The first time the Mafia boss’s baby reached for me, I thought he wanted the silver necklace around my throat. The second time, I realized he wanted me—and by the third, his father had stopped looking irritated and started looking genuinely afraid.

The Grand Ballroom of the Bellevue Hotel was a glittering sea of champagne, diamonds, and predators in tuxedos.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the five-story vaulted ceiling, throwing fractured light across hundreds of Pennsylvania’s most powerful figures. On the surface, it was a high-society charity event. In reality, it was neutral territory—a demilitarized zone where rival syndicates smiled across shrimp cocktails while calculating the trajectory of their next strike.

I felt entirely out of place, yet utterly transformed.

Luca’s stylists had arrived at the estate at noon. The result was a bespoke emerald-green silk gown with an asymmetrical neckline that hugged my curves and pooled gracefully at my feet. My dark hair was swept into an intricate, elegant chignon, and around my neck hung a delicate diamond pendant—loaned from the Moretti vault.

Beside me, Luca was devastating.

His black tuxedo was cut with razor-sharp precision, emphasizing his broad shoulders and commanding height. His dark hair was styled back, the scar along his jawline standing out like a badge of honor. He walked with the effortless, lethal grace of an apex predator strolling through his hunting grounds.

And nestled against my chest in an ultra-luxurious, custom velvet carrier was Leo.

Dressed in a tiny black suit with a white collar, the ten-month-old was the absolute star of the room. He didn't cry. He sucked on a teething ring, his gray-blue eyes wide with wonder at the sparkling lights, his little fingers occasionally reaching up to touch the silk of my dress.

“Breathe, Avery,” Luca murmured, his hand resting casually, proprietarily, on the small of my back. The heat of his palm burned straight through the silk. “You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad.”

“I am,” I muttered through a polished smile. “Every single person in this room is staring at us.”

“They aren't staring at us,” Luca countered, his lips grazing my ear as he leaned down, making a public show of intimacy that sent my heart racing. “They are staring at you. Wondering who the woman is that tamed the Moretti beast and brought his heir back into the light.”

“Luca—”

Before I could finish, the crowd parted, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

A man approached us, flanked by two bodyguards whose hands were tucked conspicuously inside their tailored jackets. He was younger than Luca, perhaps thirty-four, with slicked-back blonde hair, pale, predatory eyes, and a cruel, symmetrical smile that didn't reach his face.

Julian Romano.

“Luca,” Julian drawled, holding out a manicured hand. “It’s been too long. The whole room was taking bets on whether you’d emerge from your fortress tonight.”

Luca didn't take the hand. He didn't even look at it. He stood entirely still, his hand remaining firmly anchored on my lower back, his thumb rubbing a slow, warning circle against my spine.

“Romano,” Luca said, his voice flat, devoid of any inflection. “I see your father sent the spare instead of the heir.”

Julian’s smile tightened for a fraction of a second, an ugly flash of rage darting across his eyes before being smoothed away. His gaze drifted from Luca, down to Leo, and finally landed on me.

He looked at me the way a wolf looks at an unguarded lamb.

“And who is this exquisite creature?” Julian purred, stepping half an inch closer. “Surely not another tragic bride, Luca? You burn through them so quickly.”

The silence that enveloped our small circle was instantaneous and suffocating. Dante, who was standing four feet behind us, shifted his weight, his coat clearing his sidearm by half an inch.

Before Luca could move, before violence could erupt on the polished marble floor of the Bellevue, I stepped forward.

I didn't cower. I looked Julian Romano dead in his pale, dead eyes, shifting Leo slightly so the baby’s face was nestled safely against my collarbone, away from the man’s toxic presence.

“I am Avery Whitmore,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady over the murmur of the ballroom. “And you’re standing in our way, Mr. Romano. The baby needs fresh air, and frankly, the air over here smells stale.”

A collective intake of breath swept through the eavesdropping socialites nearby.

Julian’s eyes widened in genuine shock. A dark, ugly sneer curled his lip. “Careful, little girl. You might find out the hard way that pretty things in Luca’s orbit have a habit of exploding.”

The words had barely left Julian’s mouth when Luca moved.

It was faster than thought. Luca’s left hand shot out like an iron vise, wrapping completely around Julian’s throat. With terrifying, effortless strength, Luca lifted the younger man off his heels, shoving him back against an ornate marble pillar with a sickening *crack*.

Glasses shattered on a nearby tray. Women gasped. Romano’s bodyguards reached for their jackets, but before their hands could clear leather, Dante and three other plainclothes Moretti men had suppressed pistols pressed directly against their ribs.

The entire ballroom froze in terror.

Luca didn't raise his voice. He leaned in, his face inches from Julian’s purple, gasping features, his scar stark white against his flushed skin.

“Speak about my wife again,” Luca whispered, every word carved from raw malice, “and I will tear your tongue from your throat and feed it to the dogs in your father’s yard. Look at Avery again, and you won't live long enough to regret it. Do you understand me, Julian?”

Julian choked, his hands clawing uselessly at Luca’s iron grip. He managed a frantic, terrified nod.

Luca released him. Julian collapsed to the marble floor, coughing violently, clutching his bruised throat.

Luca didn't spare him another glance. He turned back to me, adjusted his cuffs as if he had merely brushed lint from his lapel, and offered me his arm.