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The warm light fell across his focused profile, softening the man who controlled a vast empire of darkness and commerce.

I stood at the bedroom door, watching him alone on the sofa surrounded by mountains of paperwork. I said softly, "Good night, Mr. Moretti."

The man's pen tip paused faintly on the page. Then he looked up. Those deep gray-green eyes cut through the soft lamplight and landed on me. The corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile.

"Good night, Ms. Caldwell."

I closed the master bedroom door gently, leaving that warm, towering figure on the other side. But the lingering scent of cedarwood and that low murmur hung in the quiet room, fermenting silently into something tender—and dangerously intimate.

Chapter 11

Marcelo

The heavy walnut bedroom door clicked shut, its lock catching with a soft sound that turned the living room into a frozen island.

I sank into the wide charcoal silk sofa, my body settling deep into the cushions, fingers holding an unlit Marlboro. But I didn't reach for a lighter, didn't immediately flip open the stack of tedious asset evaluations from Puglia Textile Mill on the coffee table.

All I could hear was what she'd said before that door closed—the soft words she'd turned back to give me.

"Good night, Mr. Moretti."

I laughed low, pressing my fingers against my aching temples.

Tonight had shattered every assumption I'd made about her.

Whether it was how she'd won over that old perfectionist Brandt at the display, using nothing but touch and instinct, or how she'd defended a complete stranger in the corridor—claws out, tearing those two models apart in vicious French. All of it stunned me.

I never imagined that beneath that careful, skittish, curvy body burned a soul this fierce and pure.

She was exactly like that wild rose inked on her skin—thorned and devastatingly beautiful.

The buzz cut through the quiet. I opened my eyes, glancing at the phone beside the stack of files.

Rocco's name lit the screen.

"Talk," I answered, voice low.

"Don." Rocco's voice came through tired. "The DeLucas backed off. We 'visited' a few of their spots in Brooklyn and Queens, torched two warehouses, grabbed some small fry. Old Vincenzo made Lorenzo pull back once he got word."

"Temporarily?" I raised an eyebrow. "You don't sound convinced."

"No, Don." He paused. "Our guys spotted something wrong at the docks. Someone's been asking about your schedule—including your Paris flight. And... one of the guys we grabbed said Lorenzo's been meeting with some Eastern European arms dealers on the side."

My fingers drummed the armrest in a steady rhythm.

"Put eyes on them," I said coldly. "If that idiot Lorenzo tries anything while I'm gone, teach him what regret feels like."

"Understood, Don. One more thing..." Rocco's voice turned cautious. "Someone's digging into people close to you. Isabella, and... the new designer. Ms. Caldwell."

My fingers stopped. Cold rage rose from deep in my chest.

"What?"

"Just basic intel gathering so far. No action yet." Rocco rushed to add. "I've assigned protection for Isabella. As for Ms. Caldwell..."

"Put someone on her too." I cut him off, voice final. "Twenty-four-hour watch. Don't let her spot them. Anything unusual, report immediately."

"Yes, Don."