He woke with his hand around a housekeeper and his pistol inches away—and instead of calling security, Victor made a choice that changed her future.

The muzzle of the Glock pressed firmly against the nape of Tessa’s neck, sending an immediate, freezing jolt of reality through her exhausted nervous system.

For a fraction of a second, the comforting warmth of Victor Romano’s chest vanished, replaced by the unmistakable, lethal reality of where she was and who she was holding. Her eyes flew open, blinking rapidly against the dim, amber glow of the study. The heavy scent of gunpowder and dried blood filled her lungs, choking away the remnants of sleep.

"Don't move," Victor’s voice rasped from beneath her, dangerously low, like grinding stones. It was a command that carried the weight of a thousand executions.

Tessa froze. Every single muscle in her body locked up. Her heart, which had been beating in a soft, synchronized rhythm against his sternum moments ago, began to hammer wildly like a trapped bird.

"Mr. Romano," she choked out, her voice trembling so badly she could barely form the syllables. "Please... I was just... I was cleaning the glass..."

Victor did not immediately pull the trigger, but he didn't release her either. His body remained coiled beneath her like a resting panther. His eyes—sharp, clear, and completely awake now—scanned the dark corners of the room before locking down onto the top of her head.

"You're the girl from the kitchen," he said, his voice stripped of all warmth. His thumb brushed against the hammer of the pistol. "The one who scrubs the floors until three in the morning."

"Tessa," she whispered, her cheek still pressed against his white dress shirt, right over the steady thud of his heart. "My name is Tessa Moore."

"Tessa," he repeated, rolling the name over his tongue as if testing its weight for a gravestone. "A housekeeper does not enter my study uninvited. And a housekeeper certainly does not sleep on my chest."

"I didn't mean to," tears pricked hot and fast behind her eyelids, but she dared not lift her head. The cold steel of the gun barrel was still resting against her spine. "You were having a nightmare. You grabbed my wrist. You pulled me down. I couldn't get away without waking you, and—and I was too exhausted. I’m sorry. Please don't hurt me."

Silence descended upon the study, broken only by the crackle of a dying ember in the fireplace.

Victor stared at the crown of her head, his mind calculating variables that ordinary people never had to consider. In his world, weakness was a death sentence, and unauthorized contact was treated as a security breach punishable by exile or worse. Paulie would have dragged her out into the courtyard for less.

Yet, as he lay there staring down at the exhausted, trembling girl whose uniform smelled faintly of industrial bleach and vanilla soap, he realized something jarring.

She wasn't an assassin. She wasn't a spy sent by rival syndicates to finish what the ambush on the docks had started. She was simply a broken cog in a massive machine, working eighteen-hour days to survive.

Slowly, deliberately, Victor lowered the pistol.

He didn't holster it, but he moved the barrel away from her spine, laying his hand flat against the Persian rug beside the broken crystal.

"Get up," he commanded quietly.

Tessa didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled backward, her knees slipping slightly on the damp patch of carpet she had been scrubbing. She scrambled to her feet, stumbling back until her shoulders hit the heavy mahogany bookshelves lining the wall. She kept her head down, her hands clutched tightly in front of her apron, expecting the worst.

Victor pushed himself up from the Chesterfield sofa, wincing as a sharp spasm of pain radiated from his injured left shoulder. Fresh blood bloomed across the white linen of his shirt, darkening the fabric into a deep crimson stain.

He ignored the pain, his face remaining as impassive as carved marble. He stood at his full, imposing height—six-foot-two of lean, disciplined muscle—towering over her in the shadows.

"Look at me," Victor ordered.

Tessa swallowed hard, slowly lifting her chin until her hazel eyes met his dark, intense gaze.

"You missed a piece of glass," Victor said, pointing down at a tiny, glittering fragment of crystal resting near the edge of the fireplace hearth.

Tessa blinked, caught completely off guard by his words. She looked down at the floor, then back up at him, her chest heaving.

"I... I'll clean it," she whispered, dropping immediately back to her knees to retrieve the stray shard.

"Leave it," Victor said, turning his back to walk over to the mahogany desk where a heavy crystal decanter of scotch sat waiting. He poured himself two fingers of amber liquid with his right hand, his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. "And get out of my study before I change my mind about your employment status."

Tessa scrambled to her feet, grabbed her bucket and cleaning caddy, and practically bolted toward the heavy mahogany doors. As she pulled them open and slipped out into the silent, dimly lit hallway, she heard his voice one last time from the shadows of the room.

"And Tessa?"