The mafia boss’s little boy hit every nanny who came near him. Then he smashed a wooden train into the new poor maid, kicked her in the knee, lifted his fist again… and kissed her instead. The one who went pale was not the maid. It was his father.

By October, the leaves in Central Park had turned amber. One late evening, after Leo finally fell asleep without tears, Cameron stepped onto the rooftop terrace for air.

“You’re troubled.”

She turned to find Matteo standing a few feet away, holding two crystal flutes of champagne. His tie was gone, his collar open.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“That is not what you look like when you are fine.” He walked to the stone railing, leaning beside her. “Your mother had a good scan this week. The doctors are optimistic.”

Cameron looked at him, surprised. “Thank you. But you only did it because you're used to solving problems with money.”

Matteo turned his head, his dark eyes fixing onto hers. “And did it solve yours?”

“Not all of them,” she whispered.

Matteo reached up, his rough fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. The intimacy of the gesture made her pulse stumble. “Cameron. You gave my son something back. Do you understand what that means to me?”

He leaned in. His mouth brushed hers once, tentative, before deepening into a warm, breathless kiss. His heart was hammering against her flat palm. But just as the world began to melt away, reality crashed back into Cameron's mind. A dark, terrifying realization she had been harboring for days.

She pulled away, breathless.

Matteo’s expression instantly darkened into predator mode. “What is it? If someone in this house has touched you—”