THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME PUSH A SIX-FOOT WEDDING SEATING CHART THROUGH HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER WITH MY RIGHT SHOULDER HELD STIFF—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE FELL IN THE BALLROOM,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY I COULDN’T MOVE MY ARM.

We stood in front of the massive, frosted glass doors of the West Wing.

Dust coated the brass handles.

“Nobody has been inside this room since my mother died,” Luca said quietly.

He pointed to the key in my hand.

“Open it.”

My hand trembled as I slid the ancient brass key into the lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.

Luca pushed the doors open.

The air inside was stale, smelling of dry earth and old paper.

But as the morning light flooded in through the massive glass ceiling, I gasped.

It wasn’t just a greenhouse.

It was a sprawling, indoor botanical sanctuary. Massive, dormant vines crawled up the iron pillars. Rows of empty terracotta pots lined intricately carved wooden workbenches.

But what caught my eye was the massive oil painting hanging above the central desk.

It was a portrait of a beautiful woman with dark, kind eyes. Luca’s mother.

And standing right beside her in the painting, holding a clipboard and smiling brightly, was a man I recognized instantly.

“Grandpa,” I whispered, stepping toward the painting in shock.

My grandfather, Arthur Bennett, who had died when I was ten.

I spun around to face Luca.

“My grandfather worked here?”

Luca nodded.

“He wasn’t just an employee, Julia. Arthur Bennett was my mother’s dearest friend. He designed these entire gardens. When the federal raid happened, and my father’s assets were frozen, your grandfather was the only one who didn’t abandon my mother.”

Luca walked over to the old wooden desk.

He picked up a leather-bound journal.

“When my mother got sick, Arthur stayed. He worked without pay for two years, just to keep her beloved orchids alive while she was dying in the hospital.”

Luca handed me the journal.

I opened it. The handwriting was unmistakably my grandfather’s. Sketches of roses, notes on soil acidity, and in the margins, little notes about how much Mrs. Moretti had smiled that day.

Tears spilled freely down my face.

“I didn’t know,” I cried softly. “He never talked about his time in Chicago. We just thought he was a landscaper.”

“He was a master botanist,” Luca corrected gently. “And an honorable man.”

Luca stepped closer.

“When you applied for the housekeeping job ten months ago, I didn’t know who you were. But last night, when I saw your grandfather’s name on your file… it all made sense.”

I looked up into his deep, dark eyes.

“What made sense?” I asked.

“Why you’re so brave,” Luca murmured. “Why you stood between a gun and my nephew. Why you treated my aunt with the dignity she deserved when Vanessa treated her like dirt.”

He reached out and gently wiped a tear from my cheek.

“Loyalty is in your blood, Julia.”

The touch of his fingers sent a jolt of electricity straight to my heart.

“This greenhouse has been dead for eighteen years,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I couldn’t bear to open it. I couldn’t bear to look at the ruins of what my mother loved.”

He looked around the massive, sunlit room.