THE MAFIA BOSS HEARD VANESSA CLAIM THE MIRROR WAS FOR PHOTOGRAPHS EVEN THOUGH LUCA HAD NEVER REQUESTED IT

“Can you stand?” Luca asked.

I tried to push myself up from the armchair.

My legs buckled immediately.

The blood loss wasn't massive, but the sheer terror and the physical strain of holding up a three-hundred-pound mirror for forty minutes had completely depleted my muscles.

Before my knees could hit the ground, two strong arms caught me.

Luca lifted me into his arms effortlessly.

I felt so small against his chest.

His dress shirt smelled crisp, laced with tobacco and faint cedar.

“Mr. Moretti, please... I’ll ruin your shirt with blood,” I gasped, trying to pull my lacerated arms back.

“Be quiet, Claire,” he ordered softly.

He carried me out of the dining room.

We passed through the long portrait gallery.

The remaining staff—two kitchen maids and the head butler, Mr. Henderson—stood pressed against the wall, their eyes wide with shock.

They had never seen Luca Moretti carry anyone.

He was the man who ordered executions with a flick of his wrist.

He was the ruthless boss who controlled the docks, the trucking lines, and the city’s underground empire.

Yet here he was, carrying a battered maid through the grand hall as if she were made of spun glass.

He kicked open the door to the east wing library.

Dr. Evans, a middle-aged physician with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, was already laying out surgical tools on a mahogany table.

“Put her on the sofa, Luca,” the doctor said briskly.

Luca laid me down carefully on the long emerald velvet couch.

He pulled a small leather ottoman over and sat right beside my head.

He didn't leave.

“Doctor,” Luca said, his voice flat. “Examine everything. Clean every cut. If she needs stitches, use the finest nylon thread. I don't want a single permanent scar left on her body.”

“I will do my best, Luca,” Dr. Evans said, snapping on latex gloves.

The doctor carefully peeled away the shredded sleeves of my black uniform.

When the fabric pulled away from the dried blood on my forearms, I couldn't stop a sharp whimper from escaping my lips.

Luca’s hand immediately reached out.

He caught my right hand in his.

His palm was calloused and warm.

The heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger pressed against my knuckles.

“Squeeze my hand if it hurts,” he said.

I stared into his dark gray eyes.

They were intense, completely focused on me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti,” I whispered. “I should have told you earlier. I should have come to your office this morning.”

“You tried to protect this house by yourself,” Luca replied. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Dr. Evans applied iodine solution to the cuts on my forearms.

A searing, burning pain exploded across my skin.

I gasped, squeezing Luca’s hand with all the strength left in my fingers.

He didn't flinch.

He didn't pull away.

His grip remained steady, grounding me like an anchor in a storm.

“These aren't from broken porcelain,” Dr. Evans muttered, examining the clean, linear incisions. “These are deliberate knife slices. Shallow, designed to inflict pain without hitting major arteries. Psychological torture.”

Luca’s jaw set into stone once more.

“Her face?” Luca asked.

Dr. Evans gently turned my chin.

“Heavy contusion on the left cheekbone. Likely struck with a heavy ring or an open backhand. The lip has a split that requires two butterfly bandages, but no deep sutures needed. Her legs, however...”

The doctor carefully cut through the remnants of my stockings.

Across my calves were several jagged slashes.

“She used the heel of her shoe here,” Dr. Evans observed quietly. “Stiletto heel stomped against the shin.”

A low, rumbling growl vibrated in Luca’s chest.

It sounded less like a man and more like a caged beast ready to rip its bars open.

“How long to heal?” Luca asked.

“Two to three weeks for the skin to close,” Dr. Evans said. “She needs bed rest. High-protein diet. No work. Absolutely no physical labor.”

“She will stay in the master suite on the third floor,” Luca declared.

I widened my eyes.

“Mr. Moretti, no! The master suite is yours! The staff quarters are on the ground floor—”

“The staff quarters have no private security guards,” Luca cut me off, his voice brooking zero debate. “Until Romano’s network in this city is incinerated, you are a target, Claire. You saw the Cicero maintenance crew. You heard Vanessa’s phone call. Romano will know you were the one who broke the wire.”

Fear spiked in my chest again.

“Romano knows who I am?”

“He will by midnight,” Luca said grimly. “When his receiver goes dead and Vanessa fails to deliver the port codes, he will send scouts to check this house. If they discover you ruined their multimillion-dollar trap, they will want your head.”

He leaned closer to me.

“Do you understand me? You stay by my side. Where I can see you.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti.”

Dr. Evans finished cleaning the wounds and wrapped my arms and calves in sterile white gauze.

The soothing cooling cream began to numb the throbbing pain.

“She needs sleep now, Luca,” the doctor said, packing away his instruments. “I gave her a mild sedative with the painkiller. She will be out for at least eight hours.”

Luca nodded.

He stood up, scooped me back into his arms along with his cashmere jacket, and carried me out of the library.

My eyelids were already growing heavy.

The edges of my vision blurred into soft shadows.

I felt the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my ear as he carried me up the wide spiral staircase to the third floor.

A massive carved double door opened.

The scent of cedar, aged leather, and expensive cologne greeted me.

Luca’s private bedroom.

A sanctuary that no maid, not even the head butler, was allowed to enter without direct permission.

He laid me onto the massive king-sized bed.

The Egyptian cotton sheets felt like clouds against my battered body.

He pulled the heavy duvet over me, tucking it gently around my shoulders.