THE MAFIA BOSS CAUGHT THE PLUS-SIZE GARDENER WHISPERING TO HIS PARALYZED SON—THEN MEN CAME TO SILENCE HER, AND HE CLAIMED HER BEFORE ALL OF NEW YORK

By nightfall, Lily’s sparse belongings—a worn canvas bag of hand-drawn plant sketches, three herbal remedies books, and a few simple dresses—were moved into a sprawling bedroom on the second floor of the main mansion.

The room was grand, decorated in cream silk and dark mahogany, with a private balcony overlooking the snowy garden below. It was three times the size of her entire home in Queens.

As she unpacked her herbal tins on the marble vanity, a heavy knock sounded at her door.

Lily opened it to find Mateo, the head guard, standing in the dimly lit corridor. His face was a road map of old knife scars, and his eyes were flat and unreadable.

"Mr. Romano wants you to know that the east wing has strict rules," Mateo said without greeting. "You do not wander the halls after ten at night. You do not touch the sealed office at the end of the hall. And if anyone approaches you outside the gates asking about the boy, you report it to me immediately."

Lily frowned. "Why would anyone ask about Ethan?"

Mateo leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "The Moretti family lost three container docks to Mr. Romano last month. They know the boss has a weakness, and that weakness sits in a wheelchair. There are men in New York who would cut that boy’s throat just to watch Alessandro bleed."

A cold chill ran down Lily’s spine. "I’m just a gardener."

"You were a gardener," Mateo corrected darkly. "Now you’re the woman touching the mafia king's only son. That makes you a target, whether you like your new room or not."

Before Lily could process his words, a deep voice cut through the shadows behind Mateo.

"That's enough, Mateo."

Alessandro stood down the hallway, wearing an unbuttoned black shirt and dark trousers, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. The dim wall sconces caught the sharp line of his jaw and the broad chest visible through his open collar.

Mateo bowed his head instantly and vanished down the stairs.

Alessandro walked slowly toward Lily, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian rug. He stopped inches from her doorframe, so close she could smell the clean heat of his skin mixed with the sharp scent of whiskey.

"Did he frighten you?" Alessandro asked softly.

"No," Lily lied, squaring her shoulders. "I'm used to difficult men."

Alessandro’s lips twitched upward into a genuine, dark smile. "Are you? You must have met some truly terrifying gardeners."

"My father was a union dockworker," Lily said, holding his gaze. "He was big, loud, and angry at the world. But he taught me that men who shout usually do it because they're terrified of what happens when they keep quiet."

Alessandro’s amber eyes burned into hers. The warmth of his body radiated against her in the chilly corridor. He reached out, his thick, calloused fingers briefly brushing against a strand of loose hair that had fallen near her cheek. Lily’s breath hitched at the contact. His skin was warm, his touch surprisingly light for a man whose hands ordered executions.

"You have a sharp tongue, Lily Brooks," he murmured, his thumb trailing down to the edge of her jaw line. "It’s a dangerous trait in this house."

"Then fire me," she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.