One bite was all it would have taken to kill the most feared man in Manhattan

The silence in the dining room of Sable was so profound you could hear the neon lights buzzing outside on the street through the thick plate glass.

District Attorney Thomas Vance was shaking so violently his expensive silk tie fluttered against his chest. He looked around the room, desperately seeking an ally among the eighty wealthy diners who were now openly staring at him with a mix of disgust and fascination.

“This is a setup!” Vance shrieked, his voice cracking into an undignified squeak as he shoved his chair back and tried to bolt toward the exit.

He didn't make it two steps.

Dante—Luca’s massive head of security—stepped out from the shadow of a marble pillar, catching Vance by the lapel of his Brioni suit with one hand and lifting the grown politician six inches off the floor as if he were a sack of laundry.

“Let me go!” Vance choked out, his legs kicking uselessly in the air. “You can't do this! I am a constitutional officer of the state of Pennsylvania! I have immunity—!”

“You had immunity when you were taking campaign contributions from my real-estate competitors,” Luca said calmly, walking alongside Dante as the enforcer dragged the thrashing district attorney toward the front entrance. “You lost your immunity the moment you brought a biological weapon into my restaurant.”

Councilman Miller tried to crawl under the table, but two more guards hauled him up by his belt loops, hoisting him into the air like a discarded coat.

Within thirty seconds, the VIP table had been completely cleared of politicians, leaving behind only half-eaten bread rolls, spilled wine, and an overwhelming, palpable sense of absolute, unmitigated terror among the remaining patrons.

Luca stopped at the front doors. He turned back to look at the dining room, his gaze sweeping over the silent, frozen crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Luca announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room. “Please forgive the interruption. Dinner is on the house tonight. Chef Bennett and her kitchen brigade will ensure your meals are prepared with the utmost... security.”

He gave a slight, mocking nod of his head, then turned and walked back toward the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow him.

I stood by Table One for a moment, looking down at the crushed death cap mushrooms scattered across the white linen. My hands were still steady, but my mind was spinning. In less than twelve hours, I had gone from being a desperate, broke waitress with taped-up sneakers to the head chef of the most dangerous man in Manhattan—and apparently, an amateur counter-intelligence operative for the New York mafia.

I untied my apron, tossed it over my arm, and marched through the double doors into the kitchen.

The entire brigade was standing in absolute silence, watching the entrance like hawks.

“Back to work!” I clapped my hands sharply. “We have eighty covers waiting for dessert! Mateo, get those chocolate soufflés in the oven right now or I’ll feed you to Dante!”

“Oui, Chef!” Mateo barked, scrambling back to his station with renewed, terrified vigor.

I walked over to the prep sink, turned on the cold water, and began scrubbing the mushroom residue from my fingers. The soap stung my skin, but I didn't care. I scrubbed until my hands were red and raw.

“You have blood on your cuff, Ivy,” a deep voice murmured behind me.

I jumped slightly, turning around to find Luca leaning against the stainless-steel counter, watching me with those unblinking, dark eyes. He had removed his suit jacket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his forearms.

“It’s not blood, it’s red wine from Councilman Miller’s glass,” I said, drying my hands on a clean towel. “And you didn't have to turn the dining room into a battlefield. You could have just called the FBI.”

“The FBI works for the Justice Department,” Luca replied, stepping closer until he was standing right beside me. “The Justice Department is currently funded by politicians who take bribes from the zoning board. If I had called the feds, Vance would have been out on bail before midnight with a signed non-disclosure agreement.”

He reached out. His fingers brushed against my wrist, his thumb gently turning my hand over to inspect the raw skin where I had scrubbed too hard.

“You push yourself too hard, Ivy,” he said quietly. His voice lost its hard, mafia-boss edge, softening into something warm, intimate, and entirely disarming.

I pulled my hand away, feeling a sudden, dangerous flutter in my chest. I wasn't used to men caring whether my skin was raw or whether I had eaten dinner. In my world, men like Richard—my ex-fiancé who had cleared out our joint savings account and left me with my mother’s medical bills—viewed me as an inconvenience to be managed.

Men like Luca Moretti viewed me as an asset to be guarded.

Which was terrifying in an entirely different way.

“I’m fine,” I said, turning away to check the pastry station. “I just need to finish the inventory for tomorrow morning, and then I can go home.”

“You aren't going home,” Luca said.

I spun back around, narrowing my eyes. “Excuse me? My apartment is twenty blocks away. I have clothes there. I have a bed.”

“Your apartment on Tenth Avenue was broken into at 6:30 PM while you were on the prep line,” Luca stated flatly.

The blood drained from my face. “What? Broken into? By who?”

“By the same people who hired Vance to poison my fish,” Luca said, his eyes turning hard as obsidian. “They didn't find anything because my detail cleaned out your apartment three hours before they arrived. Your belongings are currently being moved into the penthouse suite of the Moretti Tower on Wall Street.”

“The Moretti Tower?!” I gasped, my voice pitching up an octave. “Are you out of your mind?! I am not moving into your fortress! I am an employee! A chef! Not your... not whatever it is you think I am!”

Luca stepped right into my personal space. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest, could see the tiny amber flecks in his dark eyes, could smell the sharp, clean scent of his cologne.

“You saved my life, Ivy,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a velvet growl that made my knees feel weak. “In my world, that means your life belongs to me now. And I don't leave my most valuable assets sleeping in a twenty-floor walkup on Tenth Avenue.”