By 12:07 a.m., Luca Moretti had stopped pretending anything.
The warm, teasing man who had danced with me under Christmas lights was gone.
In his place stood the Luca Manhattan feared.
“Lock the gates.”
Julian stared at him.
“Luca—”
“Now.”
Security moved immediately.
Nobody shouted.
That made everything more frightening.
Vittorio stood beside the desk, staring at the filing as if refusing to believe it could make the words disappear.
“I read those documents.”
“Apparently not carefully enough,” Luca said.
“I know what I signed.”
“Then someone switched the signature pages.”
Vittorio looked toward the hall.
The realization hit both men simultaneously.
“Who had access?” Luca asked.
Vittorio’s face hardened.
“Family.”
That word had never sounded uglier.
I turned back to the laptop.
“The filing went through at 11:58.”
“Can it be reversed?”
“Not tonight.”
“Monday?”
“Possibly, if we prove fraud.”
Luca paced once.
“What does Carlo control?”
“Combined with DeLuca’s existing position? Fifty-one point eight percent of voting shares.”
Julian swore.
I continued.
“He can call an emergency board meeting.”
“And remove me.”
“Yes.”
The word hurt more than it should have.
Luca had spent twelve years rebuilding Moretti Holdings.
I knew the story.
After his mother died, he had walked away from the darker side of his father’s world and gone to business school. Years later, when scandals threatened to destroy the legitimate companies supporting hundreds of employees, Luca returned.
He cleaned house.
Sold questionable holdings.
Replaced people.
Made enemies.
And now someone inside his own family had handed his work to Carlo DeLuca.
“We find the original documents,” Luca said.
Vittorio shook his head.
“They were taken by counsel.”
“Which counsel?”
“Anthony Russo.”
Julian froze.
I knew the name too.
Anthony Russo had represented the Morettis for twenty-seven years.
He was Luca’s godfather.
“Call him,” Luca said.
Vittorio did.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Luca looked at security.
“Find Anthony.”
One of the guards left.
I closed my laptop.
“We should get the guests home.”
Luca looked at me.
“You’re leaving.”
It wasn’t a question.
I stood.
“No.”
“Emma.”
“You need me.”
“I need you safe.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
“Tonight they are.”
“You brought me into this.”
Regret crossed his face.
“I know.”
“And now you don’t get to decide I’m too fragile to finish it.”
His jaw tightened.
“This isn’t an office problem anymore.”
“It became my problem when your father’s documents were altered during a party I attended as your girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend.”
The words landed strangely.
I folded my arms.
“Fine. Fake girlfriend.”
Something in his expression suggested he disliked hearing it as much as I disliked saying it.
“Emma—”
“You said you trusted me.”
“I do.”
“Then trust me now.”
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Finally, he exhaled.
“Stay beside me.”
I nodded.
“That I can do.”
The party ended quickly.
Guests left through falling snow under the watch of Moretti security.
At 1:10 a.m., the estate felt almost empty.
I found Luca alone on the upstairs balcony overlooking the ballroom.
The Christmas tree still glowed below.
Hours earlier, we had entered beneath those lights pretending to be in love.
Now his family company was being stolen.
I stepped beside him.
“Coffee.”
He accepted the cup.
“Marry me.”
I nearly dropped mine.
He looked at me.
Then, incredibly, smiled.
“That was a joke.”
“You need to stop developing a sense of humor without warning.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
We stood in silence.
Then he said, “I meant what I said earlier.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Which part?”
“September.”
I stared into my coffee.
“This is probably a terrible time for this conversation.”
“Definitely.”
“Good.”
He turned toward me.
“That dinner was the first time I realized I was in trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“You.”
I looked up.
His face held none of the performance from downstairs.
“I spent three years making sure I never crossed a line with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you work for me.”
“That’s surprisingly ethical for a man whose family frightens half of Manhattan.”
“I contain multitudes.”
I laughed despite everything.
Then his expression softened.
“I asked you tonight because I trusted you.”
“I know.”
“But not only because I trusted you.”
My breath caught.
“Luca.”
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Telling you the truth before somebody else decides it for me.”
He stepped closer.
“When I said you were the only woman I would choose, I was supposed to be lying.”
My pulse thundered.
“And?”
“I wasn’t.”
There are moments when your entire life seems to narrow to a few inches of space.
His hand.
My hand.
His eyes.
My mouth.
I could hear my own breathing.
Then Luca touched my cheek.
Slowly.
Giving me time to move.
I didn’t.
“Still no kissing?” he whispered.
I looked at his mouth.
“That rule may have been poorly drafted.”
His thumb brushed my cheek.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
The kiss was nothing like I expected from Luca Moretti.
It wasn’t demanding.
It wasn’t possessive.
It was careful.
Almost hesitant.
As if the man who negotiated billion-dollar deals was terrified of getting one thing wrong.
