"I poked Boston’s most feared mob boss in the chest on my birthday—unaware he’d throw me over his shoulder when bullets flew."

Sitting around a long mahogany conference table were five senior lieutenants of the Conti family—men who controlled shipping lines, construction unions, and private security operations across Massachusetts.

Sitting at the head of the table, wearing a fresh black dress shirt with his sleeves rolled back to his forearms, exposing dark geometric ink wrapped around his broad muscles, was Matteo.

Standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, wrapped in a plush cashmere robe provided by Mrs. Martha, holding a cup of hot chamomile tea, was me.

"Boss," Leo—Matteo's chief of security, the broad-shouldered man who had drawn his gun at the club—spoke up, slamming a thick leather file onto the table. "Julian Vane has pulled forty operators from the Southie docks. They've established a perimeter around the St. Jude Care Center where Miss Vance's mother is staying."

My teacup rattled violently against its saucer. I turned away from the window, my face pale. "My mother...!"

Matteo stood up from his chair instantly. The surrounding lieutenants went dead, breathless silent as their boss walked across the room, stopping directly in front of me, taking the trembling teacup from my hands and setting it on a side table.

He reached out, his broad hands coming up to gently frame my jawline, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones with an agonizing tenderness that made my knees weak.

"Your mother is safe, Clara," Matteo promised softly, his baritone dropping into a low, unyielding register. "I dispatched twenty armored operators to St. Jude's twenty minutes ago. They have locked down her floor, secured her room, and placed her under master Conti protection. No one touches a hair on her head."

I looked up into his dark eyes, searching for any trace of hesitation or deceit, finding only an unbroken wall of absolute, fierce protection.

"Why are you doing all of this for me, Matteo?" I choked out, a stray tear spilling over my lash. "Is it just because of an oath your father made fourteen years ago?"

Matteo looked down at my mouth, his thumb gently wiping away the tear on my cheek, his eyes darkening with a deep, consuming fire that made my breath catch in my throat.

"I kept my distance for fourteen years because I promised your father I would stay out of your life, Clara," Matteo murmured, his voice raspy and low. "But when I saw you walk across that nightclub floor tonight... when I saw you poke me in the chest and demand a broom..."