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

The kitchen had emptied out by midnight.

The line cooks had scrubbed their stations, polished their copper pans, and vanished into the cold Manhattan night through the back service exit, leaving behind only the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigeration units.

In the private glass-enclosed dining room overlooking the deserted courtyard of Sable, a single table had been set for two.

White linen tablecloth, two crystal wine glasses, a silver candelabra, and a porcelain plate holding a steaming, perfectly seared ribeye steak accompanied by roasted fingerling potatoes and a rich red-wine reduction.

I sat at the table, wearing my chef’s whites with the sleeves rolled up, swirling a glass of cabernet sauvignon.

Across from me sat Luca. He had traded his suit jacket for a simple black cashmere sweater, looking less like a syndicate boss and more like an exhausted man who finally had permission to rest.

“You didn't have to cook this yourself, you know,” I said, gesturing to the steak. “You have an entire brigade of line cooks.”

“None of them know how to sear a ribeye to medium-rare while simultaneously reducing a shallot-bourbon glaze,” Luca replied, taking a slow sip of his wine. “Besides, I wanted to see if the poisoner had managed to slip back into the pantry.”

I rolled my eyes. “Very funny. If anyone had tried to enter my kitchen tonight, Mateo would have beaten them to death with a cast-iron skillet.”

Luca chuckled, setting his glass down. He looked across the table, his expression turning serious. “Tell me about the toxicology lecture.”

“What about it?”

“The aconite. How did you know the exact chemical reaction with the iodine?”

I traced the rim of my wine glass with my finger, looking down at the red liquid. “My mother. Before she got sick... she was a pharmacologist. She spent twenty years working in a research lab before the university cut her funding. She used to test wild plants in our backyard in Brooklyn. She made me memorize the botanical profiles of every lethal plant in North America before I was twelve years old.”

“She sounds like a remarkable woman,” Luca said quietly.

“She was,” I murmured, a sudden lump forming in my throat. “She died three years ago. Right when I was finishing culinary school. The medical bills wiped out everything we had. That’s why I ended up bouncing from diner to diner—trying to pay off the hospital debt while keeping my knife roll from being repossessed.”

A heavy, sympathetic silence settled over the table.

Luca didn't offer pity. Men like Luca Moretti didn't know how to pity people; they only knew how to fix things.

He reached across the table, placing his large, warm hand over mine. His skin was rough, calloused from decades of handling weapons and power, but his touch was surprisingly gentle.

“You won't have to worry about medical debts ever again, Ivy,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, uncompromising register. “Vance, Sterling & Croft’s corporate assets are currently being liquidated by my legal team. By Monday morning, every single cent of your mother’s hospital debt will be paid in full.”

I pulled my hand back, shaking my head. “I can't accept that, Luca. I told you, I’m an independent contractor. I work for my money.”

“You work for me,” he corrected, leaning forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “And in case you haven't realized it yet, Ivy... I take care of what’s mine.”

Before I could formulate a response—before I could figure out whether I was terrified or thrilled by the possessive weight of his words—the heavy glass doors of the private dining room swung open.

Dante stood on the threshold, holding a secure satellite phone, his face pale and grim.

“Boss,” Dante said, his voice tight. “We have an incoming call on the encrypted red line. It’s the Chairman of the Zoning Board. He says the Hudson Yards vote has just been moved up to dawn... and the Rossi family has mobilized every vote on the committee.”

Luca’s expression instantly hardened, shedding the exhaustion of the evening like a discarded cloak. He stood up from the table, his chair scraping against the floorboards.