He Hired a Curvy Security Expert to Test His Mansion—By Noon, She Had Broken Into the Mafia Boss’s Home

The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a glittering spectacle of old-world Chicago opulence.

Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from the gilded ceilings, casting fractured light across diamond necklaces, bespoke tuxedos, and silk gowns that cost more than luxury cars. High society mingled with corrupt politicians, while waiters in white waistcoats glided through the crowd carrying silver trays of vintage champagne.

At 8:30 p.m., the heavy double doors opened, and the room seemed to lose its collective breath.

Marco Duca entered the ballroom.

He wore a custom midnight-blue velvet tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist like a glove, radiating dark, undisputed power. But for the first time in Chicago history, nobody was looking at Marco Duca.

Everyone was looking at the woman on his arm.

Tessa Morgan was a vision of absolute, breathtaking decadence.

She wore a backless, emerald-green silk gown that clung to every lush, generous curve of her body like water. The neckline plunged daringly, balanced by the exquisite sophistication of a high side slit that revealed the toned length of her leg with every confident step. Her dark curls cascaded over one shoulder in glossy, polished waves, and her lips were painted a bold, dangerous crimson.

Tucked discreetly into the garter beneath that slit was a carbon-fiber ceramic blade and a miniature wireless packet sniffer.

Marco looked down at her, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that had nothing to do with business.

"You're going to start a riot," Marco murmured near her ear, his hand resting possessively against the small of her bare back. His skin burned where he touched her.

"Let them stare," Tessa replied under her breath, offering a dazzling, radiant smile to a passing federal judge. "It keeps their eyes off my clutch."

Inside the small beaded handbag was a directional antenna calibrated to intercept short-range Bluetooth frequencies from Lorenzo Moretti’s private security detail.

"Enzo is at nine o'clock," Marco said, guiding her smoothly across the marble floor. "Near the ice sculpture. He hasn't looked at me once since we walked in."

"A guilty conscience makes men avoid eye contact," Tessa noted, leaning slightly against Marco’s side as they moved toward the bar. "Moretti, on the other hand, is staring right at us."

Across the crowded room, Lorenzo Moretti stood surrounded by four bodyguards in tailored suits with telltale bulges under their left armpits. Moretti was an older man, silver-haired, gaunt, and vicious, with eyes like a dead fish.

Moretti raised his champagne flute toward Marco in a mockery of a toast.

Marco didn't raise his glass. He merely held Moretti’s gaze with a cold, unblinking promise of annihilation.

"Cal is in position on the fourteenth floor service corridor," Tessa whispered, taking a glass of water from a passing tray. "The digital relay in Moretti’s private suite is currently routing all communications for the dock assault. I need sixty seconds inside that room to clone his operational server."

"The suite is guarded by two of Moretti’s personal killers," Marco said, his voice dropping into a low, protective growl. "I don't like you going up there alone."

Tessa turned to face him, stepping directly into his personal space. Her emerald gown brushed against his tuxedo trousers. She reached up, adjusting his silk bow tie with fingers that were steady, cool, and deliberately lingering against his collar.

"I broke into your house twice, Marco," she murmured, her amber eyes locking onto his with hypnotic confidence. "You think two two-hundred-pound thugs in rented suits can stop me?"

Marco caught her wrist.

His grip was firm, large, and shockingly warm. He pulled her a fraction of an inch closer, his thumb stroking the soft skin of her inner pulse point.

"If anything happens," Marco said, his voice thick with raw, undisguised emotion, "you don't play hero. You pull the distress pin on your clutch, and I will level this entire hotel to get you out."

Tessa felt her breath hitch.

This wasn't an act for the crowd. This was Marco Duca—the man who ruled an underworld empire without mercy—looking at her as if she were the only thing in the entire world that mattered.

"Understood," she whispered.

She pulled her hand free with agonizing slowness, offered him a sultry, private wink, and turned toward the grand staircase leading to the mezzanine.

Marco watched her walk away, every line of her curvy silhouette commanding the room. He took a slow breath, turned his attention back to the ballroom, and locked his eyes onto Enzo Vane.