THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME STRUGGLE TO REMOVE HIS DAUGHTER’S PLACE SETTING WITH ONE BANDAGED HAND—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE HURT IT IN THE GUEST ROOM,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHAT HAPPENED. I had almost reached the kitchen when the little porcelain plate slipped from my injured hand.

Maria Moretti’s hand trembled, but the barrel of the revolver remained fixed on her son’s back.

Luca didn't turn around. He just pulled Ella tighter against his chest, shielding her completely with his own body.

“Mother,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Put the gun down.”

“You leave me no choice!” Maria shrieked, tears of frustration ruining her perfect makeup. “The Bellinis will slaughter us! They will take the territory, they will take the businesses, and they will kill you! I did what had to be done to save this family!”

“You didn't save this family,” Luca said softly, finally turning his head to look at her. “You sold its soul.”

Maria tightened her finger on the trigger.

“I won't let you destroy our legacy for a child.”

I couldn't breathe. Marco was too far away. Luca was on his knees.

It was up to me.

I didn't think. I just moved.

I stepped out from the doorway, placing my body directly in the line of fire between Maria and Luca.

Maria’s eyes snapped to me.

“Move, maid!” she screamed.

“No.”

I stood tall, ignoring the throbbing pain in my right hand.

“You think you are protecting an empire,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady in the cavernous basement. “But look at you. You’re standing in a dirty basement, pointing a gun at your own son and a little girl. You have no empire left, Maria. You just have an empty house and a diamond ring.”

Maria let out a guttural cry of rage and aimed the gun squarely at my chest.

Before she could pull the trigger, Marco lunged.

He tackled the old woman from the side.

The gun went off, the bullet shattering a steam pressure gauge on the wall.

Thick, scalding white steam violently erupted into the room, blinding everyone.

I heard Maria scream as the gun was wrenched from her grip.

When the steam finally began to clear, the basement was quiet.

Marco stood over Maria, holding her silver revolver. The old woman sat on the concrete, weeping uncontrollably into her hands.

Above us, the sounds of police sirens began to wail in the distance.

Luca stood up, holding Ella in his arms. She had wrapped her legs around his waist, her face buried securely in his neck.

He looked at Marco.

“Your father is dead,” Luca said quietly. “My men handled it twenty minutes ago.”

Marco didn't look surprised. He just nodded slowly. “And Vanessa?”

“Arrested,” Luca replied. “She surrendered when she realized Carlo had failed.”

Marco looked down at the gun in his hand, then tossed it into the dark coal chute.

“It’s over, then,” Marco whispered.

He turned and walked toward the basement exit, disappearing into the cold Chicago night without looking back.

Luca turned to me.

His face was battered, his tuxedo ruined, but as he looked at me, his eyes were incredibly soft.

He walked over and gently took my injured right hand in his free one. He inspected the bandages, his thumb lightly brushing the uninjured skin of my wrist.

“You stood in front of a bullet for a child that wasn't yours,” Luca murmured, awe in his voice.

“She’s a good kid,” I whispered, wiping a tear from my cheek.

Ella lifted her head from Luca’s shoulder and looked at me. She managed a small, exhausted smile.

“Thank you, Grace,” she said softly.

One Month Later.

The chandeliers in the dining room burned brightly, casting a warm, golden glow over the massive mahogany table.

The room was quiet. There were no twenty-eight guests. There were no syndicate bosses. There was no Vanessa.

There were only three place settings.

I walked out of the kitchen, carrying a large silver platter of roasted chicken and vegetables. I wasn't wearing a black housekeeping uniform anymore. I was wearing a soft beige cashmere sweater and dark jeans.

I set the platter down in the center of the table.

Luca sat at the head of the table. He was wearing a simple gray henley, looking relaxed and younger than I had ever seen him.

To his right, in her designated chair, sat Ella.

She was coloring a picture with crayons, humming a soft tune. She looked up and beamed at me as I set the food down.

“Smells good, Grace,” she said cheerfully.

“Thanks, sweetie,” I smiled.

I moved to step back and return to the kitchen.

“Grace,” Luca said, his voice stopping me.

I turned. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” he said, a gentle, teasing reprimand in his tone. “And where are you going?”

“To finish cleaning the kitchen.”

Luca stood up. He walked over to the third place setting—directly across from Ella—and pulled the chair out.

“The kitchen can wait,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart flutter. “Sit down.”

I hesitated. “Luca, I’m the nanny now, I shouldn't—”

“You are not just the nanny, Grace,” Luca interrupted softly. He reached out and gently took my hand—the right hand, fully healed now, bearing only a faint scar on the palm.

“You are the woman who saved my daughter,” he said, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “You are the woman who reminded me how to be a father. You belong at this table. With us.”

Ella looked up from her coloring book and nodded vigorously.

“Sit next to me, Grace!” she chimed in.

I looked at the little girl, who finally looked safe, happy, and entirely loved.

Then I looked at the man who had torn down his own empire to protect her.

Tears pricked my eyes, but this time, they were tears of profound joy.

I stepped forward and took the seat.

Luca smiled, a genuine, breathtaking smile, and pushed my chair in before taking his own seat at the head of the table.

As I reached for the serving spoon, I realized something.