"THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME “A STUPID LITTLE MAID” WHEN I PULLED A HALF-BURNED WOODEN BOX FROM THE FIREPLACE—BUT WHEN LUCA SAW WHO HAD CARVED “FOR DAD” INTO THE LID, HE STOOD UP.

Luca stood in the center of the foyer for a moment, letting the silence stretch. He turned his cold gaze onto the twenty-nine wealthy guests who were still standing around like statues.

“The engagement is off,” Luca announced flatly. “The dinner is canceled. Please find your coats and have a safe trip home.”

Nobody argued. Within ninety seconds, the foyer was a chaotic blur of billionaires scrambling for their overcoats and rushing for their limousines, eager to escape the wrath of Chicago’s most dangerous man.

Once the massive house was finally empty of outsiders, Luca let out a long, heavy exhale. He rolled his broad shoulders, as if shedding a physical weight. He turned back to the stairs, placing a large, gentle hand on Matteo’s shoulder, pulling his son close to his side.

Then, he turned his attention to me.

I was still standing by the library doors, clutching my right wrist. The adrenaline was fading, and the burning pain in my hand was becoming unbearable.

Luca walked over to me, his dark eyes softening considerably.

“Claire,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“You reached into a fire for my family tonight,” he said, looking down at my blistering, soot-stained palm. He reached out and gently touched the burned wooden box he was still holding, cradling it like it was the most valuable artifact on earth.

He looked up, meeting my eyes with intense sincerity. “You are not cleaning floors in this house anymore. From now on, you manage this estate. You oversee the staff, you handle the schedules, and you answer only to me and Matteo. Your salary just tripled.”

I was so stunned I forgot about the pain in my hand for a second. “Mr. Moretti, I… thank you, but I don't—”

“It’s not a request,” he said, offering a ghost of a smile. He turned his head and shouted for one of his men. “Get the private physician down here immediately. Treat her hand. Give her whatever she needs.”

As the doctor, who lived on the estate grounds, rushed forward with a medical bag, Matteo looked up at his father. His tears had finally stopped, replaced by a cautious hope.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, buddy?”