My fingers curled into his shirt.
That destroyed his restraint.
His other arm wrapped around my waist, drawing me against him.
The second kiss was deeper.
Warmer.
Real.
When we finally separated, my forehead rested against his chest.
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“You’re my boss.”
“I’m aware.”
“Your company is being stolen.”
“Also aware.”
“Your father may have accidentally committed securities fraud.”
“He’ll be delighted you said accidentally.”
I laughed into his shirt.
Then his phone rang.
Reality returned.
Luca answered.
His expression changed immediately.
“Where?”
Silence.
“We’re coming.”
He hung up.
“They found Anthony.”
“Good.”
“No.”
Something in his voice chilled me.
“His townhouse is empty.”
“Maybe he left.”
“His car is there. Phone too.”
I understood.
“He disappeared.”
“Yes.”
By three in the morning, we were back in Manhattan.
Snow covered the city.
Luca refused to let me return to my apartment alone, so the SUV stopped outside my building with two security vehicles behind us.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
“Someone stole control of my company tonight.”
“And therefore my building needs an invasion?”
“Correct.”
He walked me upstairs.
My apartment was tiny compared with the Moretti estate.
Warm.
Cluttered.
Mine.
A small Christmas tree stood near the window, decorated with ornaments collected since childhood.
Luca stopped in front of it.
“What?”
He pointed.
“Is that a paper clip?”
“My first Christmas after college. I couldn’t afford ornaments.”
He smiled.
“You kept it.”
“Of course.”
His expression softened.
I removed my heels.
“Coffee?”
“It’s three-thirty.”
“So?”
“You’ll complain tomorrow that you’re exhausted.”
“I’ll complain whether I drink coffee or not.”
“Fair.”
I went into the kitchen.
Then I heard Luca say my name.
Not loudly.
But differently.
I returned immediately.
He was standing beside my desk.
Holding an envelope.
My stomach dropped.
It had been placed beneath the door.
No stamp.
No address.
Just my name.
EMMA.
“Don’t touch it,” Luca said.
“You already are.”
“Excellent observation.”
He opened it carefully.
Inside was a photograph.
Me.
Leaving Moretti Holdings two days earlier.
Another.
Me buying groceries.
Another.
Me entering my apartment.
Someone had been following me.
My blood turned cold.
There was a note.
Luca read it.
His face became terrifyingly still.
“What does it say?”
He didn’t answer.
“Luca.”
He handed it to me.
Three sentences.
You were supposed to be an assistant.
Stay out of Moretti business.
Next time, we won’t use a camera.
My hands began shaking.
Luca took the note from me.
“I’m moving you.”
“No.”
“Emma.”
“I am not abandoning my home because someone took pictures.”
“This is not negotiable.”
“I hate when you say that.”
“Good.”
“Luca—”
“Someone followed you before tonight.”
That stopped me.
He was right.
The photographs were older.
Which meant whoever was watching me had been doing it before I became his fake girlfriend.
Before the Christmas party.
Before I found the fraudulent filing.
“Why?” I whispered.
Luca looked at the photographs again.
Then his gaze shifted toward my desk.
A folder sat there.
I recognized it.
Hudson Harbor.
I had brought it home Wednesday to prepare a briefing.
Luca crossed the room.
“Did anyone know you had this?”
“My team.”
“Who?”
“Sienna. Mark. Anthony’s office.”
We looked at each other.
Anthony.
The missing lawyer.
Luca opened the folder.
Several pages were missing.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
I grabbed it.
“I checked this before I left Wednesday.”
“What’s missing?”
“The financing exhibits.”
“Which ones?”
I flipped through the pages.
Then froze.
“The ones containing the contingency language.”
The apartment became silent.
Someone had entered my home.
Someone had removed documents.
And someone had been watching me.
Luca called security.
Then he came back to me.
“You’re staying with me.”
I should have argued.
I didn’t.
Twenty minutes later, I packed a bag.
At the door, I looked back at my little Christmas tree.
My safe life suddenly didn’t feel safe anymore.
Luca touched my shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Bringing you into this.”
I turned toward him.
“You didn’t.”
His brow furrowed.
“The photographs prove that.”
I held up one of them.
“This was taken Wednesday.”
Understanding spread across his face.
Whoever had targeted me had done it before Luca asked me to the party.
Which meant I had not accidentally walked into the Moretti family war.
I had already been part of it.
We just didn’t know why.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
Ask Luca what happened to your father.
I stared at the screen.
My father had been dead for seventeen years.
A construction accident.
That was what I had always been told.
Luca read the message over my shoulder.
His face changed.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
I looked at him.
“Luca?”
He said nothing.
My stomach twisted.
“You know something.”
“Emma—”
“What happened to my father?”
His silence answered before he did.
And suddenly the man I had kissed less than two hours earlier looked like a stranger.