The champagne glass hit me before I understood someone had thrown it.

Two days later, I discovered what Damian meant by "living arrangements."

My discharge from Northwestern was handled like a military extraction. I was wheeled through a private underground service corridor directly into the back of a black, armor-plated Mercedes-Maybach with tinted windows thick enough to stop a hunting rifle round.

I sat in the plush leather backseat, clad in brand-new cashmere sweatpants and a soft gray sweater that someone had bought in my exact size, complete with the tags cut off. Beside me sat Damian, reviewing documents on a slim tablet.

“Mr. Vescari,” I began, bracing an arm against my aching ribs as the car took a smooth corner onto Lake Shore Drive. “I appreciate everything. Truly. But I need to go home. My cat needs to be fed, my landlord is going to change the locks if I don’t pay the deposit on the radiator repair, and—”

“Your cat is currently in the care of a reputable private veterinarian in Lincoln Park,” Damian replied smoothly without looking up from his tablet. “He is healthy, vaccinated, and eating salmon-grade wet food. Your landlord in Pilsen has been paid six months’ rent in cash, and your lease has been terminated without penalty.”

I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. “You broke my lease?”

He finally lowered the screen, fixing his dark eyes on me. “Your apartment in Pilsen is on the second floor of a four-unit walk-up with a broken front lock and no security cameras. The man who threw that lead glass at Bellamy House was an operative hired by the Moretti family.”

The name meant nothing to me, but the lethal edge in Damian’s tone told me everything.

“They wanted to cripple me,” Damian continued calmly. “To send a message that my home is fragile. By stepping in front of Luca, you inserted yourself into a feud that predates your birth. If they know you survived, and if they know Luca cares about you, your Pilsen walk-up is a death trap.”

The air inside the car felt suddenly thin. “I’m a server, Mr. Vescari. I serve crab cakes and clear champagne flutes. I don’t belong in… whatever world this is.”

“You belong wherever you are safe,” he countered. “And until I clean out the filth that organized this hit, the safest place on this continent is my home.”

The car turned off the highway, entering an affluent enclave in Lake Forest. High wrought-iron gates swung open automatically before us, flanked by stone gatehouses manned by armed guards in dark suits. We rolled down a winding, tree-lined driveway bordered by towering oaks and pristine lawns, finally pulling up in front of a sprawling, limestone estate that looked more like an English manor than an American residence.

The driver opened my door. Damian stepped out first, extending his hand toward me.

For a second, I hesitated. Accepting his hand felt like stepping over an invisible boundary between my ordinary, struggling life and something far darker, grander, and irreversible.

But my flank screamed in protest as I moved, and my legs wobbled.

Damian didn’t wait for my pride to fail. He slid one powerful arm around my waist, supporting almost all of my weight with effortless strength, keeping his touch careful around my bandaged side.

“I can walk,” I protested weakly.

“I am aware,” he murmured near my ear, his cologne—cedarwood and black pepper—wrapping around my senses. “You may walk when you are inside.”

Before we even reached the double oak doors, they flew open.

A small blur in gray flannel trousers and a dinosaur sweater exploded down the stone steps.

“Emma!”

“Luca, stop!” Damian’s voice cracked like a whip, firm and commanding.

The boy skidded to a halt on the bottom step, his hazel eyes wide with excitement and sudden remorse. He clamped his hands behind his back. “Papa said I can’t jump on you because you have stitches.”

Despite the throbbing pain, my chest swelled with unexpected warmth. “That’s very considerate of you, Luca.”

He looked up at me, his lip trembling slightly. “Are you gonna stay? Papa said you were coming to live here so nobody hurts you anymore.”

I glanced up at Damian. His profile was carved from stone, giving away nothing.

“She is staying for her recovery,” Damian answered for me, leading me gently past the foyer.

The interior of the house was breathtaking—vaulted ceilings with exposed timber beams, vast Persian rugs covering dark walnut floors, and tall windows that looked out over a sprawling terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. It was breathtaking, but it was also a fortress. I noticed the reinforced steel doorframes, the discreet security cameras tucked into every crown molding, and the presence of silent, stone-faced men stationed at the perimeter.

“Mrs. Gable will show you to your suite,” Damian said, turning to an older, warm-faced woman in a simple charcoal dress waiting near the grand staircase. “Your suite connects to the west garden. You will have full access to the library, the grounds, and the kitchen. You will not leave the perimeter without Marco.”

It sounded half like hospitality, half like a golden prison.

“And my job?” I asked, meeting his gaze squarely. “I work for a living, Damian.”

Using his first name felt daring, almost reckless. His eyebrow arched slightly, the faint scar shifting.

“You have a new job, Miss Carter,” he said quietly, stepping closer so only I could hear. “Luca has had three private tutors quit this month because he refuses to speak to anyone who isn't me. He talks to you. You will keep him company, help him with his studies, and let my staff heal your wounds.”

“And what do you get out of this?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Damian looked down at his son, who was quietly watching us from the bottom step, clutching that same plastic dinosaur.