THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME “AN IGNORANT LITTLE MAID” WHEN I REFUSED TO BLAME HIS RESTAURANT MANAGER—THEN LUCA REALIZED I HAD UNDERSTOOD EVERY WORD SHE SAID IN ITALIAN.

The thirty-two guests were still seated around the mahogany table.

Nobody had moved. The estate’s armed security detail stood at five-pace intervals along the perimeter walls, their posture relaxed yet undeniably lethal.

Luca walked into the room, wearing his tailored charcoal jacket once more, his white cuffs immaculate, his presence radiating absolute, undisputed authority.

And walking at his right side, dressed in an elegant navy silk shirt and tailored slacks that Mrs. Gable had brought down from the master guest wing, was me.

Luca didn’t take his seat at the head of the table immediately.

He walked to the center of the room, stopped beside Marco Santori, and rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Gentlemen,” Luca addressed the assembly, his resonant baritone filling every corner of the vaulted hall. “Tonight, an engagement that was arranged to unite two ancient dynasties was dissolved.”

He looked at the thirty-two business leaders and syndicate underbosses who held the commercial reins of the Midwest.

“Vanessa Bellini has been expelled from this house. Her family’s logistics charters have been permanently revoked. Every contract, every warehouse lease, and every shipping route previously granted to the Bellini syndicate in this territory is being transferred into the Moretti Hospitality and Maritime Trust.”

He paused, letting the magnitude of the announcement settle over the room.

Then his gaze swept across three older capos who had been sitting near the center of the table—men who had supported Vanessa’s suggestions earlier in the evening.

“Some of you in this room knew about Salvatore Bellini’s debts in Mexico,” Luca continued, his voice dropping into that chilling, razor-sharp register that made grown men break into a cold sweat. “Some of you were promised five percent of the northern distribution corridor if Marco Santori was forced out of his post tonight.”

The three capos went completely white, averting their eyes, their hands trembling against their wine glasses.

“I am not going to execute you tonight,” Luca said softly. “Because tonight, our house is honoring its roots. But understand this: if any man at this table ever questions Marco Santori’s authority, or attempts to bring dirty cartel money into my commercial supply lines, his business will cease to exist before sunrise.”

The three capos nodded in frantic, desperate agreement.

“We stand with you, Don Luca,” the senior underboss from River North declared, raising his crystal water goblet in a solemn salute. “Now and always.”

Luca turned his gaze onto me.

He pulled out the heavy mahogany armchair directly to his right—the place setting that had been reserved for the Donna of the Moretti empire.

He looked at me with open, breathtaking respect.

“Emma, please sit.”

I took my seat gracefully, smoothing the navy silk over my lap, feeling the warmth of thirty-two pairs of eyes watching me not as a domestic cleaner, but as the woman who held the ear of the king.

Luca sat down at the head of the table.

He picked up his wine glass, raising it high beneath the sparkling Swarovski chandeliers.

“A toast, gentlemen,” Luca commanded, his voice rich and deep with genuine warmth. “To Marco Santori, who protected my honor. And to Emma Reed, the daughter of Taylor Street, who reminded this house that truth is the only language that matters.”