“I used to think this place was small,” she said.

“It is not.”

“It’s one room, a basement, and a landlord who calls every six months pretending he forgot I own the building.”

“It held a secret powerful men wanted.”

“That doesn’t make it big.”

“No,” Lorenzo said. “You do.”

She looked up sharply.

He did not take it back.

Daisy’s fingers tightened around the tape.

“You say things like that as if you don’t know what they do.”

“I know exactly what I do.”

“That’s what worries me.”

He stepped into the room.

“I frighten you.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“That is not usually the desired answer.”

“I would rather you fear me honestly than trust me carelessly.”

Daisy stared at him for a long moment.

Then she laughed softly.

“You are the strangest man I have ever met.”

“You dated Braden Hayes.”

“Second strangest.”

The laugh that escaped him was quiet and unwilling.

It changed his face.

For half a second, Lorenzo looked younger. Not safe. Never safe. But human.

Daisy saw it.

He knew she did.

That was when the real danger began.

Not the O’Connors.

Not Braden.

Not tunnels or territory or men with guns in alley shadows.

The danger was the way Daisy Mitchell began looking at Lorenzo Bianco like he was more than the monster guarding her door.

And the way Lorenzo Bianco began wanting to become something more than a monster for her.

PART 3: THE FITTING THAT BECAME A WARNING

Declan Foley sent flowers.

That was his first mistake.

They arrived at Sartoria Mitchell three days after the tunnel was sealed. White lilies in a black vase, elegant and funereal, delivered by a young courier who looked too frightened to meet Daisy’s eyes.

No card.

No need.

Daisy stared at them on her counter while Mrs. Donnelly, whose jacket hem Daisy was pinning, crossed herself.

“Throw those cursed things out,” the old woman said.

Daisy’s hands were steady on the pins.

“If I throw them out, he knows he scared me.”

“If you keep them, the whole shop smells like a funeral.”

Daisy looked at the lilies.

Then picked up her shears and cut every bloom from its stem.

One by one.

Clean.

Precise.

The severed flowers dropped into the trash.

Mrs. Donnelly went silent.

Daisy returned to the hem.

“Lift your arm, please.”

By evening, every woman in the neighborhood had heard.

By morning, so had Lorenzo.

He arrived before opening, no entourage visible except Mateo near the corner and one dark car parked half a block away. He stepped inside wearing a navy suit and an expression that made the bell above the door seem afraid of itself.

“You should have called me.”

Daisy did not look up from threading a needle.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Foley sent lilies.”

“I handled them.”

“You cut them.”

“They were badly arranged.”

His mouth tightened.

“You enjoy provoking men who should know better.”

“I enjoy not being managed by them.”

“That was a threat.”

“Yes. And now it is compost.”

Lorenzo stared at her.

The truth was, anger wanted to move through him in its usual direction: outward, immediate, destructive. But Daisy had changed the direction of several things since arriving bleeding in his study. She made him pause. Reconsider. Ask whether protection was still protection if it erased the person being protected.

So he breathed once.

“What do you want done?”

Daisy finally looked at him.

The question mattered.

He saw her recognize that.

“I want Foley to know the shop is not a soft target.”

“Already done.”

“I want the neighborhood to know the same.”

“That can be arranged.”

“And I want the fitting finished.”

“My suit?”

“You still owe me measurements. I cannot have Chicago’s most terrifying man walking around in badly fitted shoulders. It reflects poorly on my shop.”

The absurdity of it loosened something in his chest.

“You want to measure me now?”

“I want to work now.”

He removed his coat.

The fitting room was narrow, lined with mirrors and old brass hooks. Morning light filtered through the front windows, turning dust motes gold. Daisy stood with the yellow measuring tape around her neck, medical boot still on her foot, hair pinned loosely, pencil tucked behind one ear.

Professional.

Soft.

Untouchable in a way that had nothing to do with innocence.

Lorenzo stood before the mirror as she circled him.

“Arms out.”

He obeyed.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder seam.

“Your right shoulder sits lower.”

“Old injury.”

“Knife?”

“Bullet.”

She paused for one beat, then continued measuring.

“Of course.”

He watched her in the mirror.

Most people avoided looking at his scars too closely. Daisy noticed everything and flinched at nothing. She measured him not like a woman dazzled by danger, but like an artisan evaluating structure.

