Chapter 1 - The Order Before Christmas
By four-thirty on the last Friday before Christmas, I had already spent eleven straight hours cleaning up disasters for Luca Moretti.
A senator’s private dinner reservation had somehow been canceled.
A six-figure sculpture intended for Luca’s penthouse had been delivered to an apartment building three blocks away.
And a contractor renovating one of Moretti Holdings’ hotels had discovered that someone had approved the wrong Italian marble, a mistake that could have cost the company close to half a million dollars.
None of it rattled Luca.
Nothing ever did.
I had worked for him long enough to know that Luca Moretti didn’t need to raise his voice to frighten people. The quieter he became, the more nervous everyone around him got.
In Manhattan, financial magazines called him brilliant.
Competitors called him ruthless.
Employees called him Mr. Moretti unless they had a death wish.
Behind closed doors, people whispered other things.
The Moretti name had existed in New York long before Luca became the thirty-four-year-old billionaire chairman of Moretti Holdings. It was attached to real estate, shipping, hotels, private equity, restaurants, and enough old-money connections to make even powerful politicians return phone calls quickly.
There were also rumors.
Old loyalties.
Old debts.
Dangerous favors.
Nobody in the executive offices ever used the word mafia.
Nobody needed to.
I was reviewing the seating arrangement for that night’s family Christmas party when Luca’s office door opened.
“Emma.”
Every assistant on the executive floor went silent.
I looked up.
Luca stood in the doorway, one hand in the pocket of his black trousers.
His tie was loosened slightly, his dark hair imperfect for once, as though he had spent the last hour running his fingers through it. That alone told me something was wrong.
“In here.”
I grabbed my legal pad.
When I entered his office, he shut the door behind me.
That was warning number two.
“Is something wrong with tonight’s security?” I asked. “Sienna confirmed the guest list twice, but I can have her run it again.”
“It’s not security.”
I stopped writing.
“Catering?”
“No.”
“The wine?”
“No.”
“Your grandmother changed the menu again?”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“No.”
I lowered the legal pad.
“That’s worse.”
Luca turned toward the enormous windows overlooking Manhattan. December dusk covered the city in blue-gray light, and the first flakes of snow were beginning to drift between skyscrapers.
“My family’s Christmas party is tonight.”
“I know.”
“My aunt has called you?”
“Twice.”
“Only twice?”
“Your grandmother called three times.”
That actually produced the faintest trace of amusement in his expression.
“Julian?”
“Called once, texted four times, and sent me a photograph of a woman named Isabella with the caption, and I quote, ‘Please convince my emotionally unavailable brother that this is what happiness looks like.’”
Luca closed his eyes briefly.
I fought a smile.
“I blocked him for forty-five minutes.”
“You’re very good at your job.”
“That’s why you pay me an unreasonable amount of money.”
He looked at me.
The amusement disappeared.
“My family has decided I should bring someone tonight.”
“A date?”
“Yes.”
“That explains Isabella.”
“I’m not taking Isabella.”
I nodded. “Then I assume you want me to find someone?”
“No.”
There was a pause.
“I already have.”
“Good.”
“With you.”
My pen stopped.
I waited.
Luca said nothing else.
I actually glanced behind me as if there might be another Emma standing in his office.
“I’m sorry?”
“Come with me tonight.”
“I was already attending as your assistant.”
“Not as my assistant.”
Something cold moved slowly down my spine.
“Then as what?”
“My girlfriend.”
For approximately three seconds, my highly educated brain stopped functioning.
Then I laughed.
It wasn’t a graceful laugh.
It was the nervous sound of a woman realizing her billionaire employer might finally have lost his mind.
Luca didn’t laugh with me.
“Oh,” I said.
Silence.
“You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“Your fake girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight.”
“Yes.”
“At the Moretti family Christmas party.”
“Yes, Emma.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
“You understand,” I said slowly, “that nearly every person in that house knows I’m your assistant.”
“I’m aware.”
“Your grandmother sends me birthday cards.”
“I know.”
“Your aunt asks me whether you’re eating enough vegetables.”
“I know that too.”
“Your brother once asked me to cancel your meeting so he could force you to attend a Knicks game.”
“Unfortunately, I remember.”
I placed the legal pad on his desk.
“No.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
It wasn’t anger.
Interest, maybe.
People rarely told Luca Moretti no.
I had developed the habit somewhere around my second year of employment.
“No?” he repeated.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s insane.”
“That isn’t a reason.”
“It’s an excellent reason.”
Luca leaned against his desk.
“My family has become aggressive about my future.”
“So avoid them.”
“I have.”
“Apparently not successfully.”
“No.”
I crossed my arms.
