The champagne glass hit me before I understood someone had thrown it. One second, I was balancing a silver tray beneath the amber chandeliers of Bellamy House, calculating

The black sedan waiting at my apartment curb two days later didn't idle; it purred like a sleeping beast.

I had spent forty-eight hours searching for alternative jobs across Manhattan, applying to diner after diner, but every manager took one look at my reference from Bellamy House and suddenly claimed they weren't hiring. Someone had blacklisted me from every serving gig in the city. When my landlord slid a final eviction warning under my door that Thursday morning, I pulled the heavy black card out of my coat pocket.

The driver, a tall man with a broken nose named Marcus, opened the door without a word. I stepped in, clutching my canvas duffel bag like a shield.

We drove out of the city, away from the familiar dirt of the lower east side, up into the secluded winding hills of Bedford. The gates to the Moretti estate didn't just open; they retreated into massive stone walls wrapped in wrought iron and discreetly mounted security cameras.

The house was breathtaking—a towering stone manor surrounded by dark pines and manicured lawns. But inside, it felt like an armored vault draped in cashmere and marble. Men in dark suits stood at every threshold, their hands resting loosely near their jackets.

Marcus led me through an echoing grand foyer to a sunlit kitchen that looked large enough to feed an army. Standing by the counter, wearing a flour-dusted apron over his tiny navy trousers, was Mateo.

When he saw me, his face lit up. "Claire! You brought the pancake smell!"

A quiet laugh came from the doorway behind me. I turned to find Luca standing there. Gone was the formal tuxedo from Bellamy House; he wore a crisp charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark ink tracing up his skin. But those dark, piercing eyes were unchanged.

"You took your time, Miss Bennett," Luca said, stepping into the kitchen. The guards at the door immediately adjusted their posture.

"I tried to find an honest job first," I answered flatly, refusing to shrink under his gaze.

"And how did that work out?"

"You had me blacklisted, didn't you?"

Luca picked up a espresso cup from the counter, taking a slow sip. "I protected you. The man who threw that champagne glass was Julian Vance, the younger brother of a rival family on the docks. He didn't just lose his temper at Bellamy House; he was disgraced when my men escorted him out. In our world, disgrace turns into vengeance very quickly. If you were working in an open diner on 4th Street, Vance’s men would have used you to send me a message."

A cold chill settled in my throat. "So I'm a target now?"

"You're a guest in my home," Luca corrected, his tone shifting from clinical to absolute. "Under my roof, nobody touches you or Mateo. Out there, you're leverage. Here, you're safe."

"Papa says you're staying for a long time," Mateo piped up, tugging at my jeans. He held out a wooden spoon covered in batter. "Can we make chocolate chip ones?"

I looked down at the boy's earnest, hopeful eyes, then back up at Luca, whose expression remained entirely unreadable. I was trapped in a golden cage surrounded by men with guns, but as I smoothed down Mateo's messy hair, I realized I didn't have anywhere else to go.