“Chest,” she said, bringing the tape around him.

Her arms nearly encircled him. Her body came close, warm and soft against the hard line of his torso. Lorenzo felt the contact in places violence had never reached.

“Forty-six,” she murmured.

“Forty-seven if I inhale.”

“Don’t flirt with the measurements.”

“I was not aware I was flirting.”

“That is either a lie or a medical condition.”

His smile appeared before he could stop it.

She lowered the tape to his waist.

His hands stayed at his sides.

That restraint felt more dangerous than any indulgence.

“You can ask,” she said quietly.

His eyes lifted to hers in the mirror.

“For what?”

“To touch me.”

The room went very still.

Daisy’s cheeks colored, but she did not look away.

“I don’t want to guess what men want anymore,” she said. “And I don’t want men guessing what I’ll allow.”

Lorenzo turned slowly.

“What will you allow?”

Her breath shook once.

“The truth.”

He moved closer.

Not touching.

“The truth is that I have thought about your mouth every hour since you fell into my arms.”

Her eyes darkened.

“The truth is that when I saw his handprint on your skin, I wanted to reduce half this city to ash.”

“That part I guessed.”

“The truth is that I do not know how to want gently.”

Daisy swallowed.

“Then learn.”

No one had ever said that to him.

Commands, pleas, bargains, prayers—yes.

But learn?

As if he were capable of becoming different without becoming weak.

Lorenzo lifted one hand slowly, giving her every chance to step back.

She did not.

His palm settled at her waist.

Daisy closed her eyes.

Not from fear.

From the shock of being touched without being diminished.

“You are not too much,” he said.

Her lashes trembled.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean everything I say to you.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Only for other people.”

She laughed softly, then opened her eyes.

Their kiss, when it came, was not the violent crash fate seemed to expect from a man like Lorenzo. It was slower. Darker. A question answered with breath. His hand stayed at her waist, firm but not trapping. Daisy’s fingers curled in his shirt, not to hold herself up this time, but to choose the closeness.

When she pulled back, both of them were breathing differently.

The bell over the shop door rang.

Mateo’s voice followed.

“Boss.”

Lorenzo closed his eyes briefly.

Daisy stepped back, smoothing her dress.

“Your life has terrible timing.”

“You have no idea.”

Mateo entered the fitting area but kept his gaze respectfully away from Daisy.

“Declan Foley wants a sit-down tonight. Neutral ground. He says he’ll trade compensation for peace.”

Lorenzo’s expression hardened.

Daisy noticed the shift.

The man in the fitting room disappeared.

The boss returned.

“Where?”

“The Venetian Room.”

Daisy knew the place. Every Chicago story knew the place. Old restaurant, private upstairs, red velvet booths, back exits used by men who did not like front doors.

“I’m coming,” she said.

Both men looked at her.

“No,” Lorenzo said.

“My shop is the disputed property. My basement is the tunnel. My bruise is evidence. I am not waiting in a gilded room while men discuss me like a deed.”

Mateo looked as though he wished the floor would open.

Lorenzo’s jaw flexed.

“It is not safe.”

“It wasn’t safe when you left decisions to men either.”

That landed.

Again.

Daisy picked up her measuring tape and draped it over the back of a chair.

“If you want me to trust you, don’t ask me to disappear when the room gets dangerous.”

The Venetian Room smelled of garlic, old wine, cigar smoke, and varnished history.

Rain streaked the upstairs windows. The private dining room glowed red and gold beneath low chandeliers. At one end of the long table sat Declan Foley, pale, narrow-eyed, with sandy hair and a smile like a dirty blade. Two O’Connor men stood behind him. Lorenzo entered with Mateo on his left and Daisy on his right.

The room noticed her first.

Not because they recognized her power.

Because they underestimated it.

Declan’s eyes flicked over her body, her medical boot, her emerald dress under a dark coat, her chin lifted despite the pain. His smile widened.

“Well,” he said, “if it isn’t the little tailor.”

Lorenzo stopped.

The air changed so sharply one of Declan’s men shifted his stance.

Daisy placed a hand lightly on Lorenzo’s sleeve.

Not to restrain him.

To remind him she was there.

Declan noticed and laughed.