THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME SERVE HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER WITH MY HAIR COVERING ONE EYE

I didn't make it to the east gate.

I was halfway down the dimly lit underground service tunnel that connected the main manor to the detached carriage house when the heavy iron security door at the end of the corridor clicked open with a sharp, hydraulic hiss.

Stepping out from the shadows was Matteo—Luca Moretti’s primary enforcer and personal shadow.

Matteo was six-foot-four, built like an armored tank, with a scarred cheek and dead, calculating eyes. He didn't carry weapons out in the open, but everyone in the household knew that underneath his custom wool overcoat rested twin customized SIG Sauer pistols and a combat blade that had seen more blood than an operating table.

"Leaving early, Olivia?" Matteo asked, his voice flat, devoid of warmth.

"Marco told me to go home," I said, clutching my canvas purse against my ribs like a shield. "Mr. Moretti relieved me from the dinner."

"Marco takes orders from Mr. Moretti," Matteo said, stepping aside and gesturing back toward the main stairwell with a slight flick of his head. "And Mr. Moretti didn't tell you to leave the property. He told you to leave the dining room."

"I... I need to go home, Matteo. I have to check on my mother—"

"The boss wants you in the third-floor library," Matteo interrupted, his tone leaving zero room for debate or negotiation. "Now."

Cold terror flooded my veins.

The third floor was Luca’s private sanctuary. No domestic staff were ever allowed on the third floor without explicit, direct accompaniment. It was where the estate's war room, master vault, and private quarters were located.

I knew there was no running from Matteo. If I bolted, he would tackle me before I took three steps.

"Alright," I whispered, swallowing the lump of bile rising in my dry throat. "I'm coming."

We took the private elevator straight to the third floor, bypassing the noise and music echoing from the banquet hall below. When the elevator doors slid open with a muted chime, the contrast was staggering.

The third floor was dead silent. The air smelled of aged cedarwood, expensive Cuban tobacco, and rich leather.

Matteo walked me down the long, dimly lit gallery lined with centuries-old oil paintings of Venetian harbors and Florentine warlords. At the end of the hallway stood a set of towering double doors carved from black walnut.

Matteo knocked twice.

"Enter," Luca’s deep voice resonated through the wood.

Matteo opened the door, pushed it wide, and gestured for me to enter. As soon as I stepped onto the thick, emerald-green wool rug, Matteo pulled the doors shut behind me, remaining in the hallway.

The library was massive, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves accessible by rolling brass ladders. A roaring fire burned in the large stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the room.

Luca sat behind an enormous desk carved from a solid slab of petrified wood.

He had removed his suit jacket, tossing it over the leather arm of a nearby chair. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the dark, intricate sleeve of geometric and mythological tattoos running down to his wrists. In his right hand, he held a crystal tumbler filled with two fingers of amber bourbon.

On the corner of the desk sat an ice bucket, a clean linen cloth, and a medical first-aid kit.

"Sit down, Olivia," Luca said without looking up from a stack of financial manifests spread before him.

My legs felt like lead, but I forced myself to walk toward the two high-backed leather armchairs opposite his desk. I sat on the very edge of the cushion, my posture rigid, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I was certain he could hear it.

"Take off your coat," he ordered.

I unzipped my winter coat and let it slip off my shoulders onto the back of the chair.

Luca set his bourbon down with a quiet thud. He stood up, towering over the desk, and walked slowly around the mahogany perimeter until he was standing right in front of me.

Up close, the sheer physical gravity of the man was suffocating. He carried the scent of sandalwood, crisp rain, and the faint, unmistakable tang of gun oil.

He reached down, picked up the linen cloth, dipped it into the ice bucket, and wrung out the excess water. Then, without a word of warning, he leaned down, placed his large, warm hand under my chin, and tilted my face upward into the light of the fire.

I flinched instinctively, gasping at the sharp spike of pain in my cheekbone.

"Be still," he murmured. His voice wasn't cruel; it was remarkably steady, possessing the calm authority of a surgeon about to make an incision.

He gently pressed the cold, damp cloth against my swollen cheek. The sudden relief of the cold against the burning heat of the bruise made my breath hitch, and a single tear escaped my uninjured right eye, tracing a path down my cheek.

Luca’s thumb moved, catching the tear before it could fall, his rough calloused skin brushing against my jawline with shocking tenderness.

"You're a terrible liar, Olivia," he said softly, his dark eyes studying every millimeter of the damage on my face. "You have been in my house for nine months. You have never dropped a plate. You have never broken a glass. You walk through these halls like a ghost who is terrified of leaving footprints."

I couldn't breathe. His face was barely six inches from mine.

"You didn't hit a pantry door," Luca continued, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark whisper. "A door leaves a broad, flat contusion. This... this is the impact of an ornate corner. A table. And these faint red marks along your hairline... those are fingernail impressions. Someone grabbed your hair and drove your face down."