I had survived thirteen days working for the most feared mafia boss on the East Coast, but at 3:00 a.m., I was certain Vincent Moretti was finally going to throw me out. He stormed into the nursery with a gun in his hand after hearing his twin daughters scream—only to discover that the nanny he was ready to fire had somehow made his grieving little girls laugh for the first time since their mother died.

The sun dipped below the Atlantic horizon, painting the sky in bruises of deep purple and charcoal gray.

Down in the massive, formal dining room, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a butcher's knife. At the head of the long mahogany table sat Vincent Moretti. To his right sat his younger brother and syndicate underboss, Dante Moretti—a man whose sharp suits and slicked-back dark hair couldn't hide the restless, volatile violence simmering beneath the surface.

And sitting quietly at the opposite end of the table was Elise.

Vincent had insisted she join them for dinner, overriding every protest she had raised. “After today, nobody stays alone in the east wing,” he had told her flatly. “You eat where I can see you.”

Dante twirled a glass of red wine between his fingers, his cold, calculating eyes fixed entirely on Elise.

"So," Dante drawled, breaking the heavy silence with a mocking smile. "This is the famous nanny. The one who puts on puppet shows at three in the morning and makes my stoic older brother break a smile for the first time since Elena died."

Elise kept her fork steady, cutting a piece of roasted chicken on her plate. "Good evening, Mr. Moretti."

"Dante," the underboss corrected smoothly, leaning forward. "Please. 'Mr. Moretti' makes me sound like our late, unlamented father. And call me anything you want, Elise—just don't call me boring. Though I have to admit, bringing domestic staff to the main family table? That’s a new precedent for the Moretti syndicate. What’s next? Are we putting the cook on the board of directors?"

Vincent didn't look up from his plate. He sliced his steak with slow, deliberate precision. "Watch your tone, Dante. Elise isn't staff tonight. She’s a guest."

"A guest?" Dante laughed, a sharp, humorless sound that echoed off the high vaulted ceilings. "Brother, a sniper just put a 7.62 round through the nursery window this afternoon! Every rival family in New York knows our defenses were tested. And you’re sitting here playing domestic bliss with a girl who changes diapers?"

"She saved my daughters from a state of total catatonic shock while you were busy mismanaging the Brooklyn docks," Vincent replied, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal register.

Dante’s smile faded instantly. The tension in the room spiked so sharply Elise felt the hair on her arms stand up.

"I handled the Brooklyn shipment," Dante hissed, slamming his wine glass down onto the wood, splashing red liquid across the white tablecloth. "The Falcone syndicate is pushing us on the pier expansion, Vincent! They don't give a damn about your domestic arrangements! If you're going to let sentimentality blind you to the war at our doorstep, then maybe—"

Clang.

Vincent set his silver fork down. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent room.

He didn't yell. He didn't slam his fist on the table. He simply stood up to his full, imposing height, towering over his brother.

"If you ever question my leadership at my own table again, Dante," Vincent whispered, the sheer menace in his tone freezing the air in the room, "you won't have to worry about the Falcone syndicate. Because you won't live to see sunrise."

Dante stared up at his older brother, his jaw clenching tightly, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his eyes before he masked it behind a cynical sneer. He pushed his chair back, standing up abruptly.

"Enjoy your dinner, brother," Dante muttered, tossing his linen napkin onto the table. He threw one last venomous glance at Elise. "And I hope your new pet enjoys the view while it lasts."

With that, Dante turned and stormed out of the dining room, the heavy doors slamming shut behind him.

A suffocating silence settled over the room.

Elise sat frozen, her appetite entirely vanished. She looked across the long table at Vincent, who had closed his eyes, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose as if trying to stave off a brutal migraine.

"I'm sorry," Elise murmured softly. "I shouldn't have been here for this family argument."

Vincent opened his eyes. The fierce mafia boss was gone, replaced by a man carrying the crushing weight of a collapsing empire and a breaking family. He walked slowly down the length of the table, stopping right beside her chair.

He reached out, his hand gently resting on the back of her chair, his face inches from hers.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Elise," Vincent said, his voice rough and quiet. "My brother is a fool who thinks power is measured in blood. He doesn't understand that what I'm protecting in this house isn't just an empire..."