A three-year-old mafia heir stopped screaming the moment I gave him warm milk—so his father fired me, then offered me a ring and a terrifying deal.

As evening descended upon Manhattan, the sky above the East River bled from brilliant shades of amber and rose into a deep, velvety indigo. The city lights flickered on across the bridges and skyscrapers, turning the sprawling metropolis into a glittering circuit board of human ambition.

Up on the sixty-fifth-floor penthouse terrace, the wind was cool, but the floor heating kept the open-air seating area comfortably warm.

Elena sat wrapped in a heavy cashmere blanket on a wide, low-slung lounge sofa, watching the distant headlights of traffic crawl across the Brooklyn Bridge. A glass of aged red wine sat on the slate table beside her, untouched as she absorbed the quiet peace of the evening.

Ricardo walked out from the interior study holding two crystal glasses, setting them down before taking a seat beside her on the sofa. He didn't speak immediately; he simply pulled her closer against his side, wrapping his strong arm around her shoulders so she could rest her head against his chest.

They listened together to the faint, muffled roar of the city rising up through the glass panels—a constant reminder of the sprawling empire that surrounded them, yet felt completely weightless from this height.

"Marcus is taking a flight to Zurich tomorrow morning," Ricardo mentioned quietly, breaking the silence. "To oversee the final restructuring of the European holdings. He'll be gone for two weeks."

"Which means you'll actually have to run the syndicate without your brother nagging you about operational efficiency," Elena teased lightly, turning her face into the warm wool of his sweater.

"I delegate effectively," Ricardo retorted with a dry, sardonic edge. "Besides, my primary focus for the next two weeks involves entirely different administrative duties."

Elena raised an eyebrow, looking up at him with mild amusement. "And what administrative duties might those be?"

"Ensuring my fiancée stops working eighty-hour weeks at the foundation and actually takes a vacation," Ricardo stated smoothly, his tone brooking no argument. "We're flying to the Mediterranean coast on Thursday. The villa in Amalfi is fully secured, the security detail is vetted, and your desk at the archives will be officially padlocked by order of the chairman."

Elena stared at him for a moment, a mixture of disbelief and profound affection swelling in her chest. "You booked a villa in Amalfi just because I've been spending too much time reviewing property deeds?"

"I booked a villa in Amalfi because you haven't taken a single day off since we stood in that kitchen during Julian’s raid," Ricardo corrected, his dark eyes softening as he looked down into her face. "And because I want to see you somewhere that doesn't have concrete, glass, or filing cabinets."

Elena looked into his dark, unwavering eyes, realizing once again that the formidable syndicate king had spent his entire life building walls just to tear them down the moment she asked. She smiled, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him down toward her.