The door to the private office was heavy, and the girl had to push it open with her whole shoulder.

The morning sun broke over Long Island Sound with a harsh, unyielding glare, burning away the remnants of the nocturnal rain. By nine o'clock, Luca was seated at his mahogany desk, though the papers before him remained untouched. His mind was anchored entirely to the bruises on Elena’s wrist and the cryptic warning she had given him in the dark of the carriage house.

Some debts cannot be settled with a gun.

The intercom on his desk chimed softly.

"Boss," Marco Bellini’s voice crackled through the small speaker. "You have a visitor in the main parlor. Senator Romano and his daughter. They're early."

Luca closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the irritation wash over him like cold water. "Send them up."

"Up to the private office? Are you sure? Isabella usually prefers the ground-floor solarium."

"Send them up, Marco."

A minute later, the heavy oak doors swung open. Isabella Romano entered the room with the effortless, practiced grace of a woman who had been raised to inherit half of New York’s political machinery. She wore a tailored cream-colored wool coat over a silk dress, her dark hair pulled back into a sophisticated chignon that exposed a throat adorned with a simple, expensive diamond pendant.

Behind her walked her father, Senator Vincent Romano, a heavy-set man with iron-gray hair and the cold, dead eyes of a career politician who knew how to smile while signing a death warrant.

"Luca, my boy," Vincent boomed, stepping forward with his hand outstretched, a masterclass in false warmth. "Look at this view. Every time I come here, I envy you this stretch of the coast. Don't you agree, Isabella?"

Isabella smiled, her lips parting just enough to show teeth that were faultlessly straight. She crossed the room, leaning down to press a dry, calculated kiss to Luca's cheek.

"The view is magnificent, Father," Isabella said, her voice like chimes in a winter chapel. "Though I think once we're married, the east wing could use a complete redesign. The current decor is a bit... gothic for my taste."

Luca didn't stand. He remained seated behind his massive desk, his hands resting flat against the leather blotter, right where Mia's small palms had rested yesterday afternoon.

"The estate stays as it is," Luca said quietly.

Isabella’s smile flickered—just for a microsecond—before snapping back into place. "Of course, darling. We have plenty of time to discuss interior design after the wedding. Father and I actually came by to finalize the guest list with the caterers."

Vincent Romano took a seat uninvited in the chair across the desk—the very chair Mia had occupied during her interrogation of the world. The senator leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the wood.

"Luca," Vincent began, his tone dropping into a confidential, conspiratorial purr. "There’s a small matter regarding the dock expansion permits in Queens. The zoning board is dragging their feet. I told them my future son-in-law was a reasonable man, but patience has its limits. I assume your men can... encourage them to move a bit faster?"

Luca stared at the senator. He thought of Elena’s wrist. He thought of the quiet, desolate carriage house. He thought of a three-year-old child telling him she wanted no one to make her mommy cry anymore.

"The dock project is on hold, Vincent," Luca said flatly.

The senator’s jovial expression froze. "On hold? We discussed this last month. The capital has already been allocated—"

"I said it's on hold," Luca repeated, his voice dropping an octave, cutting through the heavy air of the study like a butcher's knife. "We have enough irons in the fire. I’m not bribing the Queens zoning board this month."

Isabella stepped in smoothly, placing a manicured hand on her father’s shoulder, her eyes fixed on Luca with a mixture of warning and fascination.

"Luca, darling, you've been working too hard," she chided, stepping around the desk to lay her hand lightly on his shoulder. Her fingers brushed the fabric of his jacket with the delicate touch of a spider testing its web. "You look stressed. Perhaps the wedding preparations are getting to be too much. Father only wants to help protect our mutual interests."

As she leaned in, her coat parted slightly, and the faint, unmistakable scent of expensive French perfume mingled with something else—a sharp, metallic tang of iron.

Luca’s nostrils flared.

It was the same scent he had caught in the west corridor two nights ago. The smell of cheap brandied tobacco mixed with stale sweat. The exact scent that had lingered outside the domestic staff quarters when Elena had refused to name her attacker.

Luca slowly turned his head to look up at his fiancée. Isabella’s smile was still flawless, but her eyes—those clear, intelligent brown eyes—were watching him with the predatory focus of a hawk tracking a rabbit through high grass.

"Isabella," Luca said softly, his gaze locked onto hers. "Do you ever visit the domestic quarters?"