“Take that disgusting thing off my table.”

The crystal chandelier above us seemed to hum with oppressive tension.

“What did you say?” Luca’s voice dropped an octave, turning into a chilling whisper that scraped against the polished mahogany walls.

Vanessa stood frozen, her chest heaving beneath the red silk of her gown. She had played her final card, and the desperation in her eyes was palpable. She knew she had crossed a line from which there was no polite retreat, but the mafia boss towering over her was no longer a fiancé—he was the apex predator of the Chicago underworld, and he had just caught the scent of blood.

“She... she blames you,” Vanessa babbled, her hands fluttering nervously. “For your father’s death. Every time she looks at you, she sees the man who pulled the trigger—metaphorically speaking! That’s why she stayed away. That’s why she didn't want to ruin our night!”

I watched Luca’s face. The muscle in his jaw twitched once, twice. But there was no shock in his eyes, only a cold, crushing weight. He had carried the guilt of his father’s assassination for a decade, and hearing Vanessa weaponize it in front of thirty elite guests seemed to snap something inside him.

“My mother has never blamed me for my father,” Luca said quietly, stepping past Vanessa as if she were nothing more than a piece of discarded furniture. He didn't look at her again. He turned his dark gaze directly toward me. “Emma. Get your coat.”

“Sir?” I blinked, surprised.

“You’re coming with me to Union Station. You’re the only person in this mausoleum who showed her an ounce of human decency. I want to know everything she said to you.”

“Luca! You can’t leave me here! Not like this!” Vanessa shrieked, tears finally spilling over her carefully contoured cheeks, ruining her makeup. “The press is outside! The Governor is coming at nine!”

Luca paused at the grand double doors of the dining room. He didn't turn around.

“Tell the Governor I had an emergency,” he said flatly. “And Vanessa? When I get back, pack your things. You have until midnight to clear your clothes out of my master suite.”

The gasps around the table were audible. Vanessa let out a shrill, hysterical cry and lunged forward, but two of Luca’s personal bodyguards—massive men in black suits who had materialized from the shadows—instantly stepped forward, blocking her path with unyielding arms.

I didn't wait to see the aftermath. I scurried out of the dining room behind Luca, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Within three minutes, we were in the back of a bulletproof black Maybach slicing through the slick, rain-swept streets of Chicago. The interior was silent save for the low hum of the climate control and the rhythmic *thump-thump* of the windshield wipers clearing away the pouring rain.

Luca sat in the corner of the plush leather seat, staring straight ahead. The streetlights flashed across his sharp cheekbones, casting dramatic shadows over his face. I sat rigidly on the opposite side, my hands gripping my small purse.

“The envelope,” Luca said suddenly, his voice breaking the heavy silence.

I jumped slightly, then reached into my apron pocket and pulled out the small, slightly crumpled white envelope. I extended it across the center console.

Luca took it. His large, scarred fingers handled the paper with an unexpected gentleness. He slid out the photograph and the handwritten note. As he read the words—*I know you have a beautiful new life now, sweetheart. I'm proud of you. I just wish I could have seen you tonight*—a muscle clenched in his jaw.

“She was wearing her good cardigan,” I murmured softly, unable to stop myself. “The blue one with the pearl buttons. She told me she took the bus for four hours because she wanted to surprise you. She didn't want to bother you, Mr. Moretti. She just wanted to hand you a jar of homemade peach preserves and see your smile.”

Luca closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. When he opened them, the coldness had vanished, replaced by a raw, burning grief that made him look remarkably human.

“She called me before she left the kitchen,” I continued, swallowing the lump in my throat. “She told me not to be sad for her. She said, ‘Emma, a mother’s love isn't invited to parties; it just shows up where it’s needed.’”

Luca let out a slow, ragged breath. He looked down at the photograph of his younger self sitting on a worn wooden kitchen counter, laughing with a younger, vibrant Maria Moretti.

“Vanessa lied about everything,” Luca muttered, his voice laced with sudden, lethal venom. “Not just tonight. For months, she’s been screening my mother’s calls. She told me my mother refused to speak to me after I took over the syndicate. She systematically cut her out of my life.”

“Why would she do that?” I asked, horrified.

“Because my mother owns thirty percent of Moretti Logistics,” Luca said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “And Vanessa thought that once we were married, she could pressure me into signing over the voting rights. She thought my mother was an obstacle to be swept under the rug.”

The Maybach slowed to a smooth stop outside the grand, limestone arches of Chicago’s Union Station. The rain pelted the glass roof, creating a muffled cocoon inside the luxurious vehicle.

“Stay in the car, Emma,” Luca ordered as the driver popped the locks.

“Sir, let me come with you,” I pleaded, unbuckling my seatbelt. “She trusts me. If she sees a familiar face from the kitchen, she won't run. But if a mafia boss in a tuxedo marches up to her with three bodyguards, she’s going to think the mob caught up with her.”

Luca stared at me, surprised by my boldness. A faint, humorless smirk touched the corner of his lips.