it. The intimacy of it hung in the air between us. “You know that. Your associates know that. If the other families see you with a maid, they’ll call it a scandal. They’ll call it a weakness.”

Luca set his wineglass down with a sharp, decisive click.

He leaned forward across the corner of the table, closing the distance between us. His eyes burned with an intensity that took my breath away.

“Let them call it whatever they want,” he said, his voice vibrating with absolute authority. “The other families think power is having a famous name, a trust fund, and a bloodline that goes back four generations. But Isabella had all of those things, and she was hollow. Cruel. Cowardly.”

He reached out across the white linen, his fingers gently closing over my uninjured hand. His skin was warm, his grip steady and unyielding.

“True power,” he whispered, “is standing in front of a door with a letter opener, ready to die for a child who isn't even your own. That isn't weakness, Emma. That is royalty.”

My chest tightened so hard I could barely draw breath. No one had ever spoken to me like that. No one had ever seen me—not as a servant, not as an extra pair of hands, but as a person worthy of honor.

Before I could answer, the heavy wooden doors of the dining room burst open.

Dr. Marco Ramos stood in the doorway, soaked in rain, his overcoat dripping puddles onto the carpet. His face was pale as chalk, his wire-rimmed glasses askew.

Behind him, through the grand foyer, the blaring sirens of emergency vehicles began to wail in the distance.

Luca stood up instantly, his hand dropping from mine, the warmth vanishing from his expression in a microsecond.

“Marco,” Luca snapped. “What is it?”

“Vincent Valenti,” the doctor gasped, struggling to catch his breath. “The transport van was ambushed two miles from the federal courthouse. Four officers are dead.”

Luca’s jaw set like iron. “And Vincent?”

Marco looked up, his eyes wide with unadulterated terror.