I'd worked in the Moretti mansion for seventeen days, which apparently was long enough to forget that most people were disenchanted of Dominic.

By midnight, the mansion felt less like a home and more like a tomb.

Raphael hadn't returned to the master suite yet, which meant the search of the estate was yielding complicated results. Downstairs, the elite guards were sweeping every hallway, checking staff quarters, and cross-referencing keycard logs.

I was sitting in the velvet armchair across from Dominic's bed, trying to keep my eyes open. Dominic had finally fallen into a restless, feverish sleep, his breathing deep and uneven. The antidote Dr. Ferraro administered was doing its job, but the poison had taken a heavy toll on his already battered body.

Unable to sit still any longer, I stood up, grabbed a damp cloth from the adjoining bathroom, and walked quietly back to the bedside.

His forehead was slick with cold sweat. His dark hair clung damply to his temples, making him look dangerously human compared to the terrifying syndicate leader he projected to the underworld.

I gently pressed the cool cloth against his forehead.

At the contact, Dominic's eyes shot open. His hand snaps out with terrifying speed, wrapping around my wrist in an iron grip that pins me in place.

I gasped, freezing.

His obsidian gaze locked onto mine, disoriented and sharp with defensive instinct. For a second, I thought he might snap my wrist before his brain registered who I was.

Slowly, the tension bled out of his massive frame. His gripened slack, though he didn't let go of my wrist entirely.

“You move too quietly,” he rasped, his voice rough from sleep and poison.

“You sweat too much,” I retorted, trying to keep my voice steady despite my racing pulse. “I was just trying to bring your fever down. You're welcome, by the way.”

Dominic stared at my wrist, then slowly released his hold, pulling his hand back against the sheets. He won, his shoulder muscle pulling tight.

“You shouldn't be in here,” he argued, rubbing his eyes. “If someone comes through that door—” “Then they'll have to deal with a maid holding a very wet washcloth,” I interrupted dryly. “Quit playing martyr, Mr. Moretti. It doesn't suit you.”

A faint, dry chuckle escaped his lips, turning into a slight cough. He reached for a fresh, uncontaminated glass of water I had set out earlier, managing to lift it myself this time without shaking.

“You're an infuriating woman, Lucy,” he said, taking a slow sip.

“And you're an impossible patient. We make a great team.”

Before he could reply, the heavy oak door unlocked with a sharp click, and Raphael stepped inside. One look at his face told me everything I needed to know. The news wasn't good.

Raphael locked the door behind him, his boots clicking heavily against the floor as he approached the bed. He looked at me, hesitating for a fraction of a second before looking at Dominic.

“Speak,” Dominic ordered, his voice dropping back into its cold, authoritative cadence.

“We checked the security logs for the east wing blind spot,” Raphael said, pulling a folded tablet from his jacket. “The cameras didn't fail. They were manually overridden using an administrator keycard. Only three people in this entire estate possess that level of clearance: you, me… and Elena.”

The name hung in the heavy air like a dropped blade.

Elena. Dominic's fiancée.

A cold shiver raced down my spine. I had seen her twice in my seventeen days here—a stunning, impeccably polished woman with diamond earrings and a smile that never quite her reached cold blue eyes. She moved through the mansion like a ghost of high society, entirely out of place among the guns and bodyguards, yet completely at home in the luxury.

Dominic didn't react immediately. His face became an absolute mask of carved granite. The temperature in the room dropped so fast I could almost see my breath.

“Are you certain?” Dominic asked quietly. The quietness of his voice was far more terrifying than a shout.

“The digital footprint points straight to her private study terminal,” Raphael confirmed, handing the tablet over. “Furthermore, one of the kitchen staff reported seeing her walking down the east wing landing carrying a small silver flask around six-thirty this morning—right before you woke up.”

Dominic stared at the screen, scrolling through the encrypted log files with a thumb that didn't shake at all. Every trace of vulnerability he had shown earlier disappeared, replaced by the lethal predator the city whispered about in dark alleyways.

“Where is she now?” Dominic asked.

“In the West Parlor,” Raphael replied. “Waiting for the morning news. She thinks the poison hasn't taken full effect yet, or she's waiting to see if you're dead before she calls her father's syndicate associates.”

Dominic threw the blankets off his legs, swinging his feet onto the floor with a low grunt of pain. His black shirt strained across his broad shoulders as he stood up, swaying slightly before catching his balance against the bedpost.

“Mr. Moretti, what are you doing?!” I hissed, stepped forward. “You're still recovering from a gunshot wound and chemical poisoning! You can't just walk out of here—”

“Watch me,” he interrupted, his voice slicing through the air. He reached into the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out a heavy, matte-black Glock, checking the magazine with a sharp, metallic click before tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.

He looked down at me, his dark eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful intensity.

“Lucy,” he said, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “Stay in this room. Lock the door behind us. Whatever happens out there tonight, it's about to get very ugly.”

Before I could argue, he turned to Raphael, and the two of them strode toward the door.

As the heavy oak clicked shut, locking me inside once again, I looked down at the damp washcloth in my hand.