The mafia boss came home early and found his fiancée doing something to his maid that ended their engagement that night

The following afternoon, the sunlight streaming through the arched windows of Luca’s Manhattan headquarters did nothing to warm the cold, clinical atmosphere of the boardroom.

Seated across the long glass table was Luca’s chief counsel, Salvatore, and his head of security, Dominic.

"The trap is set," Dominic reported, laying a thick manila folder on the table. "We planted a modified version of the Bennett memorandum on an encrypted flash drive. The financial figures look legitimate at first glance, but the primary logistics routing codes are encrypted with a kill-switch virus. The moment Vance opens the file on his primary server, it will scrub his local database and route his offshore account numbers directly to our federal contacts."

Luca leaned back in his leather executive chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His mind wasn't entirely on the corporate war; it wandered back to the way Emma’s hand had felt in his the night before.

"And Bianca?" Luca asked.

"She’s currently staying at her father’s townhouse on the Upper East Side," Salvatore replied, adjusting his glasses. "She’s furious. Word is leaking to the society columns that the wedding is off due to 'irreconcilable differences,' but she’s telling her friends that you threw her out over a jealous dispute with a staff member."

A cold, humorless smile touched the corner of Luca’s mouth. "Let her spin whatever fairy tale she likes. If she or her father try to interfere with Moretti shipping routes, remind them of the debt schedule."

"Consider it done, boss," Dominic said, standing up. "Are we moving forward with the midnight exchange?"

"Yes. Vance thinks he’s getting the documents from an anonymous insider. We’ll let him take the bait."

That evening, back at the Connecticut estate, the atmosphere was entirely different. The oppressive, gilded cage feeling that had lingered under Bianca’s reign was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar, comforting warmth.

Emma was in the ground-floor pantry organizing inventory when the heavy oak door clicked open. Footsteps echoed across the marble foyer—heavy, deliberate steps she recognized instantly.

She stepped out into the hallway just as Luca walked in, loosening his silk tie with one hand while carrying a small paper bag from a high-end downtown bakery in the other.

"You’re home early," Emma said, wiping her hands on her apron.

"The board meeting wrapped up ahead of schedule," Luca said, offering a faint, tired smile. He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. "And I remembered you mentioned last week that you missed the lemon tarts from that little bakery near your sister’s apartment."

Emma stared at the paper bag, touched beyond words. In two years of engagement, Bianca had never once remembered Emma’s favorite pastry—in fact, Bianca couldn't even remember Emma’s last name half the time.

"You didn't have to do that," Emma whispered.

"I wanted to," Luca said simply. He stepped closer, his dark eyes searching her face. "How are your wrists?"

"Healing. The salve worked wonders."

"Good." Luca paused, his gaze lingering on her lips for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. He set the bakery bag gently on the entry table. "Tomorrow night, I have to attend a business dinner in the city. It’s... complicated. But I want you to take the weekend off, Emma. Go stay with your sister. Get away from this house for a couple of days."

"What about your meals? Your schedule?"

"The house can run itself for forty-eight hours," Luca said firmly. "I want you to rest."