“I tripped.”

“No.”

“I fell.”

“Please don’t ask.”

That made him still.

Not soften.

Still.

He stood slowly and pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Mateo.”

The study door opened at once.

“Yes, boss.”

“Cancel my afternoon meetings. Call Dr. Evans. Then pull every street camera within two blocks of Sartoria Mitchell for the last three hours.”

Daisy’s pulse lurched.

Lorenzo did not look away from her.

“Find Braden Hayes.”

Her blood turned cold.

Mateo’s eyes flicked once toward Daisy, then back to Lorenzo.

“Alive?”

“For now.”

“Mr. Bianco, please.” Daisy tried to stand, but pain forced her back down. “You can’t. He said he’d kill me if I told anyone. He said—”

Lorenzo crossed the room in three steps and leaned over her, one hand on either side of the sofa, caging her without touching.

“No one,” he said, voice dark and absolute, “is going to touch a single inch of you again.”

Her breath trembled.

“That’s not how the world works.”

“It is how mine works.”

His face was close enough that she could see the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

“Tell me,” he said. “All of it.”

Daisy looked down at her ruined pantyhose.

The words tasted like ash.

“Braden was waiting behind the shop.”

“Your ex-boyfriend.”

“You know that?”

“I had you vetted before I allowed you inside my home.”

Of course he had.

“I know you inherited Sartoria Mitchell from your grandfather,” he continued. “I know you work eighty-hour weeks. I know you prefer vanilla lattes from the place on Ashland even though their espresso is burned. I know you turned down two offers to sell the building. I know Braden Hayes is a gambling addict with a temper and weak hands.”

Despite everything, Daisy almost laughed.

“Weak hands?”

“Men like him always have weak hands. They grab what they cannot earn.”

Something in her chest cracked.

“He owes money. A lot. He showed up when I was leaving for your appointment. He said if I signed the deed to the shop over to him, he could sell the building and clear his debt.”

“Who owns the debt?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

She closed her eyes.

“He said the O’Connors were done waiting.”

The room changed.

She felt it before Lorenzo moved.

Mateo, still by the door, went very quiet.

Lorenzo straightened.

“The O’Connors.”

“They told him my basement mattered,” Daisy whispered. “I don’t know why. I told him no. He grabbed my leg when I tried to get into a cab. He pulled me backward, and I fell. The driver yelled. Braden ran.”

She swallowed.

“I still came here because if I lost you as a client, I might lose the shop anyway.”

Lorenzo looked at her for a long moment.

No one had ever looked at Daisy quite like that.

Not with pity.

Not with desire alone.

With calculation, fury, and something warmer beneath both. Something that made her feel seen in a way so complete it nearly frightened her more than Braden had.

“You were bleeding,” he said quietly, “and your first thought was that you could not be late for me.”

“You’re Lorenzo Bianco.”

“That is not an answer.”

“If you decide I’m careless, my shop is finished.”

“No,” he said. “Your shop became safer the moment you limped into this room.”

The door opened again.

An older man entered with a medical bag.

Dr. Evans examined Daisy’s ankle while she stared at the fire and tried not to cry from the humiliation of being seen so undone. He cut away the ruined nylon, cleaned the scrape, bandaged her knee, braced her ankle, and gave her something for the pain that made the sharp edges of the room soften.

Lorenzo stood by the window with Mateo, speaking too quietly for her to hear.

But she caught one phrase.

“Prohibition tunnels.”

And another.

“Under my territory.”

Then Lorenzo’s voice dropped lower.

“Bring him to the river warehouse. No spectacle.”

Daisy’s stomach turned.

“What are you going to do?”

Lorenzo turned back.

His expression was calm.

Too calm.

“I am going to ask Braden Hayes why he thought your grandfather’s shop was his to take.”

“That doesn’t sound like asking.”

“He will understand the question.”

The medicine was pulling at her now.

She tried to push herself upright.

“My cat.”

Lorenzo blinked.

“What?”

“I have a cat. Mabel. She needs dinner. And the shop orders. Mrs. Donnelly’s jacket is due tomorrow, and there are three wedding hems, and—”

“You need rest.”

“I need my life not to collapse.”

His gaze softened in a way she did not expect.

“Mateo will send someone for the cat. Your shop will be guarded. Your orders will wait.”

“They won’t.”

“They will if I tell them to.”

“You can’t just tell my customers to wait.”

“I can tell Chicago to wait.”

