"Two tequila shots into my twenty-sixth birthday, I poked Boston’s most feared crime boss in the chest twice and watched an entire nightclub go silent. Less than a minute later, a bullet shattered the pillar where my head had been, Matteo Conti threw me over his shoulder, and a chaotic escape turned into a terrifying realization: the shooter had seen us, and now my life belonged to a dangerous mafia boss who already knew my deepest secrets."

Before I could even reach for the door handle, Matteo pushed his side open and stepped out into the freezing November air. A second later, my door clicked and pulled open.

“Out,” Matteo commanded, extending a large, dark hand toward me.

I looked at his hand, then up at his face, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. “I can walk, Conti. I’m twenty-six, not an invalid.”

“Twenty-six,” he murmured, dropping his hand as I scrambled out of the SUV, nearly tripping over the hem of my thin cocktail waitress skirt. The biting cold hit me instantly, cutting straight through my clothes. I shivered violently, crossing my arms over my chest. “Happy birthday, Chloe.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” I snapped, marching past him up the stone steps. “If this is how you celebrate, I’d hate to see your Christmases.”

Leo Mercer, who had arrived in the lead vehicle, stepped out from the shadows near the double doors, holding a secure tablet. “Boss, the perimeter is locked down. Intelligence says the shooter was a freelancer out of Southie—name of Miller. Tied to the Moretti crew.”

Matteo’s face hardened instantly. The subtle warmth that had flickered in his eyes during the car ride vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, glacial granite.

“Moretti,” Matteo repeated, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. “Giannis is getting bold.”

“He knows the port acquisitions go through final vote next week,” Leo replied smoothly, casting a cautious glance in my direction. “He’s trying to rattle the board.”

“He didn't rattle anything,” Matteo said coldly. “He just declared war.”

I stood shivering in the grand foyer, listening to them discuss a gang war like they were talking about weather patterns. The foyer was breathtaking—high vaulted ceilings, a sweeping dual staircase of dark mahogany, a massive crystal chandelier that cast intricate patterns across the polished marble floor, and paintings that looked like they belonged in the Museum of Fine Arts.

It was stunning. It was also a golden cage.

“Excuse me!” I raised my voice, stepping away from the front door. “Since we’ve established that your corporate enemies are using my workplace for target practice, I’d like to call an Uber and go check on my mother.”

Matteo turned his attention back to me, unbuttoning his blood-stained suit jacket and tossing it carelessly onto a side table.

“You aren't leaving this estate, Chloe,” he said, his tone absolute.

“Try and stop me,” I challenged, marching toward the heavy front doors.

Leo moved with terrifying speed, stepping in front of the exit before I could reach the brass handle. He didn't touch me, but his presence was a brick wall.

“Ms. Vance,” Leo said politely, though his eyes were completely dead. “The front gate is electrified, the perimeter is monitored by heat-seeking cameras, and there are three snipers currently positioned on the roof. If you walk out those doors, you won't make it to the end of the driveway before someone puts a round through your coat.”

I spun around to face Matteo, who was slowly walking toward me across the marble floor, his expression unreadable.

“Are you holding me hostage?” I demanded, my voice cracking slightly with a mix of fury and mounting panic.

“I am keeping you alive,” Matteo corrected calmly, stopping a few feet away. Up close, his height was intimidating—he towered over me, radiating a quiet, dangerous energy that made every instinct in my body scream to run. “Miller saw you standing with me. He saw you touch me. In his world, that makes you a target by association. The moment you step off this property, you are exposed.”

“This is insane!” I yelled, tears of frustration finally pricking at the corners of my eyes. I refused to let them fall. I had worked too hard, fought too hard, and cried too many nights over medical bills to break down in front of a mafia boss. “I have a life! I have rent! I have a mother who needs me to show up tomorrow morning with forty dollars so she can get her physical therapy supplies!”

Matteo stared at me for a long, silent moment. His slate-grey eyes softened just a fraction, registering the raw desperation beneath my anger.

He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a sleek leather wallet, extracted a crisp, folded hundred-dollar bill, and held it out toward me.

I slapped his hand away. The bill fluttered down onto the marble floor.

“Keep your blood money, Conti,” I hissed, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “I work for my cash. I don't take charity from men who dodge bullets for a living.”

Instead of getting angry, Matteo slowly crouched down, picked up the hundred-dollar bill, and laid it neatly on the mahogany entry table.

“It’s not charity,” he said quietly, straightening up to his full height. “It’s an advance on your new job.”

I froze. “My what?”

“Starting tomorrow morning, you are no longer a bartender at the Velvet Room,” Matteo said, turning toward the grand staircase. “You are employed here. As my personal assistant.”

I blinked, dumbfounded. “Your... your what? Are you out of your mind? I don't want to be your assistant! I don't know the first thing about running a criminal syndicate!”

“You managed a Saturday night rush at the Velvet Room while dealing with broken glass, hostile clientele, and an assassination attempt,” Matteo called back over his shoulder as he began walking up the stairs. “Running my schedule will be a walk in the park.”

“Conti! Get back down here! You can’t just hire me against my will!”