“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.

The Kane estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, was less of a home and more of a private military installation disguised as a Gilded Age manor. Surrounded by twenty-foot stone walls, infrared sensors, and armed patrols hidden in the landscaped woods, it sat atop a crest overlooking the foggy expanse of Long Island Sound.

It was 7:30 PM when the armored SUV convoy cleared the iron gates. Rain splashed against the tinted windows as we pulled up the winding cobblestone driveway.

Noah had fallen asleep in my lap during the forty-minute drive, his small head resting heavily against my ribcage. Adrian sat across from us in the rear passenger cabin, his eyes fixed on me the entire journey. He hadn't spoken about business, nor had he brought up his son’s proposal in the hallway. But the intense, possessive warmth in his gaze had made the interior of the car feel suffocatingly warm.

When the car stopped under the grand portico, Adrian opened his door, stepped out into the rain, and reached back inside.

“I’ll carry him,” he said softly.

“I’ve got him,” I murmured, trying to gather the sleeping boy into my arms.

“Maya,” Adrian’s tone left no room for debate. He reached past my hands, gently lifting Noah into his arms as if the boy weighed nothing at all. As he pulled back, his chest brushed against mine, his scent—expensive sandalwood, rain, and faint tobacco—overwhelming my senses. “Go inside. Mrs. Gable has prepared the east wing suite for you.”

The east wing suite was directly connected to the master quarters by a heavy set of double doors. It was opulent, furnished in dark velvet, cream silk, and mahogany, with a blazing fire already roaring in the hearth.

After helping Mrs. Gable—the aging, sharply observant housekeeper—put Noah to bed in his adjoining room, I changed out of my wet secretarial suit into a simple silk blouse and tailored trousers from the wardrobe that had already been stocked with my exact sizes.

A knock sounded at the connecting door.

I opened it to find Adrian standing on the threshold. He had changed into a dark charcoal sweater and relaxed trousers, though his posture remained as rigid as iron. He held two crystal glasses half-filled with neat amber bourbon.

He handed one to me without asking.

“Thank you,” I said, taking a small sip. The liquid burned pleasantly down my throat.

He leaned against the wooden doorframe, studying me over the rim of his glass. “Dominic Moretti’s son, Julian, will be here in twenty minutes.”

“Julian Moretti is unpredictable,” I noted, drawing on my extensive knowledge of the family dossiers I kept updated. “He spent three years in a violent crime unit in Palermo before returning to New York. He doesn't respect the old agreements.”

“He doesn't respect anything,” Adrian agreed calmly. “He thinks because my father is dead and my mother is out of state, I am vulnerable. He thinks my son is a weakness.”

He set his glass down on a side table and took a step into my room. The space between us shrank instantly.

“Why did you stay, Maya?” he asked softly.

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Two years ago,” Adrian said, his gray-blue eyes holding mine captive. “You were offered a corporate role at Goldman Sachs. Higher pay, zero danger, no risk of federal indictments or mob feuds. You turned it down to remain my secretary. Why?”

My heart did a chaotic flutter against my ribs. I lowered my glass. “Because Goldman Sachs was boring.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” I whispered, taking a step back until the back of my knees bumped into the edge of the velvet armchair. “You demand absolute perfection, Mr. Kane. Everyone else in Manhattan settles for mediocrity. Working for you was the only job that required everything I had.”

Adrian didn't stop advancing until he was standing directly over me. He reached out, his thumb catching my chin, forcing me to look up into his dark, storm-filled eyes.

“It wasn't just the work,” he murmured, his voice low and commandingly smooth. “And we both know it.”