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

At eight o’clock sharp, Claire descended the grand staircase of the Moretti estate.

She wore the emerald green velvet gown. It was cut off the shoulders, exposing the pale, smooth expanse of her collarbones and the gentle rise of her breasts. The bodice was structured with hidden corsetry that accentuated the dramatic nip of her waist before flaring out over the lush, generous curve of her hips. Her hair was styled in soft, cascading waves over one shoulder, pinned with a single diamond clip.

She felt terrified. She felt magnificent.

Adrian was waiting at the foot of the stairs.

He wore a bespoke black tuxedo with a satin shawl lapel, looking like an emperor carved out of obsidian and granite. When he caught sight of her at the landing, he stopped breathing. His jaw tightened, his pupils dilating until his dark eyes appeared almost entirely black.

He walked toward the base of the stairs, extending his hand.

Claire placed her gloved fingers into his palm. He did not merely take her hand; he brought it to his lips, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the back of her knuckles while keeping his eyes locked onto hers.

“You take the breath right out of my chest, Claire,” he whispered.

“I feel ridiculous,” she admitted, her face warming with a delicate blush. “I’m a housekeeper in a dress that costs more than my mother’s house.”

“You are not a housekeeper,” Adrian said fiercely, tucking her arm securely into the crook of his elbow. “Not anymore.”

He led her not to the private library, but to the grand dining hall.

The massive mahogany table was set for forty guests. Seated around the room were the capos, the underbosses, and the senior soldiers of the Moretti family, accompanied by their polished, glamorous wives. The room had been buzzing with low conversation, but as the double doors opened and Adrian escorted Claire into the hall, the silence was immediate and absolute.

Every eye turned to them.

Claire felt the old urge to shrink—to pull her shoulders forward, to duck her head, to make herself invisible.

Adrian felt the tension in her arm. He covered her hand with his, squeezing firmly.

“Heads up, little bird,” he murmured under his breath. “Show them who holds my heart.”

They walked the length of the dining hall to the head of the table. Adrian pulled out the chair directly to his right—a seat that had remained vacant since his father’s death a decade ago.

Claire sat down, the emerald velvet pooling around her like deep water.

Adrian remained standing. He poured himself a glass of red wine, tapped his knife against the crystal glass, and let the chime resonate through the cavernous hall.

“Listen to me,” Adrian addressed the room, his voice calm, clear, and utterly terrifying in its authority. “Five days ago, Dean Russo betrayed this family. He brought assassins to my terrace. He intended to bury us all.”

A collective murmur rolled through the men.

Adrian raised his hand, and the room snapped shut.

“The man who guards the gate did not stop him. The cameras did not stop him. The only person who stood between this empire and total annihilation was the woman sitting at my right hand.”

Adrian looked down at Claire, his expression softening with an open, undisguised devotion that stunned every hardened killer in the room.

“Her name is Claire Bennett,” Adrian declared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “From this moment forward, her word carries the weight of my own. An insult to her is a death sentence. A disrespect toward her person will be met with the full force of my syndicate. She belongs to the Moretti family. And she belongs to me.”

Adrian raised his glass.

“To Claire.”

Across the long table, Marco was the first to stand. He raised his heavy glass, his scarred face solemn. “To Miss Bennett.”