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

My studio on 5th Street wasn't a luxury boutique. It sat above an abandoned bakery, accessible only by a rusty fire escape and a rickety freight elevator that groaned whenever it lifted more than two hundred pounds.

The room smelled of steamed wool, machine oil, and old brick. Rolls of tweed, silk, and cotton were stacked from floor to ceiling, and my grandmother’s heavy cast-iron Singer sewing machine sat on the central cutting table like a piece of industrial artillery.

Luca Moretti had to duck his head to walk through the low doorframe.

His four armed bodyguards immediately took positions at the windows and the roof access, while Julian set up a secure communications hub on a stool near my ironing board.

"It's small," Luca remarked, walking over to my cutting table. He picked up a piece of chalk, testing its weight between his fingers.

"It's precise," I corrected, unrolling a twelve-yard bolt of black Vicuña wool—the rarest, softest, and most expensive fabric on earth, harvested from wild South American camelids. "Vicuña fibers are sensitive to moisture. The humidity in your penthouse was too high. Here, the brick walls absorb excess steam."

I threw my tape measure around my neck and pointed to the raised wooden box in the center of the room.

"Shirt off, Mr. Moretti," I ordered. "I need fresh measurements. The ones Bastion took were useless."

Luca didn't complain. He unbuttoned his crisp white Italian shirt, sliding it off his shoulders and tossing it onto a chair.

I stepped closer, my breath catching slightly in my throat.

Luca’s torso was a battleground of history. A jagged scar ran from his collarbone down to his ribcage—a blade wound. Two round, puckered entry marks sat near his shoulder—bullet wounds. His chest muscles were dense, thick, and mapped with veins that throbbed with a steady, calm pulse.

"Satisfied?" he asked, a subtle smirk playing on his lips as he saw me staring.

"I'm measuring a target, Mr. Moretti, not admiring the view," I retorted, snapping my tape measure straight.

I stepped behind him, wrapping the soft yellow tape around his chest. I pulled it taut against his shoulder blades.

"You carry a heavy weight on your left side," I noted, writing numbers down on my notepad. "Not just the gun. You tilt your torso three degrees to compensate for an old injury in your lower lumbar."

Luca’s smirk vanished. "An ambush in Naples ten years ago. Shrapnel."

"It distorts your jacket's vent line," I explained, moving my hands to his waist. "If I cut a standard double-vent back, the left flap will flare out when you walk, giving away the fact that you're wearing body armor underneath. I need to angle the center seam by four millimeters to mask the curve."

My fingers brushed against his waist. He was burning hot, his skin smooth over rock-hard muscle. I tried to focus purely on the measurements, but the proximity of this man—a man who held the fate of the city’s underworld in his hands—was dizzying.

"Who called you in the car, Clara?" Luca asked suddenly.

My hands froze on his tape measure.

I looked up, meeting his eyes in the dusty mirror hanging on the brick wall. "How do you know someone called?"

"You have a tactical posture," Luca said calmly. "When you entered the SUV, your shoulders were loose. When you stepped out, your left heel was dragging—a defensive weight shift. Someone threatened you."

I let out a slow breath, stepping back. "They said if you wear my suit to the wedding, they’ll kill my mother."

Luca’s jaw clenched. The air in the studio turned instantly hostile. Julian stopped typing on his laptop, his hands hovering over the keyboard.

"Did they give a name?" Luca asked, his voice dripping with venom.

"No," I said. "Just a raspy voice. They knew about Bastion's payout. They knew about my mother’s hospital."

"It's not Carmine Falcone," Julian spoke up from the corner. "We just finished interrogating Vivien’s uncle. Carmine is terrified. He swears on his children’s lives that he knew nothing about the tracker."

"Carmine is a coward," Luca said quietly. "He wouldn't use a military detonator. He uses car bombs and cheap hitmen."

Luca turned around to face me, taking my hand in his. His large fingers enclosed mine completely.

"Your mother is already being moved," Luca revealed softly. "Thirty minutes ago, my personal medical team transferred her from Mount Sinai to a private facility in upstate New York under assumed identities. Four of my best men are guarding her door."

I blinked, stunned. "You... you did that without asking me?"

"You saved my life, Clara," Luca said, his dark eyes locked onto mine with fierce intensity. "I protect what is mine. And right now, you are under my protection."

Before I could digest his words, the glass in the front window shattered into a thousand glittering shards.