Five wealthy women brought extravagant gifts to win over a mafia boss's son, but the boy walked past them all to take the nanny's hand.

The skirmish ended as quickly as it began. By midnight, the rain had washed away the blood on the gravel driveway. Four intruders—mercenaries hired by an unknown broker—had been neutralized before they could breach the inner courtyard.

Matteo had cried himself to exhaustion, finally drifting off to sleep only when Hannah sang an old Irish lullaby while stroking his forehead.

Leaving his room cracked open, Hannah walked down the quiet, dimly lit corridor of the east wing. Her nerves were still frayed, adrenaline humming through her veins. As she rounded the corner toward the grand staircase, she noticed a door slightly ajar at the end of the north hallway.

A faint light emanated from within.

Curiosity overriding caution, Hannah stepped toward it. The room was not like the rest of the cold, hyper-modern fortress. It was a conservatory, filled with weeping figs, blooming white orchids, and an artist's easel standing beneath a skylight washed in rain.

Canvas after canvas lined the walls. They were beautiful, melancholic oil paintings depicting the rugged cliffs of Sicily, portraits of a smiling Matteo as a toddler, and abstract storms in violent shades of crimson and violet.

"She spent the last three months of her life in this room," a voice sounded from the darkness.

Hannah gasped, spinning around.

Lucas was sitting on a low wooden bench in the corner, a half-empty glass in his hand. He was wearing only a black t-shirt and dark trousers, looking stripped of his untouchable don persona. A fresh gauze bandage peeked out from the collar of his shirt—a graze from the firefight.

"I'm sorry," Hannah breathed, taking a step back. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"Stay," Lucas said. The command lacked its usual bite; it sounded almost like a plea.

Hannah hesitated, then slowly walked over to the nearest easel. The painting was unfinished—a woman standing on a cliff edge, looking down at a turbulent sea, holding the hand of a shadow.

"She knew," Hannah murmured, reading the dark brushstrokes. "She knew the danger was coming."

"Elena was born into this life. Her father was the Capo of Palermo," Lucas said, his voice gravelly with fatigue. "She knew the cost. She told me once that the syndicate eats everything good in the world, leaving only ash and paranoid men."

He looked up at Hannah, his eyes tracking the soft moonlight catching the edges of her face.

"When you jumped over Matteo tonight... you didn't even hesitate. You didn't know if the bullets would penetrate that marble."

"I took an oath when I agreed to care for him," Hannah replied softly. "You don't let harm touch an innocent child. Not if you have breath left to stop it."

Lucas stood up, slowly closing the distance between them. In the quiet greenhouse, the scent of crushed mint and rain hung heavy between them. When he stopped, he was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

"You're too good for this house, Hannah Ward," he whispered, his thumb lifting slightly, hovering just a millimeter from her cheek before dropping back to his side. "And that makes you the most dangerous thing in it."

"Dangerous to who?" she asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.