“What exactly are they trying to make you do?”
His jaw tightened.
That was the first moment I understood this wasn’t a joke.
“Marriage.”
I blinked.
“To Isabella?”
“To someone appropriate.”
“What does appropriate mean?”
“In my family?”
His voice became dry.
“Old money. The right connections. The right surname. The ability to sit through a six-hour dinner without asking why three retired judges and two senators are present.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“And you don’t want that.”
“No.”
“Then tell them.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“They assumed I would eventually become reasonable.”
“That sounds optimistic.”
“It’s Christmas. They believe in miracles.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
This time Luca did smile, but only slightly.
Then his expression grew serious again.
“My grandmother has arranged for several families to attend tonight.”
I stared at him.
“You’re being ambushed.”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to be your human shield.”
“No.”
“That is absolutely what you want.”
“I want you to give them a reason to stop.”
“By pretending we’re dating?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Tonight.”
I studied him.
I had spent three years anticipating Luca’s decisions before he made them.
I knew the coffee he drank when he hadn’t slept.
I knew which investors irritated him.
I knew he hated crowded elevators, enjoyed terrible old gangster movies, secretly donated to three children’s hospitals, and pretended not to care when his grandmother packed him food.
But I didn’t know this Luca.
The one standing several feet away asking me to step into his personal life.
“Why me?” I asked.
His answer came too quickly.
“Because I trust you.”
Something about those four words affected me more than it should have.
I recovered.
“That is not enough.”
“You know my family.”
“Exactly why I should refuse.”
“You know how to handle them.”
“Still refusing.”
“You won’t be intimidated.”
“Getting less persuasive.”
“And no one knows me better.”
That stopped me.
Luca looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read.
For years, I had built careful walls around the fact that I found my boss devastatingly attractive.
It wasn’t difficult to understand why.
Luca was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and unfairly handsome in the kind of way that made strangers stare when he entered restaurants.
But attraction was one thing.
Reality was another.
He was my boss.
I was his assistant.
Those facts were safe.
Simple.
Necessary.
“This is a terrible idea,” I whispered.
“Probably.”
“You admit that?”
“I’m not delusional.”
“Debatable.”
His eyes warmed briefly.
I shook my head.
“Even if I agreed, nobody would believe it.”
“They will.”
“How?”
“They already see us together constantly.”
“At work.”
“They’ve seen how you speak to me.”
“Like you’re a difficult child with access to billions of dollars?”
“Exactly.”
I stared at him again.
Then another thought occurred to me.
“What happens when someone asks when we started dating?”
“October.”
“October?”
“You attended the Boston charity gala with me.”
“As your employee.”
“They don’t need that detail.”
“And our first date?”
“Dinner after the gala.”
“We ate room-service hamburgers at midnight because your investor meeting ran four hours late.”
His gaze held mine.
“I remember.”
Something shifted between us.
I remembered too.
The hotel suite.
The loosened tie.
Luca sitting opposite me on the carpet because there hadn’t been enough chairs near the coffee table.
Laughing.
Actually laughing.
For three hours that night, he hadn’t seemed like my employer.
He had seemed like a man.
I pushed the memory away.
“This is getting worse.”
“It’s becoming believable.”
“No, Luca.”
He straightened.
“What would make you say yes?”
“Nothing.”
“Everyone has conditions.”
“I’m not one of your acquisitions.”
His expression changed immediately.
“I know.”
There was something unexpectedly gentle in the answer.
I looked down.
He waited.
Finally, I exhaled.
“One night.”
“One night.”
“No photographs released by your office.”
“Agreed.”
“No ridiculous public displays.”
“Define ridiculous.”
“Do not test me.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“And tomorrow,” I continued, “we return to normal.”
His expression went still.
“Normal.”
“Yes.”
“Agreed.”
I picked up my legal pad again.
Then I paused.
“One more problem.”
“What?”
“Your family knows exactly who I am. Nobody is going to believe that Luca Moretti suddenly fell in love with his assistant without explanation.”
I expected him to think.
He didn’t.
Something changed in his face.
Not softness.
Something more dangerous.
More personal.
“They will after I tell them what I intend to tell them.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“And what exactly are you planning to tell them?”
Luca stepped closer.
Not enough to touch me.
Enough that I caught the scent of cedar and expensive cologne.
Enough that I had to look slightly upward to meet his eyes.
He held my gaze for one long, unbearable second.
Then he said quietly,
“That you’re the only woman I would ever choose.”
The room went completely silent.
For the first time in three years, I had absolutely no idea what to say to Luca Moretti.
May you like
And judging by the way he continued watching me, neither of us believed this was going to remain a harmless lie for very long.
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