Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Moretti estate, but inside the grand dining room, the atmosphere had dropped below freezing.

Luca took the micro-SD card and the miniature brass key from my palm. His fingers brushed against my skin—calloused, warm, and rock-steady despite the chaos unraveling around us.

“Marco,” Luca commanded, stepping back out into the torrential rain with both dogs shielded under the protection of his guards. “Take Mrs. Bellini to the wine cellar. Lock the iron gate. Post two men outside. No water, no phone, no light until I come down.”

“Luca, you can’t do this to me!” Vanessa shrieked, kicking wildly as two burly security guards grabbed her by her bare shoulders. “My father is the most powerful man in Cook County! You touch a hair on my head and the Commission will tear the Moretti family into pieces! You hear me? You’re dead, Luca! You’re dead!”

Her screams faded as the guards dragged her across the soaked lawn toward the cellar entrance.

Luca turned to the rest of the security detail. “Clear the guests. Tell them the engagement is permanently terminated due to irreconcilable family differences. If any of them ask questions, remind them of what happened to the Castiglione family when they meddled in Moretti business.”

“Understood, Boss,” Marco nodded, racing off toward the mansion to clear the stunned socialites.

Luca stood in the rain, looking down at me. Rain soaked through my thin uniform, making my teeth chatter.

“Emma,” he said softly.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“You’re shivering.” He shifted Bella into his left arm, stripped off his heavy charcoal overcoat with his free hand, and draped it over my shoulders. The wool was thick, heavy, and radiated his warmth and a faint scent of cedarwood and high-end tobacco. It swallowed my small frame whole.

“Sir, I can’t wear this,” I protested, my face heating up. “I’m just the housekeeper.”

“Tonight, you are the only person in this house whose hands aren't covered in filth,” Luca said evenly. “Carry Bella. Follow me to my private quarters.”

We bypassed the main hall where confused guests were being ushered into their limousines by stone-faced guards. Instead, Luca led me up the private spiral staircase directly to the penthouse wing of the mansion—a sanctuary that even Vanessa had rarely been allowed to enter.

The private study was lined with thousands of leather-bound books, an enormous stone fireplace, and heavy velvet curtains. Luca immediately walked over to the hearth, struck a match, and ignited the seasoned oak logs. A crackling, golden warmth filled the room.

He laid Bruno down on a plush sheepskin rug directly in front of the flames. The old dog groaned in pure relief, resting his gray chin between his paws. Luca then took Bella from my arms and set her down beside her father. Bruno immediately began licking the pup’s ears, his tail thumping weakly against the floor.

“Sit,” Luca ordered, pointing to a deep leather armchair.

“Mr. Moretti, I should get back to the kitchen, clean up the dining room—”

“Sit down, Emma.”

The authority in his voice left no room for argument. I sank into the massive chair, still wrapped in his coat.

Luca walked over to a wet bar, poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass, and handed it to me. “Drink it. It will stop the shaking.”

I took a small sip. The liquid burned down my throat, but it sent a burst of heat through my freezing veins.

Luca didn't pour a drink for himself. Instead, he pulled an encrypted laptop from a hidden drawer in his mahogany desk, inserted the micro-SD card into an adapter, and slid it into the port.

Green lines of code reflected in the dark irises of his eyes.

“My father died of sudden heart failure fourteen months ago,” Luca said quietly, staring at the screen. “Or at least, that was the official medical report signed by the Bellini family’s personal physician.”

My eyes widened. “You think… she hurt him?”

“My father was old-school. He believed in honor, loyalty, and blood. But he was also paranoid,” Luca continued, tapping keys rapidly. “Before he died, he told me that if anything ever happened to him unexpectedly, the truth was hidden ‘with the guardian of the gate.’ I tore his properties apart looking for a safe, a lockbox, a burial plot. I never imagined he meant Bruno’s collar.”

He clicked a file. An audio recording began to play through the high-end speakers.

The voice was raspy, frail, but distinctly authoritative—Roberto Moretti.

*“Luca, my son… if you are listening to this, then Salvatore Bellini and his daughter have made their move. The digital ledger on this drive contains the off-the-books bank accounts they used to funnel cartel money through our docks. Vanessa agreed to marry you not out of affection, but to consolidate our territory before they put a bullet in your head. Protect the family. Trust no one who carries the Bellini name.”*

The recording clicked off.

A silence so profound settled over the study that the only sound was the snapping of burning pine in the hearth.

Luca’s face was unreadable, carved from cold granite. He closed the laptop.

“How long have you worked here, Emma?” he asked.

“Eight months, sir.”

“Why did you take this job? You have an associate degree in accounting. I read your employment file when you were hired.”

I gripped the crystal glass tightly. “My brother, Leo. He needed surgery after a hit-and-run accident last year. The medical bills piled up, and my mother was about to lose our childhood home. The housekeeping agency offered double the standard wage for the Moretti estate because of… well, because of the strict non-disclosure agreements.”

Luca leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. “Vanessa knew who you were. When she offered you that hundred-dollar bill tonight, she wasn't just paying you off. She wanted you complicit. If you had taken that money, she would have called the police, accused you of stealing the dog, and had you eliminated in a jail cell to keep you quiet.”

A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the rain. “She wanted to frame me?”