Standing outside my boyfriend’s bedroom in a red silk dress, I heard him laughing with my best friend about the $10,000

bet he had made to get me into bed before Christmas. Minutes later, barefoot and carrying my heels, I walked into the private office of his feared mafia father—the man I had just learned had secretly saved my own father’s life.

The champagne bottle was still cold in my hand when I heard Chloe laugh behind Nico Casaro’s half-closed bedroom door.

My best friend.

The same woman who had helped me choose the dress two days earlier.

Then Nico’s voice followed.

“She was never going to make me wait forever. Girls like Myra always pay their debts eventually.”

My fingers tightened around the bottle.

Eight months earlier, my father had been shot outside a Brooklyn restaurant during a violent business dispute. He survived, but surgeries, specialists, and physical therapy buried my family beneath bills.

Then Nico stepped in.

He told me his family would cover everything.

I cried against his chest and thanked him until I could barely speak.

Gratitude became affection.

Affection became trust.

And trust became love.

Then Chloe asked the question that changed everything.

“She thinks you paid her father’s bills.”

Nico laughed.

“I let her think that.”

My stomach dropped.

“So who actually paid?”

“My father. Leo felt guilty because her dad took a bullet meant for one of his men.”

Leo Casaro.

Nico’s father.

A man powerful enough that police officers avoided saying his name too loudly.

I had met him only a handful of times at formal dinners. He was always controlled, distant, and terrifyingly observant.

He had never taken credit for helping my family.

Nico had taken all of it.

Then I heard the final blow.

“It started as a bet anyway,” Nico said. “Ten grand says I could get the grateful little virgin into my bed before Christmas.”

Something inside me went cold.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t open the door.

I simply placed the champagne on a hallway table, slipped off my heels, and walked away.

Nico had always told me never to enter the west wing.

That was where his father handled “business.”

So naturally, that was exactly where I went.

Warm light spilled beneath a pair of dark wooden doors.

I pushed them open without knocking.

Leo Casaro looked up from behind a massive walnut desk.

His jacket hung over a chair, silver touched the edges of his dark hair, and reading glasses rested low on his nose. A glass of whiskey sat beside his hand.

His eyes traveled over me once.

Bare feet.

Red dress.

Heels dangling from my fingers.

A face too calm for what had just happened.

“Myra,” he said quietly. “You’re in the wrong part of the house.”

“Am I?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Does Nico know you’re here?”

“Nico is occupied.”

“With?”

“My best friend.”