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.

“Dante... please... you’re letting paranoia blind you!” she gasped, her hands trembling as she held them out in front of her chest. “Your mother was sick! She died of natural heart failure! Everyone in the family knows she had an enlarged aorta!”

“My mother swam two miles in the Sound every morning until the week she died,” Dante replied, his voice chillingly level. “And the only person who brought her herbal tea during that final week was your older sister, Vivienne.”

He turned the gold locket over in his hand, feeling the weight of the metal.

“Vivienne married into the Montreal shipping cartel two years later, securing your family’s monopoly over the northern transit lines.”

He looked at Marco.

“Call Dr. Rossi. Have him bring a splint and local anesthetic to the master study.”

“Yes, boss.”

“And have four of your men escort Miss Delacroix to her suite in the west wing. Take her phone. Cut the external lines. If she approaches a window, shoot the glass out from beneath her feet.”

Giselle’s eyes dilated in pure horror. “You can’t imprison me! My father will have the coast guard board your vessels by noon!”

Dante didn't even look back at her.

“Your father will do whatever I allow him to do,” he said coldly.

Two armed guards in dark wool coats stepped into the greenhouse, flanking Giselle. One of them took her firmly by the elbow. She didn't fight them; all the arrogance had drained out of her limbs, leaving her staggering like a ghost as they marched her down the stone path toward the house.

When the greenhouse doors clicked shut behind them, the silence returned, thick and heavy.

Dante turned back to me.

Nero had lowered his chin onto my boots, his warm breath seeping through the leather.

“Sit on the potting bench, Clara,” Dante said.

I hesitated, looking at my dirt-streaked canvas apron and the fine wool of his bespoke suit. “Mr. Caruso, I should wash up first—the greenhouse dirt will ruin your study—”

“Sit down.”

It wasn't an angry command, but it held the unyielding weight of an iron anchor.

I sat on the edge of the wooden potting table, cradling my swollen right arm against my ribs.

Dante stepped forward and unbuttoned his charcoal suit jacket, tossing it casually over a wooden crate. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, revealing forearms corded with muscle and crisscrossed with faded combat scars from the harbor wars of his youth.

He reached down, gently unwrapping the silk handkerchief from my wrist.

The joint had swollen even further, dark purple bruising spreading like spilled ink along the tendons of my forearm. The bloody gouges left by Giselle’s acrylic nails were angry and weeping clear fluid.

Dante’s fingers were surprisingly warm and steady as they gently explored the alignment of the bones.

I sucked in a sharp, hissing breath through my teeth, my vision darkening from the sudden jolt of agony.

“Fractured ulna,” Dante diagnosed quietly, his thumb resting gently against the uninjured skin of my palm. “The joint is displaced by two millimeters. She twisted it with leverage.”

He looked up into my face, his dark gray eyes searching mine with a terrifying, fathomless intensity.

“Why didn't you give it to her, Clara?”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

“Because it had your mother’s name on it, sir.”

“She could have had you killed. She could have had her father’s hitmen toss you into the river.”

“My mother died when I was twelve, Mr. Caruso,” I whispered, looking straight into his eyes. “The only thing she left me was an old silver thimble. If someone tried to take that thimble and bury it in the dirt, I would have fought them until they broke both my arms.”

A muscle ticked along Dante’s jawline.

For a fraction of a second, the cold, ruthless warlord of Long Island vanished, replaced by a man looking at something rare and incomprehensible.

“What is your brother’s name?” he asked abruptly.

“Leo,” I whispered, startled by the sudden shift.

“Dr. Vance called my office yesterday,” Dante said, his voice quiet. “He said a private donor had offered to cover the next eighteen months of Leo’s chemotherapy in exchange for the boy’s medical records.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

“Giselle’s father was looking for leverage on you three weeks ago, Clara,” Dante said, his eyes darkening to the color of midnight. “They knew you worked in my private quarters. They wanted you to plant an audio bug beneath my desk. When you ignored their recruitment letters, they started looking for ways to break you.”

He gently lifted my injured arm, supporting it against his chest.

“They broke your wrist instead.”