THE MOMENT THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME A WORTHLESS LITTLE MAID, I PLACED A CHIPPED BOWL OF HOMEMADE CHICKEN SOUP IN FRONT OF HIM AT HIS ENGAGEMENT GALA—BECAUSE HIS OWN MOTHER WAS BANISHED TO WEEP ALONE IN THE BASEMENT KITCHEN

I didn't hesitate.

I untied the starched black apron, folding it neatly and placing it onto the empty chair where Vanessa was supposed to have sat.

I grabbed my plain wool coat from the staff closet near the foyer and followed Luca through the massive carved oak doors.

Outside, the Chicago autumn night was brutal and unforgiving.

A freezing rain was sweeping across Lake Shore Drive, turning the pavement into black sheets of slick ice.

Marco pulled the heavy black Yukon directly to the granite portico, steam billowing from the exhaust.

Luca didn't wait for the driver to open his door; he wrenched it open himself and climbed into the passenger seat.

“Get in the back, Emma,” he commanded, his eyes fixed on the rain-swept driveway.

I climbed into the leather interior, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Barely an hour ago, I had been an invisible worker sweeping breadcrumbs from dining carpets.

Now, I was riding in the personal vehicle of the most dangerous man in northern Illinois, racing against the clock through rain-slicked city streets.

“How much time do we have before the midnight bus departs, Marco?” Luca demanded, gripping the dashboard with white knuckles.

“It’s eleven-twenty now, Boss,” Marco replied, weaving the massive SUV through red lights with sirens hidden behind the grille flashing blue and red.

“If the Michigan regional line is running on schedule, the boarding gate closes at eleven-forty-five.”

Luca stared through the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers.

He didn't speak another word about business, territory, or the millions of dollars that had just been burned by cancelling the Bellini alliance.

His entire existence was narrowed down to twenty-five blocks of wet asphalt.

“Emma,” he spoke into the rearview mirror, his reflection dark and troubled.

“Did she look sick? Did she say she was in pain?”

“She looked exhausted, sir,” I answered honestly, leaning forward between the front bucket seats.

“Her hands were shaking from the cold, and she had walked three miles from the terminal because she didn't want to spend money on a taxi.”

Luca closed his eyes for a split second, a look of sheer agony washing over his chiseled face.

“She never asked me for a single dollar,” he murmured, more to himself than to us.

“I bought her a four-bedroom estate outside Grand Rapids with heated floors and private nurses, and she refused to leave her little two-room cottage because she said it held memories of my father.”

“And I let that snake convince me that keeping her away was protecting her from my world.”

I watched the raw vulnerability in this man, realizing that beneath the terrifying mafia reputation lay a boy who was utterly terrified of losing his anchor.

“She loves you, Mr. Moretti,” I said gently.

“She brought that soup because she thought it was the only thing she had left to offer you.”

Luca’s jaw set into iron.

“Push it faster, Marco.”

The SUV accelerated, tires roaring against the wet highway as we tore down the Kennedy Expressway toward downtown Chicago.

The iconic neon glow of Union Station emerged through the sheet of gray rain at eleven-forty.

Before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop against the yellow curb, Luca kicked his door open into the storm.

He didn't care about an umbrella or his expensive cashmere coat soaking through in seconds.

He sprinted up the massive stone steps like a man possessed, his polished leather shoes splashing through filthy puddles of city water.

I scrambled out after him, running as fast as my legs could carry me through the heavy brass revolving doors.

The historic Great Hall was cavernous, echoing with the distant announcements of late-night departures and the shuffle of weary travelers.

Transient passengers huddled on wooden benches wrapped in cheap sleeping bags.

Luca stood in the center of the vast marble floor, his soaked black hair plastered to his forehead, frantically scanning the sprawling hall.

“Where is Gate Fourteen?” he barked at a passing transit officer.

The officer started to snap back, but seeing the murderous intensity in Luca’s eyes and the tailored cut of his suit, he pointed toward the southern corridor.

“Down the ramp, track six! They’re pulling the gangway now!”

Luca sprinted down the ramp, taking the concrete steps three at a time.

I followed closely, my breath burning in my lungs.