"‘You’re not the supermodel I ordered,’ the mob boss said—until a sniper fired through his window."

He was imposing up close—six-foot-three, smelling faintly of expensive cedarwood, rain, and raw silver. The thin dark stain on his white cuff was unmistakable now. It was dried blood, neat and untidy at the same time, contrasting sharply with the tailored perfection of his tuxedo.

His storm-gray eyes searched her face. Emma didn't look down. She held her chin high, her worn canvas tote bag containing her needles, heavy-duty thread, and silver shears slung over her shoulder like a shield.

"Roth Events was supposed to send their senior director," Julian spoke. His voice was a quiet, velvet baritone that seemed to absorb the low hum of the rain battering the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. "And a woman who knows how to keep her mouth shut."

"Roth Events' senior director took fifty thousand dollars of your advance money and boarded a flight to Miami two hours ago," Emma replied flatly, her hazel eyes holding his without a trace of flinching. "I'm the person who actually fixed the silver gown when the agency realized your supermodel guest tore the silk lining from hip to seam."

One of the broad-shouldered men near the kitchen—a tall enforcer with a scarred cheek named Leo—let out another brief, quiet cough.

Julian didn't turn his head. His eyes stayed fixed on Emma's face, taking in her dark, rain-dampened hair, the slight ink stains on her thumb from pattern chalk, and the fierce, unshakeable courage in her posture.

"And you came up here alone?" Julian asked softly. "Knowing who lives on the forty-seventh floor?"

"I came up here because fourteen dollars in checking doesn't buy coffee in Manhattan, Mr. Vescari," Emma answered deadpan. "And because a broken zipper on a three-hundred-thousand-dollar French gown is an insult to the tailor who made it."

A faint, breathtaking twitch appeared at the corner of Julian’s severe mouth. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving behind a look of profound, dangerous intrigue.

"Unpack the bag, Miss Reyes," Julian ordered gently. "Let me see if your hands are as sharp as your tongue."

Emma stepped up to the chair, unzipping the heavy canvas garment bag. Inside hung the silver silk gown—restored, re-stitched, and flawless under the penthouse's low lighting.

Before Julian could step closer to inspect the silk, a high-pitched, metallic PING vibrated through the air.

It wasn't a phone.

It was a laser guidance marker painting a tiny, brilliant red dot on the glass pane directly behind Julian’s head.

Emma's eyes widened. "Mr. Vescari—"