“THROW THAT FILTHY BOOK IN THE TRASH! NOBODY WANTS HER PEASANT RECIPES AT MY WEDDING!”

The private penthouse atop the DeLuca Tower on Fifth Avenue was silent save for the steady, rhythmic beep of a medical monitor.

Lily woke up slowly.

The ceiling above her was high, painted in soft cream with intricate crown molding. She was lying in an enormous bed draped in Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like spun silk. A soft IV drip was taped to the back of her left hand, and her right shoulder was bound tightly in sterile white surgical bandages.

She turned her head.

Sitting in a high-backed leather armchair beside the bed was Marco DeLuca.

He had removed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and a two-day stubble covered his jaw.

The moment Lily’s eyelids fluttered, Marco leaned forward, placing his hand gently over hers on the mattress.

“Don't try to move,” Marco said softly. His voice was raspy with exhaustion. “The bullet passed through the flesh beneath your collarbone. Clean exit. No bone damage, no arterial tear. Our doctor stitched you up four hours ago.”

Lily swallowed, her throat dry. “Mrs. DeLuca?”

A faint, tender smile touched the corners of Marco’s lips. “She’s in the guest suite down the hall. Sleeping. She refused to close her eyes until the doctor confirmed you were out of danger. She sat in that very chair holding your hand until three in the morning.”

Lily let out a breath she felt she had been holding since yesterday afternoon. “And... Dominic?”

The tenderness in Marco’s face hardened instantly into cold steel.

“Dominic is in federal custody,” Marco replied.

Lily blinked, confused. “Federal custody? I thought... I thought your family handled things... internally.”

Marco leaned closer. “Dominic tried to murder my mother. He brought armed mercenaries into our home. If I handled him internally, Antonio’s ghost would demand I put a bullet in his head. But my mother begged for his life.” Marco paused, his jaw tightening. “So I gave Dominic the one punishment worse than death for a DeLuca.”

“What did you do?”

“I handed him over to the United States Attorney along with the contents of that olive-oil drum,” Marco said coldly. “Dominic signed a full confession implicating Richard Hale, the Whitmore Hospitality board, and six city officials in a thirty-year racketeering conspiracy. Dominic will spend the next fifteen years in a federal penitentiary in Pennsylvania. He will never touch a dollar of DeLuca money again. His name has been erased from the family trust.”

Lily stared at him. “And Richard Hale?”

“Richard was arrested at JFK airport at four this morning trying to board a private charter to Zurich,” Marco said. “His assets are frozen. The Hale name is finished.”

“And Serena?”

Marco’s eyes turned pitch black. “Serena is currently barricaded inside her parents’ estate in Connecticut. The press has surrounded the gates. By noon today, the media will release the marriage certificate showing she was already married when she accepted my ring, along with the corporate fraud charges. She will never show her face in high society again. Her father’s company is bankrupt.”

Marco looked down at Lily’s bandaged shoulder. His hand tightened gently around hers.

“You took a bullet for my mother, Lily.”

“She’s a good woman, Mr. DeLuca,” Lily whispered. “She deserved to be protected.”

“My name is Marco,” he said, his voice dropping low, resonant and deeply intimate. “You don't call me Mr. DeLuca anymore.”

Lily’s heart began to hammer against the medical monitor, the beeping quickening.

Marco noticed, but he didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he reached up with his other hand and gently tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear.

“When you were lying on that kitchen floor covered in blood,” Marco whispered, his dark eyes searching hers with raw vulnerability, “I realized something, Lily.”

“What?” she breathed.

“For five years, I thought I had to marry someone like Serena to protect this family. A woman with a prestigious name, high-society connections, corporate polish. I thought that was how you legitimize an empire built on blood.” Marco shook his head slowly. “I was a fool. Serena would have burned my mother alive for an insurance payout. You... you stood in front of a gun for a woman who only ever gave you Sunday sauce.”

Lily felt tears sting her eyes. “Your mother gave me respect, Marco. In that kitchen, she was the only one who treated me like a human being instead of furniture.”

“Then let me show you what you’re worth to this family,” Marco said.

Before Lily could answer, the bedroom door clicked open.

Maria DeLuca walked in, carrying a small silver tray with a steaming bowl of broth and two freshly baked bread rolls. She looked rested, her eyes bright despite the trauma of the night before.

“Ah, she’s awake,” Maria said, smiling warmly. “Marco, get out of the way. You look like a gargoyle sitting there frightening the poor girl.”

Marco chuckled—a genuine, deep sound Lily had never heard from him before. He stood up, allowing his mother to sit on the edge of the mattress.

“Drink this, Lily,” Maria said, placing the tray gently across Lily’s lap. “It’s Antonio’s chicken broth. The recipe from page twelve. It cures everything except stupidity, which is why Dominic never drank it.”

Lily laughed softly, wincing slightly as her shoulder pulled, but the warmth spreading through her chest had nothing to do with pain.

As she took the spoon from Maria’s hand, she looked up and caught Marco watching her.

The look in his eyes wasn't gratitude.