"Six days after I started working for the most feared mafia boss in Westchester County, I broke his strictest rules by turning a feather duster into a microphone and belting out a song at the top of my lungs. Dominic Vale came home hours early, caught me mid-performance, and instead of killing me, a corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. But before I could process what was happening, his phone rang, his expression turned deadly, and he whispered, 'Marcus. Lock the doors.'"

First, managing the daily operations of a Westchester crime syndicate disguised as a legitimate international shipping and logistics conglomerate was infinitely more complicated than scheduling art gallery tours.

Second, Dominic Vale was not the unfeeling monster the local news outlets portrayed him to be. He was worse—he was fiercely protective, impossibly observant, and entirely too observant of my personal habits.

It was Thursday morning, exactly 8:15 AM. I stood in the massive, high-tech home office adjacent to his private study, organizing his encrypted tablet schedule while balancing a fresh cup of his preferred espresso on a silver tray.

The double doors swung open, and Dominic strode in, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that fit him with terrifying perfection.

“Morning, Maya,” he said, not breaking stride as he dropped a stack of shipping manifests onto my desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Vale,” I replied, handing him the espresso. “Your 9:00 AM meeting with the Port Authority liaison has been moved to 10:30 at your request, your mother called from Naples to remind you to eat vegetables, and the financial audit for the Manhattan restaurant acquisitions is sitting on your tablet for review.”

Dominic took the ceramic cup, his fingers brushing briefly against mine. A faint spark of static electricity—or something far more dangerous—shot up my arm. He took a sip, his eyes narrowing appreciatively.

“Temperature is 180 degrees,” he noted, a faint smile touching his lips. “You’re learning.”

“I’m an overachiever, sir. It’s a curse.”

He walked around his desk, sitting down while his dark gaze lingered on me. “The audit for the restaurants. Did you look at it?”

“I did,” I said, walking over to stand opposite his desk, holding a clipboard. “And I found a discrepancy in the liquor licensing fees for the TriBeCa location. Someone is skimming about four thousand dollars a month through a third-party distributor named Apex Holdings.”

Dominic’s expression went completely still. The easy warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by that glacial, predatory focus.

“Apex Holdings,” Dominic repeated softly. “Are you certain?”

“I traced the wire transfers through three separate shell accounts,” I said steadily, tapping the paper on my clipboard. “The primary beneficiary is a man named Vincent Rossi—one of your mid-level warehouse supervisors on the West Side.”

Marcus, who had been leaning against the bookshelves near the door, let out a low whistle. “Well, well. Looks like Vince has a death wish.”

Dominic didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t slam his fist on the desk. He simply set his espresso cup down with deliberate care.

“Bring Vince to the Westchester estate tonight,” Dominic instructed Marcus, his voice chillingly calm. “I want him sitting in the basement holding room by eight o'clock.”

“Consider it done, Boss,” Marcus said, pushing off the bookshelf and heading for the door.

As Marcus left, Dominic leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his hand as he looked up at me. “You spent last night analyzing shell accounts instead of sleeping, didn’t you?”

“I had insomnia,” I defended myself, crossing my arms. “And crooked accountants offend my aesthetic sensibilities.”

“Your aesthetic sensibilities are going to get you into trouble one day, Maya,” Dominic said, though there was a distinct note of amusement in his voice.

“Not as much trouble as Vincent Rossi is about to be in,” I retorted.

Before Dominic could reply, the secure intercom on his desk buzzed sharply.

Marcus’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding breathless and tense. “Boss, we have a problem at the front gates. It’s not an attack—it’s a visitor.”