The mafia boss came home early and found his fiancée doing something to his maid that ended their engagement that night

Luca did not blink. The silence between them had the density of lead.

"Get out," Luca said.

Bianca laughed, a sharp, nervous sound that died against the heavy damask curtains. "Luca, be serious. Look at what she did. She had your files in her apron pocket. Sophia found them when she did the quarterly inventory of the service quarters."

"I told you," Luca said, his voice dropping into the register that made grown men in Brooklyn and Jersey check the exits, "to get out. Sophia, leave the grounds within ten minutes. If your car is still idling past the gatehouse at five past seven, my men will crush it with you inside."

Sophia did not look at Bianca. She dropped the leather crop onto the mahogany floor, backed away with her palms flat against her skirt, and bolted through the sitting room doors into the gallery.

"You're siding with domestic staff over your fiancée?" Bianca’s voice climbed an octave, shrill with disbelief. Her manicured nails dug into the strap of her handbag. "We are uniting two families in eight weeks! My father has twenty million dollars in logistics already committed to the docks!"

Luca stepped around Emma. He towered over Bianca, blocking out the chandelier light. He looked down at the woman he had spent six months courting out of cold political utility. She was beautiful, pale, and polished, but beneath the diamond studs and tailored wool lay an arrogance that had finally outrun her intellect.

"There is no wedding," Luca said simply.

Bianca’s breath hitched. "What?"

"Take off the ring."

"Luca, you cannot be serious—"

"Take it off, Bianca, or I will have Marco cut the finger off to retrieve it."

The coldness in his tone was absolute. Bianca stared at him, searching for the crack, the hesitation, the leverage. She found none. Trembling with rage rather than sorrow, she wrenched the five-carat emerald-cut diamond from her left hand and threw it at his chest. It struck his charcoal lapel with a dull tap and rolled across the Persian rug.

"My father will bury you for this," she whispered, her veneer completely cracking into venom. "He will pull every union worker from the piers by midnight."

"Tell Vincente to come himself," Luca replied. "Now get out of my house before I remember the bruise on that girl’s arm."

Bianca turned on her designer heels and marched out, the slam of the heavy double doors echoing through the vaulted hall like a gunshot.

Luca stood motionless for three seconds. He picked up the ring with two fingers, dropped it into his trouser pocket alongside his knife, and turned to Emma.

She was still sitting on the wooden chair, though she had drawn her knees together. Her linen uniform was torn at the shoulder seam, exposing pale skin marked by a rising purple welt where the crop’s tip had snapped around her bicep. Her dark eyes followed his every movement with an unnerving, calculating stillness.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

She stood. Her knees gave a faint shudder, but she caught herself against the armrest before he could touch her. She did not flinch away from him, but she did not lean toward him either.

"Dr. Vane is on his way," Luca said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. "He will examine your arms and document the contusions."

"I don't need a doctor, Mr. Moretti. I need ice and thirty minutes to pack my trunk."

Luca paused, his thumb hovering over the screen. "You aren't leaving."

"I was accused of corporate espionage by your prospective bride," Emma said, her voice steady, low, and devoid of the deference expected of a junior parlor maid. "Regardless of whether you broke the engagement, staying under this roof makes me a liability to you and a target for the Romano family."

"You said you couldn't tell me yet," Luca countered, stepping closer until he was within arm's reach. He studied the symmetry of her face, the defiant slant of her jaw, the complete absence of tears. "What does Bianca think you know?"

Emma looked toward the door, where footsteps approached. "Not here. And not until your house is secure."

Marco, Luca’s head of security, appeared in the doorway, breathing hard, his coat still wet from the sudden November rain outside. "Boss. Sophia left. Bianca’s town car just cleared the outer perimeter. What are your orders?"

"Put four men on the gate," Luca ordered without turning. "Double the exterior patrols along the river bluff. And have Mrs. Gable prepare the guest suite on the second floor—the east corner, next to my study."

Marco blinked, his gaze flicking from Luca to Emma and back. "For Miss Carter?"