The night my mafia boss covered his Boston mansion with hidden cameras to catch a thief, he expected to see someone stealing from him. Instead, he saw me barefoot in his drawing room, wearing nothing but his oversized white dress shirt, sliding across the polished floor and singing into a wooden spoon like I’d completely lost my mind.

The confession hung in the air between us, heavy and suffocating, like the smoke from that long-ago fire in Gloucester.

I looked down at the silver hospital bracelet resting in the velvet box, then up at Julian’s face. The hard, untouchable mafia boss veneer had fractured, revealing a raw, jagged vulnerability that terrified me more than his silence ever could.

“If someone is returning these items to you,” I whispered, “why do you call it a theft? Wouldn't that mean someone is trying to help you?”

“Help?” Julian let out a short, humorless breath that brushed against my forehead. “In my world, Sadie, nothing is given without a price. Whoever is leaving these relics isn't helping me—they’re toying with me. They’re reminding me of every failure, every closed door, and every lie my father told to protect the Corsini name.”

He shifted slightly on the ladder, his shoulder brushing against mine. The physical proximity was overwhelming. I was trapped between the towering bookshelves and a man who controlled half the shipping ports on the East Coast, yet right now, he looked as fragile as the antique china in the drawing room.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You barely know me. I’m just your housekeeper. I dance in your shirts when I think nobody’s watching.”

Julian’s dark eyes searched my face, lingering for a fraction of a second on my lips before rising back to my eyes.

“Because you saw me through a camera lens looking ridiculous, and you didn't run,” Julian said softly. “And because when Martin ran your background check before hiring you, he missed something.”

My breath caught. “What?”

“Your father wasn't just an accountant who went bankrupt,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. “He was Arthur Quinn. The lead structural forensic engineer who consulted on the Gloucester fire inquiry back in '98 before he was mysteriously discredited and driven out of the profession.”

The room seemed to spin on its axis. The cold air rushed out of my lungs.

“How... how do you know that?” I gasped, trying to pull away, but Julian’s hand gently caught my wrist, holding me in place with an iron grip that didn't hurt, but brook no argument.

“My father ruined Arthur Quinn to bury the truth about what happened to Lucia,” Julian said, every word dripping with cold, simmering rage. “And now, his daughter walks into my house, dances under my chandelier, and finds my sister’s bracelet hidden behind a bookshelf.”