"The Mafia Boss Could Hide His Feelings—Until He Saw Someone Else’s Mark on His Assistant."

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the warm amber glow of the desk lamps and the sweeping orange sunset stretching across the city sky outside.

She had changed out of her crumpled blouse during the afternoon, putting on a high-collared cream wool sweater that completely hid her neck and collarbone. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves, and her posture was straight, straight as an arrow, though her hands were clutched tightly over her leather tablet.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Duca?" Elena asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral, professional, and composed.

Matteo didn't answer immediately. He stood near the window, his six-foot-two frame silhouetted against the Manhattan skyline, his gray eyes tracking her every movement as she stepped across the Persian rug.

He walked toward her slowly, his long, deliberate strides carrying an absolute, sovereign presence that made the air inside the room feel twice as heavy.

He stopped three feet away.

"Why the high collar, Elena?" Matteo asked softly. His deep baritone carried an unhurried, velvet weight that sent a shiver straight down her spine.

Elena felt the heat rush back into her cheeks, but she squared her shoulders, refusing to bow her head under his intense, heavy gaze.

"It's autumn, sir," Elena replied cleanly. "And I thought it best to avoid any further... unprofessional distractions during business hours."

Matteo let out a low, humorless laugh—a dark, rumbling sound that vibrated through the quiet space between them. He took one step closer, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his body touched her wool sweater.

"Unprofessional," Matteo repeated, his voice dropping into a low whisper. "You think my reaction this morning was about professional ethics, Elena?"

Elena looked up into his storm-gray eyes. For eighteen months, she had read those eyes like a hawk—looking for approval on corporate reports, detecting subtle shifts during tense negotiations, watching for signs of exhaustion after late-night work shifts.

Tonight, there were no corporate reports behind his eyes.

There was a dark, raw, and unadulterated fire—a look of pure, unyielding devotion and terrifying possessiveness that made her breath hitch in her throat.

"I don't know what it was about, sir," Elena admitted, her voice losing a fraction of its composure, dropping into an honest, breathless admission. "You've never spoken to me like that. You've never looked at me like that."

"Because for eighteen months," Matteo revealed, every word dropped into the quiet room like a heavy block of cold iron, "I have forced myself to act like a civilized boss while every instinct in my body screamed at me to lock this door and make you mine."

Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hand tightened over her leather tablet. "Matteo..."