No Secretary Survived a Week With the Sicilian Mafia Boss Until the Clumsy Girl He Hired by Mistake Found the Secret That Could Destroy Him

Inside the panic room, the sound of the battle reached Chloe as muffled, distant thuds.

THUD. THUD. RAT-TAT-TAT.

Chloe sat on the floor with her back against the steel door, holding the small silver pistol with both hands, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her teeth.

She counted the seconds.

One. Two. Three.

Minutes felt like hours in the dark. She thought about her life six days ago—living in a tiny studio apartment, eating instant ramen, stressing over a fifty-three-dollar bank balance and a broken shoe. Now she was locked in a mafia boss’s panic room while he fought off an armed squad in the Michigan snow.

And the worst part was, she wasn't thinking about the money, or the career, or the danger.

She was thinking about the way his dark eyes softened when he looked at her. The way his hands felt on her skin. The way he called her mia cara.

Twenty minutes.

The gunfire outside slowly died down.

Then silence fell over the house—thick, heavy, and terrifying.

Chloe held her breath, her finger resting lightly against the cold guard of the trigger.

Footsteps.

Slow, heavy footsteps approached the panic room door.

A metallic scrape sounded against the heavy steel. Then, the large central wheel began to turn slowly from the outside.

CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.

Chloe stood up, stepping back three paces, leveling the silver pistol at the center of the opening door. Her hands were shaking, but her jaw was set.

The heavy door swung open.

Bright light flooded the dark room, blinding her for a second.

Standing in the doorway was Lorenzo.

His grey sweater was torn at the shoulder, covered in dark red blood splinters, snow, and soot. He was breathing heavily, his dark hair messy, his gun hanging loose in his hand.

He looked at Chloe standing there in her tailored navy suit, holding the gun pointed directly at his chest with fierce, unwavering determination.

Lorenzo lowered his weapon, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across his face.

“Nice posture, Miss Bennett,” he rasped, his voice rough. “But your safety is still on.”

Chloe dropped the gun onto the carpet, let out a choked sob, and threw herself across the threshold directly into his arms.

Lorenzo caught her effortlessly, lifting her off her feet and burying his face in her neck, wrapping his arms around her like he was never going to let her go. He smelled of cordite, metallic blood, and pine trees, but to Chloe, he smelled like safety.

“Are you hurt?” she sobbed against his neck, her hands frantically checking his chest, his arms, his face. “Is that your blood?”

“Not mine,” Lorenzo murmured, holding her tight, his heart hammering against hers. “Moretti’s squad is cleared. And Matteo just called.”

Chloe pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes. “Julian?”

“Julian Vance was caught at the airport trying to board a private jet to the Bahamas,” Lorenzo said, his dark eyes shining with cold victory. “He had two million dollars in bearer bonds and a laptop containing the forged Sicilian deeds. The feds are taking him down right now based on the financial trail you built this morning.”

Chloe let out a long, ragged laugh, resting her forehead against his chest. “I told you. The math never lies.”

Lorenzo cupped her chin, raising her face to his.

“It’s over, Chloe,” he whispered softly. “The empire is clean. The traitors are gone.”

“So...” Chloe breathed, her hands resting against his warm chest. “Am I fired?”