TAKE THAT LITTLE GIRL'S MICROPHONE AWAY, YOU IGNORANT LITTLE MAID! SHE HAS NOTHING IMPORTANT TO SAY!”

Within forty-eight hours, the Moretti estate transformed from a luxurious suburban paradise into an impenetrable fortress.

The wrought-iron gates were reinforced with anti-vehicle barriers. Razor wire topped the stone perimeter walls, hidden artfully beneath creeping ivy. Armed guards with assault rifles patrolled the manicured grounds with Belgian Malinois attack dogs, their boots crunching rhythmic patterns across the gravel paths.

On the third floor, my new living quarters were larger than my mother’s entire house. A king-sized bed adorned with silk sheets, a private balcony overlooking the rose gardens, and a walk-in wardrobe stocked with tailored designer clothes that Luca had ordered overnight.

Yet, I still found myself wearing a simple cotton dress as I sat beside Isabella in her bedroom, helping her paint a watercolor portrait of her mother.

“Emily?” Isabella asked, dipping her brush into yellow paint.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you think Daddy is scared?”

I paused, smoothing down a stray curl behind her ear. “Your father is a very brave man, Bella. Why do you ask?”

“Because he didn't sleep again last night,” Isabella said softly, her shoulders slumping. “I woke up at three in the morning to get some water, and he was standing in the dark at the end of the hallway, holding a gun. He looked like an angry shadow.”

A heavy ache settled in my chest. For the past two days, Luca had barely rested. He was constantly on the phone with family lieutenants, coordinating the purge of Bellini-loyal soldiers from the docks, the trucking unions, and the downtown casinos.

“He’s just making sure we're safe, sweet girl,” I comforted her. “Now, finish the sun on this painting. I need to take your father his tea.”

Leaving Isabella under the watchful eye of a vetted bodyguard outside her door, I walked down to Luca’s modern office on the second floor.

The door was slightly ajar. I tapped lightly on the mahogany frame.

“Come,” Luca’s deep voice called out.

I stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with hot chamomile tea and lemon. The room was thick with tension. Maps of the Chicago metropolitan area were pinned to a large corkboard, marked with red and black pins.

Luca was sitting behind his desk, his tie loosened, the top three buttons of his shirt undone to reveal the inked collarbones underneath. He looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

“You shouldn't be wandering the halls alone, Emily,” he said without looking up from a financial ledger.

“There are six armed men between Isabella’s bedroom and your office, Luca,” I replied gently, setting the tea tray down on the edge of his desk. “I think I was reasonably safe during the thirty-second walk.”

Luca looked up, his gaze raking over me. Seeing me in the pale lilac dress instead of the black maid’s apron seemed to catch him off guard. A subtle shift occurred in his posture; his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

“You haven't touched the tea,” I noted.

“I don't drink tea,” he said gruffly.

“You do when you've been running on black coffee and adrenaline for forty-eight hours,” I countered, stepping closer and nudging the porcelain cup toward him. “Drink it. It will help with the headaches you’ve been hiding from Bella.”

Luca stared at the cup, then looked back at me, an amused glint breaking through his exhaustion. “Nobody in this house speaks to me that way, Emily. Even my capos lower their eyes when they enter this room.”

“Then your capos are fools,” I said, crossing my arms. “Fear doesn't keep a man sharp, Luca. Rest does. Isabella noticed you pacing the halls at three in the morning. She’s worried about you.”

At the mention of his daughter, Luca sighed heavily, the iron armor he wore around himself finally cracking. He leaned back in his leather chair, rubbing his temples with his scarred fingers.

“Antonio Bellini has vanished,” Luca confessed, his voice rough. “He emptied his personal accounts in the Bahamas yesterday afternoon. Vanessa was seen boarding a private helicopter out of Gary, Indiana. They didn't retreat to Florida as we expected. They went east. To New York.”

“The Falcone family?” I asked, remembering what Roberto had said.

Luca nodded. “Dominic Falcone has wanted a foothold in Chicago for thirty years. Antonio just handed him the keys. He offered Falcone fifty percent of the Bellini shipping routes in exchange for three hundred hitmen to take my head.”

A chill ran down my spine, but looking at Luca, sitting there carrying the crushing weight of an entire criminal empire alone, I felt an overwhelming urge to comfort him. Without thinking, I stepped behind his chair.

Luca stiffened as my fingers gently rested on his shoulders.

For a second, I thought he would push me away or bark an order for me to leave. But as my thumbs began working out the rock-hard knots of tension in his neck and shoulders, a low, ragged breath escaped his lips.

“Emily...” he murmured, his voice thick.

“Just breathe, Luca,” I whispered, leaning in closer. “You saved Bella. You exposed the truth. Whatever comes next, you won't be facing it in the dark anymore.”

Luca reached up. His large, calloused hand covered mine, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of my wrist. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt of raw electricity straight down to my toes. He tilted his head back, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air between us burn.

“You are too good for this house, Emily,” he rasped. “Too pure for a man soaked in blood.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I answered, holding his gaze without flinching.

Before he could respond, the red landline phone on his desk shrieked with a shrill, piercing ring.

The spell shattered.

Luca dropped his hand and snatched the receiver. “Moretti.”

A frantic voice crackled over the line, loud enough for me to hear.