The door closed on my fingers, and the sound Vanessa made wasn't anger. It was relief. I was nobody — the maid who carried trays and kept her eyes on the floor.

The estate was completely silent by 3:00 AM. The guests were gone, the wedding tent on the lawn sat dark and empty, and the ghost of Vanessa Bellini had been scrubbed from the halls.

Nora sat in the leather wingback chair in Luca’s study. Her right hand was heavily bandaged, set in a specialized splint by the private doctor, and throbbing with a dull, manageable ache thanks to the painkillers.

Across the desk, Luca was pouring two glasses of amber scotch.

He walked over and handed her one. She took it awkwardly with her left hand.

“To survival,” Luca toasted quietly, clinking his glass against hers.

Nora took a sip. The liquid burned her throat, but it grounded her. “You said I’m not a maid anymore. What does that mean?”

Luca sat on the edge of his mahogany desk, looking down at her.

“It means that people with your level of perception, bravery, and loyalty are incredibly rare in my world,” Luca said. “I need people I can trust. I need someone who sees the things everyone else ignores. I want you working for me directly. As my personal aide. The salary will ensure you never worry about a medical bill again.”

Nora stared into her glass. Twelve hours ago, she was carrying coupes and praying to remain invisible. Now, the head of the mafia was offering her a seat at his right hand. She thought of Leo, sleeping safely in the luxurious guest house outside.

“I accept,” Nora said, looking up, her voice steady.

Luca smiled, a genuine, powerful expression.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the study burst open.

Marco stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, an encrypted satellite phone clutched in his hand.

“Boss,” Marco said, his voice laced with urgent panic. “It’s the New York syndicate. They just found out about the canceled wedding. They’re claiming the broken alliance is an act of war.”