“You’re too beautiful to be alone,” my boss’s six-year-old son announced in the middle of the hallway, staring straight at me as if he’d just made the most obvious discovery in the world. “I think you should be my mommy.” Every person around us froze, and when I looked up to find Adrian Kane, one of the most feared mafia bosses in Manhattan, staring at me, I was certain I had just stepped into the most humiliating and dangerous moment of my life.

By 2:00 PM, the storm that had been brewing over the Atlantic broke over New York City, slamming torrents of cold rain against the floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass windows of the thirty-fourth floor.

Inside the office, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. Noah was asleep on the leather sofa, tucked beneath Adrian’s cashmeres coat, Gerald held tightly against his chest.

I was at my smaller walnut desk near the connecting door, quietly reviewing the security manifests for the upcoming quarterly meeting of the Five Families—an event hosted by the Kanes every three years to maintain the fragile peace across the tri-state area.

The soft chime of my desk phone broke the quiet.

“Maya,” Adrian’s voice came through the speaker. “In here.”

I picked up my digital notepad and stepped into his office, closing the heavy soundproof door quietly behind me so as not to wake Noah.

Adrian was standing behind his executive desk, his suit jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos that stretched up his left wrist—symbols of his family's old-world roots in Sicily. He was looking at a secure tablet.

“The pipe burst in Queens wasn't an accident,” he said without looking up.

My fingers froze over my stylus. “What?”

“Mrs. Higgins’ apartment building,” Adrian said, referring to Noah’s primary nanny, a sweet sixty-year-old woman who had served the Kane family for a decade. “The main water line didn't burst due to pressure. Someone took an angle grinder to the basement mains at 4:30 this morning.”

My stomach dropped. “Who?”

“The Moretti crew,” he replied calmly, setting the tablet down. “Old Dominic Moretti is testing my borders. He wanted my nanny out of commission. He wanted my mother delayed in Atlanta. He wanted me distracted, unstable, and forced to manage personal logistics while his men moved eighty kilos of contraband through the Red Hook terminal.”

I processed the information instantly, my secretary instincts taking over the fear. “Red Hook is under our jurisdiction via the maritime union agreement of 2018. If Moretti moves uninspected cargo through Pier 42, it violates the non-interference pact.”

Adrian raised his eyes. A cold, dark smile touched his lips. “Precisely. Which is why Dominic assumed that having a six-year-old on my hip today would prevent me from personally attending the 4:00 PM dock inspection.”

He stepped out from behind the desk, approaching me with slow, deliberate steps.

“He was wrong about the inspection,” Adrian continued, stopping directly in front of me. “But he was right about one thing. I cannot take Noah to Red Hook. And I cannot leave him with security guards who don't know how to calm him down when a thunderclap hits.”

He reached out, his long fingers gently picking up a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen near my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. The touch was brief, warm, and sent a jolt of electricity straight down my spine.

“You aren't going to the office in Greenwich tomorrow, Maya,” he murmured. “You’re coming with me to the estate. You and Noah.”

“Mr. Kane,” I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “My contract strictly outlines my duties as your executive assistant. Living at the estate—’

“Your contract was updated twenty minutes ago,” he interrupted smoothly. “Your salary has been doubled. Your title is now Chief of Staff. And as of this morning, my son believes you are the only person in this building worthy of taking his mother’s place.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to an intoxicating, dangerous whisper. “And for the first time in four years... I am inclined to agree with his instincts.”

Before I could formulate a coherent response, the door to the office clicked open. Marco, Adrian’s head of security, stepped into the room, his tactical earpiece glowing red.

“Boss,” Marco said, his face grave. “We have a breach at the West Gate. Dominic Moretti’s eldest son just landed at JFK. He isn't waiting for the quarterly meeting. He’s demanding an emergency audience at the estate tonight.”