THE MAFIA BOSS FOUND ME ON MY KNEES GATHERING SPLINTERED GOLD LEAF WITH A DISLOCATED SHOULDER—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE SLIPPED ON THE CARPET,” BEFORE I COULD ANSWER HIM.

By the time Julian Vance found me on my knees, I had already swept the same patch of parquet flooring three times.

Not because of the gold leaf fragments.

Because the slightest vertical movement of my collarbone sent a blinding flash of white heat across my vision.

My right shoulder hung at an unnatural, sickening angle beneath the dark linen of my workshop blouse, the joint displaced and throbbing in terrible shades of charcoal and violet.

Every shallow breath I dragged into my lungs pulled against the torn ligaments, sending a cold sweat dripping down my temples.

So I stayed on the floor.

Head bowed.

Hands moving mechanically with the horsehair brush.

Invisible.

That was the primary law of survival inside the Vance stronghold.

In the six weeks since I had been contracted to restore the historical portraits in the east wing, the head curator had given me only one piece of advice: do not look at the private couriers, do not question the armed guards outside the archives, and never make a sound when footsteps approach.

I had followed every order to the letter.

Until that afternoon.

“What happened to her shoulder?”

The voice rolled across the gallery floor like heavy thunder over water.

Deep.

Controlled.

Dangerously quiet.

My fingers froze around the wooden handle of the brush.

I didn't have to look up to know whose shadow had crossed the threshold.

Julian Vance.

To the art world and Wall Street, an elusive cultural philanthropist and shipping titan.

To the underworld syndicates operating across New England, the Sovereign—a boss whose quietest whisper could end an entire family line before dawn.

I slowly turned my chin toward the double arched entrance.

He stood near the fluted pillars in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, an unbuttoned overcoat draped across his broad shoulders, his dark gray eyes anchored directly to the deformed contour of my shoulder.

Not to the cracked varnish on the easel.

Not to the gold flakes scattered across the wood.

Only to my injury.

My stomach seized violently.

Before I could force a single breath past my lips, a musical, polished laugh resonated from the corridor beyond.

“She slipped on the edge of the Persian carpet while carrying the retouching palette.”

Genevieve.

His fiancée.

She appeared behind him wearing a tailored cream silk dress, her diamond earrings catching the gallery sconces, her face wearing that smooth, immaculate expression of aristocratic pity.

Almost convincing.

Julian turned his head by a fraction of an inch.

“I asked the restorer.”

The delicate smile on Genevieve’s lips tightened by a hair’s breadth.

Only for an instant.

Her ice-blue eyes cut down to me with venomous clarity: Remember who pays for your mother's hospice care.

My fingers dug into the bristles of the brush.

Julian walked closer.

Each heavy step of his leather dress shoes echoed against the high ceiling with terrifying precision.

When he stopped directly in front of my kneeling form, his shadow completely blotted out the light from the tall arched windows.

“Look up.”

I swallowed the bitter taste of copper.

Then I raised my chin.

His expression was an impenetrable fortress of hard angles, dark bone, and cold intelligence.

“Did you slip on the carpet?”

The truth pressed hard behind my tongue like battery acid.

No.

I hadn't slipped on anything.

Two hours earlier, Genevieve had trapped me inside the conservation vault after accusing me of inspecting the private courier crate placed beside the master canvases.

When I showed her that the crate held modern synthetic pigments instead of seventeenth-century oils—proof that the museum collection was being systematically replaced with forgeries—she had shoved me backward with all her weight.

My shoulder had slammed violently into the heavy bronze pedestal of a Roman bust, knocking the joint entirely out of its socket before I hit the hardwood.

And when I had curled on the floor gasping for air, Genevieve had merely adjusted her platinum watch and whispered,

“Some secrets will put you in a pine box before your career even starts.”

Now she stood eight paces away, arms folded delicately, watching me with cold, expectant malice.

Waiting.

I forced a ragged breath through my teeth.

“Yes, sir.”

Julian’s slate-gray eyes never wavered from mine.

“Where on the rug?”

I hesitated, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.

“Near the center medallion.”

Behind him, Genevieve let out a soft, satisfied sigh.

Julian noticed.

I could tell by the minuscule hardening along his jawline.

Then he sank down onto one knee directly onto the bare floorboards.

A mafia lord who commanded an international syndicate, kneeling on the dusty floor beside an archive assistant.

His gaze moved to the torn seam and the unnatural protrusion of the humerus.

His expression changed.

Not much.

But enough to make the air freeze.

“A slip on a flat wool rug,” he murmured, his voice deadly level, “doesn't cause an anterior glenohumeral dislocation combined with a sharp right-angled contusion from cast bronze.”

My heart stopped beating.

Genevieve laughed nervously, taking a hurried step forward.

“Julian, darling, she’s flustered and embarrassed. You know how clumsy these studio technicians are when they try to hide their own incompetence.”

Julian slowly stood up to his full height.

Then he turned toward his fiancée.

The gallery turned into an icebox.

“What was in that courier crate in the vault, Genevieve?”

Genevieve opened her mouth to scoff, but Julian raised one open hand.

Not to strike her.

To halt her from taking a single step closer.

Then he looked back down at me.

“No one answers for you in this house.”