THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME TEND HIS ORCHIDS WITH A PURPLE WRIST—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE SPRAINED IT LIFTING HEAVY POTS THIS MORNING,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED.

I forced the iron pruning shears to keep cutting anyway.

That was the unwritten law of the Caruso estate.

If your hands bled, you wiped the floor.

If your ribs cracked, you stood straight.

If you were in agony, you made sure no one saw it.

Nero, Dante’s massive silver-furred Caucasian Shepherd, lay curled on the damp flagstones beside my boots, his dark eyes tracking every tremor in my hands, whining softly each time the iron clanked against the terracotta pots.

The damp morning mist clung to the glass panels above us, smelling of wet potting soil, moss, and rain.

I tried to steady my breathing.

Breathe in.

Clip the vine.

Don't drop the shears.

Nero suddenly stood up, his hackles bristling like iron wire.

I nearly dropped the shears against the stone floor.

“Down, Nero,” I whispered, gritting my teeth against the sharp stab shooting up my forearm.

The hundred-and-fifty-pound beast refused to obey.

He stepped closer, pressing his broad, wet nose gently against my swollen wrist.

Animals had a terrifying way of exposing the pain humans were desperate to bury.

“I'm fine, boy. Go lie down.”

Nero stayed planted like an oak tree.

Then the brass handles of the conservatory doors turned with a cold, metallic scrape.

My stomach plummeted into icy darkness.

I didn't have to look up to recognize the heavy, deliberate footsteps clicking against the stone floor.

Dante Caruso.

The Sovereign of the Long Island waterfront.

A man whose name made port commissioners, judges, and rival cartel bosses lower their voices in terror.

I slowly lifted my chin, trying to keep my swollen arm tucked behind my heavy canvas apron.

He stood in the glass doorway wearing a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, an unlit cigar between two fingers, his dark, calculating gaze sweeping the green foliage before locking entirely onto me.

Not onto the exotic blooms.

Not onto the dog.

Onto the unnatural, rigid way I held my right shoulder.

He walked down the narrow brick path toward me, his leather shoes making no sound on the wet moss.

“Good morning, Mr. Caruso.”

His cold obsidian eyes dropped straight to my hands.

“You are using your left hand to hold the shears.”

It wasn't a question; it was a factual indictment.

“The right hand is tired, sir.”

His eyes rose slowly, pinning me in place.

“You are right-handed, Clara.”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Before Dante could take another step, the sharp clatter of designer stilettos echoed across the conservatory entrance.

Giselle Delacroix.

His fiancée stepped inside wrapped in an emerald silk trench coat, her diamond rings flashing beneath the morning light filtering through the glass.

She saw me standing beside the bench.

Then her sharp green eyes flickered to my swollen wrist behind the apron.

Her expression hardened for a fraction of a second before melting into an airy, dismissive smirk.

“She sprained it lifting the ceramic soil pots this morning, Dante.”

The air inside the glasshouse seemed to freeze into solid ice.

Dante stopped walking.

Slowly, with mechanical stillness, he turned his head toward her.

I hadn't spoken a single word to anyone on the estate.

Not to the head butler.

Not to the housekeeper.

Not to the guards at the gate.

And I certainly hadn't been lifting ceramic pots.

Two hours earlier, Giselle had cornered me in the potting shed after Nero dragged a silk-wrapped antique locket out from beneath her dressing room vanity.

I had pried it from the dog's jaws before he could swallow it.

I recognized the engraving on the gold backplate immediately: Maria Caruso — Forever.

It was the personal wedding locket of Dante’s deceased mother, an heirloom that had supposedly been stolen by rival burglars five years ago.

I had intended to hand it directly to Dante.

Giselle had caught me with it in my palm.

“Give that to me, you filthy little gutter rat.”

“It belongs to Mr. Caruso’s mother, Miss Delacroix.”

“It belongs to whoever owns this house, and next month, that is me.”

