"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."

By my third week at the Conti estate, I had mastered the art of organizing Matteo’s impossible schedule, filtering out the desperate politicians, aggressive rival lieutenants, and shady corporate contractors who constantly demanded his attention.

Leo Mercer had slowly stopped looking at me like I was a ticking time bomb and started treating me like an annoying younger sister—which, in the Conti syndicate, was practically high praise.

“Here,” Leo said on a freezing Tuesday afternoon, dropping a heavy black leather folder onto my desk in the outer office. “The port acquisition contracts for Pier 14. The boss wants them cross-referenced against the municipal zoning permits before three o’clock.”

I looked up from my laptop, raising an eyebrow. “Leo, I’m an assistant, not a federal prosecutor. Why are we dealing with municipal zoning?”

“Because,” Leo said with a dry, humorless smirk, “Moretti’s shell companies are trying to block our permits through city council bribes. The boss wants to beat them to the punch.”

I opened the folder, scanning the dense legal jargon. My mind, sharp and analytical from years of managing accounts while putting myself through night school, immediately latched onto a glaring discrepancy in the paperwork.

“Wait a minute,” I muttered, tracing my finger down page four. “This zoning clause... it was amended two days ago. Look at the filing date. It’s backdated.”

Leo leaned over my shoulder, his brow furrowing. “Son of a bitch. Moretti’s lawyers forged the municipal stamp.”

“Not just forged,” I said, a competitive spark igniting in my chest. “They filed it through an intermediary firm registered in Delaware. If we pull the tax records for that firm, we can tie Moretti directly to municipal fraud.”

Leo stared at me for three seconds in absolute silence. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, kid.”

When Matteo walked into the office ten minutes later, I didn't wait for him to greet me. I stood up, holding the folder out like a trophy.

“Your rival is an amateur,” I announced proudly.

Matteo stopped in his tracks, looking at me with genuine surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Moretti’s team tried to forge the zoning permits for Pier 14 using a shell company in Delaware,” I explained, pointing directly to the fraudulent filing number. “If you authorize my sister—who happens to be a forensic accountant at a downtown firm—to pull the wire transfers, we can expose the bribe in federal court before the board vote on Friday.”

Matteo stared at the document, then slowly raised his gaze to my face. A slow, genuine smile spread across his handsome features—a smile that chased away the cold, dangerous aura he usually carried like armor.

“Remind me,” Matteo murmured, stepping closer to my desk, “why I didn't hire you years ago?”