“Get that woman out of my house!”

By three in the morning, the mansion was completely silent, wrapped in a tense, suffocating quiet.

Rain lashed relentlessly against the tall glass panes of the second-floor corridor. Margaret had finally fallen asleep in the lavish guest suite, tucked beneath down blankets, the battered red toy car resting safely on the nightstand beside her. The private doctor Luca had summoned had confirmed she was malnourished and exhausted, but otherwise unharmed.

I stood in the doorway of the adjacent suite, still wearing my black-and-white housekeeper’s uniform, staring at the tray of warm chamomile tea I had prepared for her earlier. My mind was spinning. In less than six hours, my entire life had been upended. I had gone from dusting crystal chandeliers to standing at the center of an underworld war.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

I spun around, nearly dropping the silver tray.

Luca stood in the dim hallway, his charcoal suit jacket gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos that wound around his wrists. He held a glass of scotch in one hand.

“You’re still awake,” Luca said, his voice a low rumble in the empty corridor.

“I wanted to make sure Margaret didn't wake up disoriented, sir,” I replied, stepping slightly out of the doorway. “She’s been through a great deal tonight.”

Luca walked over, stopping beside me. He glanced into the dimly lit bedroom, watching the steady rise and fall of Margaret’s frail chest beneath the covers.

“She saved my life,” Luca murmured, staring at the elderly woman with an expression so stripped of his usual ruthless facade that he looked almost unrecognizable. “When I was six years old, I cried for my mother every night until I threw up. Margaret used to sit by my cot, singing an old Italian lullaby she didn't even understand the words to, just so I wouldn't feel alone in the dark.”

He looked down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid. “My father beat those memories out of me. Every time I asked about the yellow curtains or the farm in Rockford, he would lock me in the wine cellar until I learned to say my name was Luca, not Anthony. By the time I was ten, I thought the farm was a nightmare I had made up.”

My heart ached for the little boy trapped inside the terrifying mafia Don.

“A child’s memory doesn't lie, Mr. Moretti,” I said softly. “Your heart remembered what your father tried to erase.”

Luca turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the breath catch in my throat. “Why did you trust her, Emma? When she showed you that photograph in the kitchen, you risked everything. Vanessa would have had you blacklisted from every domestic agency in the Midwest. You could have ended up on the street.”

I looked down at my hands, calloused from years of scrubbing floors and polishing brass.

“When I was fourteen, my father owed money to loan sharks on the South Side,” I said quietly, the old memories stinging like open wounds. “One night, three men kicked our front door off its hinges. They took everything—our furniture, my mother’s wedding ring, the food out of our pantry. None of our neighbors looked out their windows. Nobody opened their door. They just closed their blinds and pretended they didn't hear us screaming.”

I met his gaze, refusing to look away. “I promised myself back then that if I ever saw someone powerless standing alone against people with money and guns, I would never look away. Margaret was helpless tonight. Miss Bellini had all the power in the world. I couldn't just close the blinds.”

Luca stared at me for a long, quiet moment. The shadows cast by the hallway sconces carved sharp angles across his handsome, weathered face.

“You’re a rare creature, Emma Reed,” he whispered, his tone husky. “In this world, people only protect what pays them or what scares them. You protect people because your soul demands it.”

Before I could process his words, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed up the grand staircase.

Marco appeared at the end of the hall, his face grim, his trench coat soaked with rain. He stopped three feet from Luca and gave me a wary glance.

“Speak, Marco,” Luca ordered without taking his eyes off me for a beat before turning to his lieutenant. “Emma is in the inner circle now.”

Marco nodded stiffly. “Giancarlo Bellini just called the emergency line. Vanessa’s uncle.”

Luca’s expression hardened back into stone. “What does the old vulture want?”

“He knows Vanessa is here,” Marco said, lowering his voice. “He claims she called him from a burner phone hidden in her vanity case before we locked her down. He’s demanding her immediate release, along with a public apology at the Drake Hotel tomorrow afternoon.”

Luca scoffed, a cold, dangerous sound. “And if I refuse?”

“He’s threatening to cut the southern supply lines. He says three shipments of imported steel and liquor sitting in the Chicago rail yards will be ‘confiscated’ by city inspectors on his payroll by noon tomorrow. He’s giving you ten hours to return his niece, or he breaks the treaty.”

Luca took a slow sip of his scotch. “The treaty was broken thirty-five years ago when Helena Bellini stole Don Antonio’s son from his cradle.”

“What are your orders, boss?” Marco asked. “Do we double the perimeter guards?”

“No,” Luca said coldly. “Giancarlo thinks he holds the cards because he has leverage on the docks. He doesn't know Margaret is here. He doesn't know we have the original deposit slips with Helena’s signature.”

Luca turned toward me. “Emma.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get some rest. Tomorrow morning at eight, you and Margaret are coming with me.”

I blinked in surprise. “Where are we going?”

“To the Bellini estate in Lake Forest,” Luca said, his eyes glittering with a predatory fire. “Giancarlo wants a meeting? I’m going to give him one. And I want the entire Bellini syndicate to see the woman who kept their darkest secret alive for thirty-five years.”

Marco shifted his weight, clearly uneasy. “Boss, taking the girl and the old woman into Bellini territory is a massive risk. If Giancarlo ambushes us—”

“Giancarlo is a coward who hides behind city inspectors and dirty cops,” Luca snapped. “He won’t shoot until he understands what he’s dealing with. And Emma...”

Luca looked back at me, his gaze softening by a fraction. “Emma will stay by Margaret’s side. Because right now, Emma is the only person Margaret trusts. And strangely enough... she might be the only person in this house I trust, too.”

My breath hitched. The weight of his words settled over my shoulders, heavy and intoxicating.

“I won’t let her down, Mr. Moretti,” I said firmly. “And I won’t let you down.”