She stared at him.

He looked as though he meant it.

“You’re impossible,” she murmured.

“So I’ve heard.”

The room drifted.

She felt herself slipping sideways into the cushions.

“I need a cab.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

“I can.”

Her eyes fluttered.

“That sounds like kidnapping.”

“It is protection.”

“Men always call control protection.”

That made his face change.

Not anger.

Something quieter.

He crouched in front of her again, careful not to touch the injured leg.

“Daisy,” he said, and her name in his mouth was almost gentle. “You will not stay here because I ordered it. You will stay here because someone tried to take your home, your work, and your body in the same afternoon, and tonight the city is not safe around you. If tomorrow you look me in the eye and tell me to send you home, I will.”

Her sleepy gaze searched his.

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Do mafia bosses keep promises?”

His mouth curved slightly.

“The dangerous ones do.”

The pain medicine finally dragged her under.

The last thing Daisy felt was Lorenzo’s hand pulling a blanket gently over her shoulders.

Not ownership.

Not pity.

Something far more dangerous.

Care.

PART 2: THE TUNNEL BENEATH HER GRANDFATHER’S SHOP

Braden Hayes had always believed fear made him important.

It was one of his many mistakes.

He sat in a rusted metal chair inside an abandoned meatpacking warehouse near the Chicago River, shivering beneath a single dim bulb. His wrists were bound to the arms of the chair. His cheek was split where he had fallen trying to run from Mateo outside a dive bar on Forty-Seventh. The air smelled of old concrete, river rot, gasoline, and winter.

When the steel door scraped open, Braden began crying before Lorenzo spoke.

“Mr. Bianco,” he stammered. “Please. I didn’t know she was with you.”

Lorenzo entered wearing a dark overcoat and leather gloves.

He did not rush.

Every step echoed.

Behind him, Matteo and Rosso remained near the wall, silent as carved statues.

Lorenzo stopped a few feet away.

“You believe my anger concerns tailoring?”

Braden’s mouth worked.

“I mean—I know she was making your suit, and I shouldn’t have—”

“You put your hand on Daisy Mitchell.”

Braden’s breathing turned ragged.

“It was an accident.”

“I was desperate.”

“I owe money. They were going to kill me.”

“Who?”

Braden hesitated.

Lorenzo removed one glove slowly.

That was all.

“Declan Foley,” Braden whispered. “O’Connor’s man.”

“Why does Foley want Sartoria Mitchell?”

Lorenzo looked at him.

Braden shook harder.

“I swear—”

“You are not good enough at lying to waste my time.”

Braden broke.

“The basement. There’s an old tunnel. From Prohibition. Under the shop. It connects to the old delivery routes toward the river. Foley said if he got the building, they could reopen it and move product under your territory without crossing your docks.”

Lorenzo’s face did not change.

But something colder than anger entered the room.

Daisy’s grandfather had not simply left her a tailor shop. He had left her a door buried beneath history, and men with blood in their teeth had found it.

“Did Daisy know?”

“No. I don’t think so. She barely goes down there. It’s walled off behind old storage.”

“And you thought you would use her to open it.”

“I just needed the deed.”

“You needed her fear.”

Braden’s eyes darted.

“She was always easy to scare.”

Lorenzo moved then.

Not violently.

Worse.

Slowly.

He leaned close enough that Braden could smell the smoke and bergamot on him.

“You had six months after she left you to become less pathetic,” Lorenzo said. “Instead, you sold her name to men who would burn her alive for a tunnel.”

“I didn’t know they’d hurt her.”

“You hurt her.”

Braden’s face crumpled.

“I loved her.”

Lorenzo’s laugh was soft and terrible.

“No. You loved that she once mistook your need for softness. There is a difference.”

He stepped back.

Braden began to scream before anyone touched him.

Lorenzo lifted one hand.

Mateo stopped.

The pause was worse than impact.

“I am not here to indulge you,” Lorenzo said. “I am here to send a message you are too small to write yourself.”

He removed a folder from inside his coat and tossed it onto Braden’s lap.

Photographs spilled across his knees.

Braden grabbing Daisy.

Daisy falling.

The cab stopping.

Braden fleeing.

Bank records.

Texts from Declan Foley.

A draft transfer deed.

Braden stared.

“I don’t—”

“You will sign a statement. You will admit who sent you, what they wanted, and what you did to her. Then you will leave Chicago tonight.”