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

Luca’s expression hardened instantly. The relaxed warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp focus of a predator who had just scented danger.

"Stay here, Emma," Luca commanded, his voice dropping into an absolute, non-negotiable tone.

"Luca, what’s happening?"

"Vance thinks he can ambush me at my own home," Luca said, turning toward the heavy oak doors and drawing a sleek 9mm pistol from his shoulder holster with fluid, practiced ease. "Lock the reinforced pantry door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me or Dominic."

Before Emma could protest, Luca slipped out into the cold night air, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

Panic seized Emma’s chest. She didn't lock herself in the pantry. Instead, she ran up the grand staircase to the second-floor landing, where the heavy arched windows overlooked the front courtyard and the sweeping gravel driveway.

Below, the scene was illuminated by the harsh amber glare of the security floodlights.

Three black town cars blocked the main entrance. Marcus Vance—tall, silver-haired, and wearing an expensive wool overcoat—stood near the fountain with four armed enforcers flanking him. Luca stood ten paces away, his hands loosely at his sides, completely unfazed by the numerical disadvantage.

"You’re trespassing, Marcus," Luca’s voice carried up clearly through the crisp night air.

"Am I?" Vance laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Word on the street is your fiancée got tossed out on her ear last night, Luca. Looks like your empire is starting to crack at the seams. And look who else is here—or rather, not here."

From one of the black town cars, a figure stepped out into the floodlight glare.

Emma gasped, pressing her hands against the cold window glass.

It was Bianca.

She looked frantic, her hair slightly disheveled, clinging to Vance’s arm as if she were a desperate captive rather than a willing participant.

"Tell him, Marcus!" Bianca shrieked, pointing toward the house. "Tell him what you're going to do to his precious estate! He humiliated me in front of high society! He ruined my life!"

Vance smiled smoothly. "You see, Luca? The lady wants payback. And she happened to bring us the real, unencrypted blueprints for your entire shipping network. All you have to do is sign over the Docks 4 through 9 operating rights, and we walk away."

Upstairs, Emma’s heart hammered against her ribs. She knew the blueprints weren't in the house—they were locked in the main corporate vault downtown. Vance and Bianca were bluffing, trying to intimidate Luca into giving up his most valuable assets under duress.

Suddenly, Emma heard a soft click behind her.

She spun around.

Standing at the top of the service stairs, holding a silenced pistol with a steady, practiced grip, was one of Bianca’s former private bodyguards who had somehow slipped past the perimeter defense.

"Don't move a muscle, sweetheart," the guard sneered, stepping onto the landing. "Mr. Vance wants a hostage to ensure Mr. Moretti signs the transfer papers."

Emma’s mind raced. She didn't panic. Two years of working in a mafia household had taught her one vital lesson: never show weakness to a man holding a weapon.

As the guard stepped closer, reaching out to grab her arm, Emma lunged forward, grabbing a heavy brass floor vase from the hallway table and smashing it directly across the guard’s shoulder.

He cursed, stumbling sideways, but managed to regain his footing, swinging the butt of his pistol toward her head.

Emma ducked just in time, the weapon grazing her hair. She spun around, kicking backward with the full force of her boot into his knee joint. With a sharp crack, the guard collapsed to the Persian rug, groaning in agony as his pistol skittered across the floor.