The first time I made Chicago’s most feared crime boss laugh, I was sitting in his chair, wearing his glasses, and accusing a twelve-pound puppy of destroying confidential evidence. Nobody in Adrian Moretti’s mansion had heard him laugh in nine years—and when that sound finally broke through the room, every armed man near the door stared at me like I had just done something more dangerous than trespassing.

The calm ended three days later.

On a cold Tuesday evening, the Moretti estate opened its grand doors for the first time in five years to host the annual Chicago Commerce Gala—a high-society event that brought together politicians, shipping tycoons, and the heads of the city's most powerful families.

The ground floor was transformed into a glittering sea of crystal chandeliers, white orchids, and champagne towers. An orchestra played classical waltzes in the ballroom while hundreds of guests in floor-length gowns and tuxedos mingled beneath the watchful eyes of hidden security guards.

I was dressed in the formal service uniform—a black wool dress with a white lace apron—carrying trays of champagne flutes through the crowded ballroom.

"Keep moving, Elena," Claire instructed as she passed me near the grand staircase. "The Rossi family arrived ten minutes ago. Keep your distance from the south terrace."

I nodded, keeping my head low as I served drinks to a group of local judges.

Across the room, standing near the marble fireplace, was Adrian.

He was breathtaking in a tailored black tuxedo, his dark hair neatly styled, his posture commanding absolute respect from every person who approached him. Yet his eyes drifted across the crowded room every few minutes, tracking my movements through the crowd with quiet, subtle vigilance.

Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed my arm, stopping me near the entrance to the conservatory.

I turned around to face a young man in his late twenties with sleek back dark hair, a sharp nose, and cold, sneering eyes. He was wearing an expensive velvet tuxedo, a red rose pinned to his lapel.

Marco Rossi—the son and heir of the Rossi crime syndicate.

"Well, well," Marco purred, his fingers tightening around my arm with uncomfortable force. "I didn't know Moretti was hiring such pretty staff these days."

"Excuse me, sir," I said politely, trying to pull my arm back. "I need to deliver these drinks."

"You'll move when I tell you to move, sweetheart," Marco sneered, leaning in close enough that I could smell the expensive scotch on his breath. "Tell me... is it true what they say about Adrian? Is the big bad wolf getting soft in his old age?"

"I am just a servant, sir," I said firmly, holding my ground despite the terror rising in my chest. "Please let go of my arm."

"And if I don't?" Marco grinned, his grip turning painful.

Before I could react, a massive hand settled over Marco’s shoulder, squeezing so hard the younger man’s face instantly paled.

Adrian stood behind him, his tall frame blocking out the light from the chandelier, his expression cold enough to freeze water.

"She asked you to let go of her arm, Marco," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register that made the surrounding guests fall silent.

Marco released my wrist instantly, taking a step back, trying to maintain his arrogant composure in front of the crowd. "Adrian. Just complimenting the staff. No need to get defensive."

"Miss Brooks is not staff to be handled by you," Adrian stated flatly, stepping between me and Marco, his massive shoulder completely shielding me from view. "If you touch anyone in my house again, Marco, your father will receive you back in three separate boxes."

A gasp echoed from the nearby guests.

Marco’s face flushed bright red with humiliation, his eyes darting to the armed guards stepping out from the shadows behind Adrian. "You're making a mistake, Moretti," Marco spat under his breath. "This city is changing. You can't hide behind these high walls forever."

"I don't hide, Marco," Adrian whispered softly, taking a step forward. "I wait."

Marco turned on his heel and stormed off toward the grand entrance, his security detail trailing behind him like panicked dogs.

Adrian turned to look at me, his eyes instantly searching my face, his hands reaching out to lightly catch my wrists. "Did he hurt you?"

"I'm fine," I breathed, my hands trembling as I set the champagne tray down on a nearby table. "Mr. Moretti... everyone is watching us."

It was true. Half the room was staring at us in stunned silence—the great Adrian Moretti publicly threatening the heir of the Rossi family over a domestic servant.