"THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME FEED HIS LITTLE BOY WITH A BANDAGED HAND—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CUT HERSELF OPENING A CAN IN THE KITCHEN,” BEFORE HE NOTICED THE BANDAGE.

The silence in the dining room hung like a drawn blade. Nobody moved. The kitchen staff standing near the archway held their breath, their eyes glued to the dark marble floor.

"Take off the bandage, Emma," Luca repeated, his voice dropping into a quiet register that carried more weight than a scream.

Isabella stepped forward, her silk dress rustling against the quiet. "Luca, don't be ridiculous. You're scaring Matteo. It's just a routine domestic injury. Do you really need to turn a kitchen mishap into a grand interrogation?"

Luca didn't look at her. He didn't blink. His dark, unyielding gaze remained locked onto mine. "Isabella. If you interrupt me one more time, I will have Mario escort you to your quarters."

Isabella froze, her jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in her cheek. Being publicly threatened with removal in front of house staff was an insult she clearly hadn't anticipated.

My hands trembled violently as I reached for the edge of the medical tape wrapped tight around my right wrist. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I knew what lay beneath that gauze. A jagged, deep laceration across the meat of my palm—and two distinct, deep crescent-shaped bruises on the back of my hand where Isabella’s manicured nails had dug into my flesh to force my fingers around the breaking glass.

A cut from a tin lid was straight and clean.

A glass crush wound accompanied by fingernail indentations was an assault.

"Let me help," a soft voice murmured.

Luca stepped around the mahogany table and dropped to one knee beside my chair. The sheer proximity of the man who ruled Chicago's underground made my breath catch in my throat. He smelled of expensive cedarwood, rain, and faint tobacco.

Slowly, carefully, his large, calloused fingers reached out and touched my wrist. His grip was surprisingly gentle, completely at odds with his terrifying reputation.

"Daddy is helping Miss Emma," Matteo whispered, his small hands holding his spoon, his wide brown eyes watching intently.

Luca unpeeled the tape with surgical precision. Layer by layer, the blood-stained white gauze unravelled, falling onto the dark wood table.

When the final layer came away, the raw truth was exposed to the morning light.

The gash across my palm was ugly, swollen, and caked with dried blood. But surrounding the red wound were five distinct, purple-black bruises tracing the shape of a hand forcefully crushing mine from above—along with three deep, crescent-shaped punctures on the back of my hand where long acrylic nails had sliced through skin.

Luca’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, icy slits.

He didn't speak immediately. He just stared at my hand resting in his palm.

"A can lid," Luca said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "Interesting design for a can."

Isabella took a subtle step back, her pale face draining of what little color it had left. "She... she must have caught her hand on the cabinet hardware while trying to stop herself from falling."

Luca stood up slowly. The air in the room seemed to thin out, turning arctic. He turned to face his fiancée, stepping into her personal space with an authority that made the tall, glamorous woman shrink back.

"A tin can cut," Luca said, taking a slow step toward her. "Cabinet hardware." He took another step. "Tell me, Isabella... when did you start wearing crimson acrylic nails?"

Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. She instinctively tucked her right hand behind her back.

"Show me your hands," Luca commanded.

"Luca, this is insane—"

"SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!"

His roar echoed off the high ceilings, making the crystal chandelier rattle overhead. Matteo gasped, burying his face in my apron. I instinctively wrapped my left arm around the four-year-old, pulling him close against my chest, shielding him from his father's sudden, terrifying rage.

Isabella trembled, slowly bringing her hands into the light. Her right index fingernail was chipped, a small trace of dried, dark blood lodged beneath the acrylic edge.

The room went completely, dead silent.

Luca stared at her finger, his expression transforming from cold irritation into a lethal, terrifying stillness.

"Mario," Luca called out without turning around.

The head of estate security immediately stepped forward from the doorway. "Yes, Boss?"

"Take Isabella to the west wing parlor," Luca ordered, his voice dangerously smooth. "Remove her phone. Lock the doors from the outside. Nobody speaks to her until I walk into that room."

Isabella’s eyes widened in horror. "Luca! You can't treat me like a prisoner! I'm your fiancée! My father is—"

"Your father's alliance with my family is the only reason you are walking out of this dining room on your own two feet," Luca cut her off, his voice flat and void of humanity. "Mario. Now."

Mario grabbed Isabella’s arm firmly. She tried to pull away, her composure completely shattering as she hurled a venomous glare in my direction.

"You miserable little maid!" she shrieked as she was dragged down the marble hallway. "You did this on purpose! You set me up!"

Her screams faded as the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall slammed shut.

The dining room fell back into a heavy, suffocating quiet.

Luca took a deep breath, adjusting the cuffs of his dark suit jacket. The lethal storm in his eyes slowly subsided as he turned back toward the table, looking at his son, who was still trembling against my side.

Luca knelt down beside us once more. He reached out and gently patted Matteo’s head. "It's okay, champ. The noise is gone."

Matteo peeked out from behind my shoulder. "Miss Emma's hand is still hurt, Daddy."

Luca looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine. The terrifying mafia boss was gone, replaced by an intense, probing gaze that seemed to search the very depths of my soul.

"Mario’s driver will take you to my private physician in twenty minutes," Luca said softly, his fingers hovering over my bandaged wrist. "He will stitch it properly."

"Mr. Moretti, please," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I don't want to cause trouble. I can just clean it myself—"

"You didn't cause trouble, Emma," Luca interrupted, his voice firm and absolute. "Someone brought violence into my house, under my roof, against the woman who protects my son."