When I refused to open my hand, Giselle had grabbed my wrist with both hands, twisting the delicate bones until the joint popped with an audible, sickening crack.

The agony had forced my fingers open, sending the locket clattering into the peat moss.

I had fallen to my knees, gasping for breath in the dirt.

Nero had charged into the shed with a deafening roar, forcing Giselle to retreat behind the iron gate.

Now, standing under the orchids, she was feeding Dante a fabricated lie before he had even asked what happened.

Dante turned his cold, calculating gaze back to me.

“You were lifting pots?”

My throat was dry as dust.

I could feel Giselle’s emerald eyes boring into the side of my face from across the aisle.

A silent, lethal command.

Lie, or your family burns.

“Yes, Mr. Caruso,” I whispered, the words tasting like poison.

Dante didn't blink.

“Which pots?”

“The terracotta ones by the rear wall, sir.”

“At what time?”

My mind went completely blank.

Before I could invent a time, Giselle stepped forward, her voice sweet and rapid.

“Around seven, darling. Right before breakfast.”

Too fast.

Too specific.

Dante turned his head back toward her, his eyebrows drawing together into an ominous line.

“You were in the west wing at seven, Giselle.”

She stiffened.

“I looked down at the courtyard from the master balcony. I saw her struggling with the crates.”

Nero suddenly turned his massive head toward Giselle.

His lip curled back, exposing white, bone-crushing canines.

A deep, vibrating growl rumbled from the pit of his chest, shaking the humid air.

Giselle took an involuntary step back, her high heel slipping on the damp brick.

“Dante, control that disgusting animal! He’s dangerous!”

The growl deepened into a lethal snarl.

Dante didn't tell the dog to stop.

He looked down at Nero, then at Giselle, and finally at my apron.

“Nero.”

The beast didn't retreat, but he leaned his heavy flank against my hip, his body forming an impenetrable barrier between me and the woman in the emerald coat.

Dante stepped closer.

“Show me your wrist, Clara.”

“It’s truly nothing, Mr. Caruso—”

“Clara.”

His voice was quiet, smooth as polished obsidian, and completely devoid of warmth.

It was the voice he used when handing down an execution.

Trembling, I pulled my right arm from behind the canvas apron.

The joint was mangled.

The skin was stretched taut, swollen to twice its size, turning a dark, mottled shade of plum and violet.

And dug deep into the tender flesh of my inner wrist were four distinct, bloody indentations—the unmistakable, jagged punctures of manicured acrylic fingernails.

Dante stared at the wounds for five agonizing seconds.

His jaw clenched so violently that a vein bulged along his temple.

“That happened from lifting a pot?”

I kept my eyes pinned to the floor, unable to speak.

Behind him, Giselle let out a sharp, nervous laugh.

“She must have scratched herself on the iron wire along the shelves, Dante! You know how clumsy these temp maids can be!”

Dante turned around slowly.

“How do you know there is iron wire on the shelves, Giselle?”

Silence descended on the conservatory like a lead weight.

Giselle blinked, her smile faltering.

“I... I assumed—”

“The potting shed has wooden shelves,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a deadly, horrifying register. “The only iron wire on this estate is in my private security cages.”

He stepped past her, stopping two inches from her face, his massive frame blocking the morning light entirely.

“Did Nero run loose in the gardens this morning, Giselle?”

Giselle swallowed hard, clutching the lapels of her silk trench coat.

“No! He was locked in his run!”

“Then why did my security cameras show you running out of the potting shed at seven-fifteen, clutching your coat, while Nero was barking at the door?”

All the color drained from Giselle’s face, leaving her as pale as chalk.

Nero let out another low, vibrating warning from behind me, his muzzle pointed straight at Giselle’s trembling legs.

Dante didn't shout.

He didn't draw a weapon.

He simply looked at the woman he had promised to marry with an abyss of pure, unadulterated coldness.

“Clara.”

I looked up, meeting his terrifying gray eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Caruso?”