The correction did not erase the claim.

Roberto’s eyes sharpened. “Of course. My apologies.”

His tone said he had found something valuable.

A weakness.

Me.

The rest of dinner crawled by. I served, cleared, poured, smiled when necessary, and felt Roberto watching me like a man memorizing a door code.

Nicholas watched too, but differently. Every time I entered the room, his gaze found me. Not possessive now. Concerned.

After midnight, the guests finally left.

I began clearing plates because my hands needed something to do.

“Leave it.”

I nearly dropped the stack.

Nicholas stood in the doorway of his study, jacket gone, tie loosened. For once, he looked less like a king and more like a man who had survived the night by inches.

“The morning staff can handle it,” he said. “You should rest.”

“It’s my job.”

“Gabriella.”

My name in his mouth stopped me cold.

In six months, he had never used it.

He came closer, slowly enough that I had time to step away. I didn’t.

“You speak Italian,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“You never asked.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Fair.”

The city glowed behind him, millions of strangers living their lives while mine quietly changed shape.

“You understood what Roberto said.”

“And what I said.”

My cheeks burned. “Yes.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I owe you an apology.”

“You were defending me.”

“I was careless.”

“You were angry.”

“I was honest.”

The words landed between us with more danger than anything said at dinner.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then Nicholas looked away first.

“Roberto Ferraro is not a man who ignores leverage,” he said. “Tonight, I gave him some.”

“You think I’m leverage?”

“I think I reacted to you in a way I did not intend to reveal.” His eyes returned to mine. “And I think that could put you in danger.”

The sensible part of me wanted to quit on the spot.

Pack my uniform. Walk out. Find some job that paid less but didn’t come with men like Roberto Ferraro looking at me as if I were a loaded gun.

But quitting meant losing the money I sent every month for my younger brother’s care. It meant losing night classes. It meant losing the only narrow bridge I had built toward getting him back.

So I lifted my chin.

“I can take care of myself.”

Nicholas’s expression softened in a way that frightened me more than his anger.

“I know,” he said. “But you shouldn’t always have to.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

Part 2

After that dinner, Nicholas DeLuca started appearing everywhere.

In the kitchen at dawn while I made coffee.

In the library while I dusted shelves.

In the living room after midnight, staring out over the city with a glass of whiskey he barely drank.

At first, I thought he was watching me because he didn’t trust me. Then I realized his questions were too human for surveillance.

“You always start this early?”

“Do you always skip lunch?”

“Why do you take the subway at eleven at night twice a week?”

That last question came on a Tuesday morning while I was pouring his espresso.

I stilled.

“I go to class.”

His brows lifted. “Class?”

“Accounting. Queens Community College. Certificate program.”

“Accounting,” he repeated, as if the word revealed something fascinating.

“It’s practical.”

“So are locks,” he said. “People don’t usually fall in love with them.”

“I didn’t say I loved it.”

“But you’re good at it.”

I looked at him. “How would you know?”

“You organize the pantry invoices by vendor and date before submitting them to Mrs. Klein. No one asked you to do that.”

I hated that he had noticed.

“I like numbers,” I said. “They don’t pretend. They add up or they don’t.”

His gaze lingered on me. “And after the certificate?”

“A better job. More money. Maybe a bachelor’s degree someday.”

“I could help with that.”

I almost laughed. “No.”

His head tilted. “You don’t even know what I was going to offer.”

“Yes, I do. And no.”

Something like admiration crossed his face. “Proud.”

“Careful,” I said. “I’m holding hot coffee.”

He smiled.

Not the polite smile he gave dangerous men. A real one.

It made him look younger. Almost safe.

That was the problem with Nicholas. The more I saw of him, the harder it became to remember what he was.

Three days later, I cut my hand on a cracked picture frame in his study.

It was stupid. A small accident. A line of red opening across my palm while I was cleaning glass.

“Damn it,” I whispered.

“What happened?”

Nicholas appeared from the hall with his laptop in one hand. His eyes dropped to the blood.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “It’s just a cut.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s nothing.”

I should have hated the way my name sounded like an order and a plea at the same time.