9 I was just a waitress when I overheard a mafia boss’s wife whispering to her lover that they had sabotaged her husband’s brakes. I ran to warn him, but I was seconds too late. By the time I reached the mountain road, his car was already disappearing over the cliff, and I became the only person close enough to pull him back from death.

For three days, the world outside the Moretti estate was bathed in chaos.

From the balcony of my room, I watched cars arrive and leave the lower courtyard at all hours. News broadcasts aired continuously on the television inside my room. MAFIA TYCOON DANTE MORETTI PRESUMED DEAD AFTER MOUNTAIN CRASH, the banners read. The news showed footage of the charred ravine, police line tape, and a tearful Vanessa Moretti wearing a black veil as she stepped out of a luxury SUV, flanked by a tall man with a dark beard.

I recognized him instantly from the photo Marco had shown me: Julian Rossi, the underboss of the rival Falcone syndicate, and the man wearing the gold signet ring on his pinky finger.

While the city mourned or celebrated the fell of Dante Moretti, inside the estate, Dante was preparing for war.

On the fourth evening, my bedroom door opened, and Marco walked in carrying a large black garment bag.

"Put this on," Marco said briefly. "The boss wants you downstairs in ten minutes."

"What's going on?" I asked, inspecting the bag. Inside was a floor-length emerald green dress made of heavy silk, accompanied by a pair of diamond drop earrings that looked like they cost more than my lifetime earnings at the restaurant.

"Tonight is the reading of the temporary trust and the emergency summit of the East Coast families," Marco said, his jaw tightening. "Vanessa called it here, in this very house. She thinks she owns it now. She's hosting forty heads of the syndicate downstairs to legitimize Julian Rossi taking over Dante’s territories."

My heart did a violent flip. "She's downstairs? Right now?"

"She will be in an hour," Marco said. "Get dressed. Do not touch your makeup—the boss wants your hands wrapped as they are. The bandages tell the story."

Ten minutes later, wearing the emerald silk dress with white bandages wrapped around both of my palms, I was led down a hidden service staircase that opened into Dante’s private study behind a sliding bookcase.

Dante was standing near a marble fireplace, wearing a tailored black suit that concealed his chest wrappings entirely. His dark hair was combed back, his gray eyes cold and focused. When he turned and saw me, his eyes swept over the dress, lingering on the stark white bandages against the rich green fabric.

Something softened in his gaze for a fraction of a second before returning to stone.

"You look like a survivor, Cara," Dante said quietly, walking toward me. "How do you feel?"

"Terrified," I admitted truthfully. "My hands are shaking."

"Good," he said, stopping inches away from me. He reached out with his uninjured right arm and picked up a heavy silver chain from the desk, slipping it over my head. Hanging from the chain was a small, high-tech microphone concealed inside a teardrop jade pendant. "Fear keeps you sharp. But remember this: you are under my shadow tonight. No one in that room can touch you without going through me."

"They think you're a ghost, Dante," I whispered, using his first name without thinking.

"Tonight, I become their nightmare," he replied softly.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the grand corridor outside the study. Dozens of voices—deep, authoritative, and cold—began filling the main ballroom adjacent to the foyer. Laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the arrogant tones of men who believed they had conquered the city floated through the heavy doors.