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

Over the next five days, Adrian dismantled the Castiglione syndicate with a ruthless, calculated efficiency that sent shockwaves through the New York underworld.

Warehouses in Queens burned to the ground. Three shipping containers of illicit pharmaceuticals were seized by federal agents tipped off by anonymous, impeccably detailed coordinates. Two high-ranking captains of the rival family vanished from their country clubs in broad daylight, never to be seen again.

Through it all, Claire did not leave the fourth floor.

Adrian had forbidden it. He had moved her belongings from the damp staff annex in the basement up to the guest suite directly adjacent to his own, connected by a heavy interior double door that remained unlocked at all times.

A private physician had tended to her sprained ankle, wrapping it in supportive bandages. Every meal was prepared by a private chef and brought to her room by Marco himself, who now treated Claire with the stiff, formal deference usually reserved for a cardinal or a head of state.

“Your luncheon, Miss Bennett,” Marco said on Tuesday, setting a silver tray of braised short ribs and roasted vegetables on her mahogany desk.

Claire looked at the massive spread in bewilderment. “Marco, this is too much food. I can’t eat all of this.”

Marco bowed slightly from the waist. “The boss was very specific about your caloric intake, Miss Bennett. He informed me that if you lose so much as one pound while under his roof, he will hold me personally responsible.”

Claire’s mouth fell open. “He said that?”

“Word for word, ma’am. He also instructed me to inform you that you are expected in the library at eight o'clock tonight. Formal attire.”

“Formal attire? I don't own formal attire. I have two uniforms and three pairs of jeans.”

Marco pointed toward the armoire in the corner of the room. “The packages arrived from Manhattan an hour ago.”

When Marco left, Claire walked over to the armoire and pulled the carved doors open.

Inside hung five evening gowns. They were not the sample-size, pencil-thin silhouettes she saw in fashion magazines. They were masterpieces of cut silk, velvet, and structured satin—designed specifically to celebrate wide hips, deep cleavages, and soft, voluptuous curves.

At the bottom of the wardrobe sat three pairs of designer shoes and an emerald velvet jewelry box.

Claire opened the box. Resting on the dark fabric was a vintage diamond collar necklace, each stone the size of a hazelnut, catching the afternoon sunlight and scattering prismatic fire across the ceiling.

Pinned to the velvet was a handwritten note in sharp, elegant cursive:

*Stop hiding your beauty from the world, Claire. It belongs to me now.*

*— Adrian*

Claire pressed the note to her chest, her knees shaking as tears stung her eyes. For the first time in thirty years, someone didn't want her to shrink.