EVERYONE PRAISED THE MAFIA BOSS'S WEDDING SUIT. THEN I CUT ONE RED THREAD AND FOUND THE TRAP MEANT FOR HIM.

Luca Moretti didn't flinch at the mention of the 82nd Airborne. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile crept across his harsh features—the first genuine expression I had seen on his face since entering the penthouse.

"Military intelligence," Luca murmured. "And now you fix hem lines."

"The military doesn't pay enough to cover my mother's medical bills," I said plainly, pulling a measuring tape from around my neck. "And fashion houses don't ask questions about dishonorable discharges if you can hand-stitch a buttonhole in under forty seconds."

Luca looked at his old adviser, Julian. "Clear Bastion out of here. Give him a million dollars for his silence and tell him if he ever designs another garment in this city, I'll have his hands re-stitched backwards."

Bastion didn't argue. He scrambled to his feet, grabbed his sketchbooks, and practically sprinted out the door behind the guards.

"As for you, Clara Ward," Luca said, stepping closer until I could feel the intense heat radiating from his chest. "You just saved my life. And ruined my wedding."

"The suit was ugly anyway," I lied, keeping my voice cold. "The canvas was stiff, and the lapel width was two centimeters too wide for your shoulders. It made you look like a corporate bodyguard instead of a man who owns three shipping ports."

Julian gasped. "Miss Ward, you are speaking to—"

Luca raised his hand, silencing his adviser. His dark eyes flickered with genuine amusement. "Too wide, you say?"

"Two centimeters," I repeated. "Whoever drafted that pattern was designing for a mannequin, not a man who carries a concealed firearm under his left armpit. The drape was biased. If you had tried to draw your gun today, the silk lining would have caught on your holster."

Luca reached under his crisp white shirt, pulled out a sleek, matte-black SIG Sauer, and held it against his ribcage. He tested the motion of drawing it.

The shoulder of the shirt pulled tight. The fabric strained.

"She’s right," Luca admitted softly. He holstered the weapon and looked at the ruined suit on the table. "The wedding is in seventy-two hours. Five hundred guests are arriving from Rome, New York, and Chicago. The Falcone alliance was meant to end a ten-year turf war."

"Don Carmine Falcone made his choice when he put the wire in your shoulder," Julian warned. "If you cancel the wedding now, the other families will see it as weakness. War will break out before sunrise."

"Then we don't cancel it," Luca said.

He turned his full attention back to me.

"Miss Ward. You have seventy-two hours. I want a new suit. One that doesn't track my pulse, doesn't catch on my holster, and hides a Kevlar weave capable of stopping a 9mm round at point-blank range."

I laughed out loud. It was a sharp, dry sound. "Mr. Moretti, a bespoke, bulletproof three-piece suit constructed with hand-canvassed horsehair takes at least two hundred hours of labor. I'm one woman with a pair of scissors and a Singer sewing machine."

"You have access to my entire vault," Luca replied. "I have bolts of Vicuña wool, spider-silk lining from Japan, and Kevlar thread stored in my private armory. Name your price."

"Five hundred thousand dollars," I said instantly. "In cash. Wire half to the Mount Sinai Oncology Department by midnight for my mother's chemotherapy, and give me the rest when you walk down the aisle alive."

Luca didn't hesitate. "Done."

He extended his large, calloused hand. I looked at it, then reached out and shook it. His grip was firm, warm, and sent an unexpected jolt of electricity straight up my arm.

"There is one condition," I added, pulling my hand back.

"Name it."

"I don't work in your luxury penthouse. I work in my studio on 5th Street. It’s dirty, it smells of machine oil, and it’s surrounded by alleyways. But it’s the only place where I control every needle that touches the cloth."

Luca nodded to Julian. "Move my security detail to 5th Street. And prepare the armory. Miss Ward is taking the wheel."

Ten minutes later, I was in the back of an armored SUV, surrounded by rolls of ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene fabric and bolts of pure black wool.

As the vehicle sped through the neon-lit streets of the city, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an restricted number.

I answered it, keeping my voice low.

"Clara," a raspy, familiar voice whispered over the encrypted line. "You shouldn't have cut the red thread."

My blood turned to ice. "Who is this?"

"A friend who paid Bastion Vera two million dollars to keep his mouth shut," the voice replied. "You fixed the suit, Clara. But you can't fix the trap. If Luca Moretti puts on a new garment for that wedding, your mother won't live to see her next treatment."