My ex thought he could humiliate me in front of the whole ballroom until the mafia boss stood up.

The next three days were a blur of paranoia. Emma didn't go back to the Sterling Hotel; Mr. Vance had texted her a polite but firm message saying her services were no longer required, citing "security concerns." She didn't blame him. In her world, getting noticed by a man like Dante Caruso was a fireable offense.

Instead, she spent her days applying for remote data-entry jobs and staring out her third-story window.

The heat in the studio apartment was suffocating. The radiator groaned and hissed, a constant reminder of her poverty. Every time a car braked too hard on the street below, her heart leaped into her throat.

On Thursday night, the storm broke.

It started with a heavy, aggressive pounding on her apartment door. Not the polite knock of a neighbor, but a rhythmic, violent thudding that shook the cheap wooden frame.

"Emma! Open the damn door!"

Marcus.

Emma froze on her small sofa, her breath catching in her throat. Her phone was in her hand. She immediately dialed 911, but as the line began to ring, she remembered Dante's words: The police look away before questions are asked.

"Emma! I know you're in there!" Marcus’s voice was slurred, thick with rage and alcohol. "You think you're clever, don't you? Hooking up with Dante Caruso? You think that mobster is going to protect you? He’s using you to get to me!"

Thud. Thud.

"He took my car, Emma! His thugs took my Porsche right out of my driveway because of what happened at the gala! They said it was a 'disrespect tax'! Open this door or I’m kicking it down!"

The wood groaned. A splintering sound echoed through the small room.

Emma’s hands shook violently. 911 was still ringing, an agonizingly slow electronic beep. She hung up. With trembling fingers, she fished Dante’s black card out of her coat pocket and dialed the single number printed on the back.

It didn't even ring once.

"Speak," a deep voice commanded. It wasn't Dante, but Marco, his bodyguard.

"It's Emma," she sobbed, backing away as Marcus threw his shoulder against the door. "Marcus is here. He's breaking the door down. Please—"

"We are already downstairs, Miss Hart," Marco replied calmly. "Step away from the door."

A second later, a massive crash echoed from the hallway. But it wasn't the door breaking inward. It was the sound of a heavy body being thrown against the corridor wall.

Emma crept toward the peephole, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Through the distorted glass, she saw Marcus pinned against the floral wallpaper of the hallway. Marco had one massive hand clamped around Marcus's throat, lifting him so his expensive loafers barely touched the linoleum floor.

Behind Marco stood Dante Caruso.

He was dressed in a long charcoal overcoat, looking perfectly composed, as if he were attending an art gallery rather than a tenement shakedown. He held a silver-headed cane in one hand, using the tip to gently poke at Marcus’s pristine leather shoes.

"I believe I told you to stay away from her, Mr. Whitman," Dante said, his voice a low, terrifying purr that carried through the thin wood of the door.

"You... you can't do this..." Marcus gasped, his face turning a deep, dangerous shade of purple. "I'll call the cops... I'll—"

"With what phone?" Dante asked lightly. He held up Marcus’s latest model iPhone, then casually dropped it onto the floor and crushed it beneath his heel. The screen shattered into a web of silver lines. "Marco, drop him."

Marco released his grip. Marcus slumped to the floor, coughing violently and clutching his throat.

Dante knelt down, bringing his face level with Marcus’s. "Your debt has been sold to a group in New York, Marcus. They are much less patient than I am. They don't care about your family's name or your Naperville house. They care about their interest rates. If you are within a mile of Emma Hart again, I will personally tell them where you are hiding."

He stood up, dusting off his trousers. "Now, crawl away."

Marcus didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, terrified and humiliated for the second time in a week, and fled down the stairs, his footsteps echoing wildly.

Emma stood frozen behind her door, her hand on the lock.