The Mafia Boss Came Home Early and Found His Fiancée Torturing His Maid, but the Truth Behind Her Silence Was Worse Than He Imagined

The following afternoon, the main mansion felt like the interior of a loaded cannon.

The blood had been scrubbed from the Persian rug in the dining room with industrial cleansers. The air smelled of beeswax, polished brass, and hundreds of white calla lilies that had been delivered by the truckload to decorate the grand ballroom on the second floor. Waiters in black tuxedos moved between long banquet tables set with Waterford crystal and solid sterling silverware.

In the master suite, Emma stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

She barely recognized the woman looking back at her.

The torn maid’s uniform had been incinerated. In its place was a bespoke evening gown of midnight-blue silk, its neckline cut high enough to completely conceal the bandages on her collarbone and shoulder, while the long, fitted sleeves covered the bruised skin of her wrists. Her auburn hair had been styled by a private hairdresser into an elegant, sweeping updo held in place with antique diamond pins that had belonged to Luca’s grandmother.

The door behind her clicked open.

Luca stepped into the room. He wore a custom-tailored black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt and a silk bow tie. He looked every inch the aristocrat, the billionaire industrialist, and the cold-blooded predator who commanded an army of three hundred men.

He stopped two paces behind her, his reflection meeting hers in the glass.

"You look magnificent, Emma," he said softly.

Emma’s heart skipped a beat, a fluttering sensation that made it difficult to catch her breath. "I feel like an imposter. I should be carrying trays of champagne, not wearing silk that costs more than my annual salary."

Luca stepped closer. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. When he snapped it open, a necklace of brilliant-cut diamonds and sapphires glittered against the dark fabric.

"My mother wore this when she entered the Moretti household," Luca murmured. He lifted the necklace from the box, stepped behind her, and gently draped the cold platinum chain around her throat. His knuckles brushed against the sensitive skin of her neck, sending a jolt of electricity straight down her spine.

"Luca..." she whispered, looking at him in the mirror. "This is too much. People will talk. The Romano family will see this."

"That is precisely the point," he said, fastening the clasp. He let his hands rest on her bare shoulders, his thumbs gently brushing the curve of her collarbone. "Tonight, the Romano family needs to understand that their reign is over. They thought they were dealing with a weakened man. They thought they could break the help to break me."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of her ear.

"You are not wearing this as a servant, Emma. Tonight, you sit at the high table beside me. You will watch them realize that every lie they told, every drop of blood they spilled, and every bruise they put on your skin has an exact price."

Emma turned to face him. Her hands reached out, resting against the lapels of his tuxedo. The fabric was smooth, but beneath it, she could feel the hard, unyielding Kevlar vest and the holster beneath his left arm.

"Are you going to kill them all?" she asked quietly.

Luca’s eyes were steady, dark pools of ancient fire. "Only the ones who deserve to die. The rest will spend the rest of their lives wishing they had."

He offered her his arm.

Emma took a deep, steady breath, placed her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow, and nodded.