His curvy housekeeper slept outside his bedroom every night, and the reason made the mafia boss forget how to breathe.

By 4:30 A.M., the house was crawling with Adrian’s inner circle.

Marco had arrived with eight trusted enforcers. The bodies had been rolled into heavy plastic sheeting and loaded into the back of an unmarked laundry van. Two men with industrial steam vacuums and bleach were scrubbing the marble corridor, eradicating every trace of the violence that had transpired forty minutes prior.

Adrian stood in the doorway of his master suite, watching the cleanup. He had showered, washed the blood from his hands, and changed into a clean black cashmere sweater and dark trousers.

He turned and walked back into the closet.

Claire was still there. She was sitting with her back against the walnut shelving, her knees drawn up, her eyes wide as she listened to the low voices outside. When Adrian appeared, she flinched slightly, then visibly relaxed, her shoulders dropping.

“It’s over,” Adrian said softly.

He held out his hand. Claire took it without hesitation this time.

He pulled her to her feet, but when she attempted to put weight on her left foot, she hissed in pain. Her ankle was swollen, stiff from hours of sitting twisted on the cold marble floor.

Before she could apologize, Adrian scooped her into his arms again.

“Mr. Moretti, I can walk—I’m too heavy—”

“Shut up, Claire,” he said, not unkindly.

He carried her out of the closet and laid her down on the center of his massive, king-sized bed. The sheets were 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton, cool and smooth beneath her rough flannel pajamas. She felt absurdly out of place, a scuffed penny resting in a velvet jewelry box.

Adrian pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down. He lifted her left foot, resting her bare heel in his broad palm.

Claire tried to pull her leg back. “Please, Mr. Moretti. My feet are dirty. I was barefoot on the floor.”

“Stop hiding from me,” he commanded, his thumb stroking the arch of her foot with deliberate care. “Your ankle is sprained. You sat on freezing stone for two hours to save my life, and you’re worried about my bedsheets?”

“I didn't save your life,” she whispered, looking down at his hands on her skin. “You killed them all in five seconds. You didn't need me.”

Adrian paused. He set her foot down on the mattress, stood up, and leaned over the bed, trapping her between his arms as his hands planted on the pillows on either side of her head.

The sheer physical proximity made Claire’s breath stutter. Adrian’s dark hair was still slightly damp from the shower, curling against his forehead. His face was inches from hers, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that pinned her far more effectively than his weapons ever could.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Adrian said, every syllable hard as iron. “If you hadn't been outside that door, they would have breached my terrace while I was half-asleep. They had numbers. They had the element of surprise. I might have taken three of them, but Russo would have put a bullet in the back of my head.”

He reached out, his knuckles brushing gently against the soft curve of her jaw, trailing down the side of her neck to where her pulse fluttered like a captured sparrow.

“You saved my life, Claire Bennett. And in my world, a debt like that is paid with everything I own.”

“I don’t want your money,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.