0mg The mafia boss’s little boy hit every nanny who came near him.

The rain had turned into a thick, grey fog by the time Cameron returned to the penthouse.

The elevators opened directly into the foyer, where two bodyguards she hadn't seen before were standing near the entrance, their coats damp with rain. They didn't look at her, but their presence made the air feel heavy, cold, and electric.

She found Matteo in the dining room.

He was standing near the massive glass dining table, looking at a set of architectural drawings spread out across the polished surface. Standing beside him was a man in his late fifties with slicked-back grey hair and a sharp, expensive suit that made him look like a senator.

"We have to close the Chelsea docks, Matteo," the older man said, his voice carrying a harsh, grating accent. "The feds are putting pressure on the unions. If we don't move the cargo by Friday, the entire shipment is lost."

"The Chelsea docks stay open, Silvio," Matteo said, his voice flat, dangerously quiet. "If the unions strike, I’ll replace them by morning. And if the feds want to check the containers, let them. They won't find anything but Italian olive oil and marble tiles."

"And the other cargo?" Silvio asked, his eyes narrowing.

"The other cargo is already in the city," Matteo said, his eyes shifting to the doorway as he saw Cameron standing there. "We’re finished here, Silvio. Leave."

Silvio turned, his sharp eyes scanning Cameron from head to toe with a look of cold, calculating curiosity before he picked up his coat and walked out, the heavy double doors of the penthouse clicking shut behind him.

Matteo stood alone at the table, his shoulders tight.

"How is your mother?" he asked, not looking at her as he began to fold the architectural drawings.

"She's comfortable, Mr. Duca," Cameron said, stepping into the room. "The room is beautiful. Thank you."

"You don't have to call me Mr. Duca, Cameron," he said, finally looking up. "We are not in the office. And you are not my employee anymore. You are my son’s guardian."

"My mother is afraid of you," Cameron said flatly.

Matteo didn't look surprised. He walked to the liquor cabinet, poured himself two fingers of scotch, and turned to face her, his back resting against the dark wood.

"Everyone is afraid of me, Cameron. It’s the only way to keep them from killing me. Or my son."

"Is that why you keep him locked up in this glass cage?" Cameron asked, taking a step closer, her voice rising in frustration. "He’s three, Matteo! He’s never been to a park. He’s never played with another child. He’s never seen the ocean. He thinks the world is just marble, glass, and men in suits with guns."

"The world is just marble, glass, and men with guns, Cameron," Matteo said, his voice dropping into a dark, heavy cadence. "At least, my world is. If I let him go to a public park, he becomes a target. If I let him play with other children, their parents will try to use him to get to me. I am protecting him the only way I know how."

"Then you’re failing him," Cameron said.

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Matteo’s glass hit the counter with a sharp, heavy thud. He took three long, aggressive strides across the room, stopping so close to her that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"You think you know what is best for my family?" he hissed, his dark eyes burning with a sudden, violent intensity. "You’ve been here for seven days, Cameron. You don't know the first thing about the threats we face. My wife didn't die of an illness. She died because someone cut the brake lines of her car on the West Side Highway. I held her while she bled to death on the asphalt. Do you understand that?"

Cameron’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at his face, seeing the raw, bleeding agony beneath the cold, mafia-boss exterior—the same trapped, helpless grief she had seen in Leo's eyes the first day she met him.

She didn't step back.

Slowly, gently, she reached out and placed her hand on his forearm, her fingers resting against the dark ink of his Sicilian tattoos.

"I'm sorry, Matteo," she said softly, her voice carrying a deep, genuine warmth. "I didn't know. But keeping him locked in this room won't bring her back. It will only make him grow up to be just like the men who killed her."

Matteo looked down at her hand on his arm. His chest rose and fell in a slow, ragged breath, and for a split second, she thought he was going to pull her into his arms, to hold her the way Leo had held her on the floor of the penthouse.