THE MAFIA BOSS SAID NO WOMAN COULD GUARD HIS SON—THEN THE CLUMSY NEW HIRE UNCOVERED A TRAITOR AND STOPPED AN ATTACK IN ONE NIGHT

Mia Callaway had been inside the DeLuca estate for less than a day when she found the death threat.

The note had been pushed beneath a locked study door from a hidden passage inside the wall.

Four words were written in red ink.

Tonight, you won’t see it coming.

Matteo DeLuca stood behind her, silent for the first time since they had met. He was twenty-six, heir to one of the most feared crime families on the East Coast, and a man who had spent years pretending death threats bored him.

Mia folded the note and slipped it into her pocket.

“You should be afraid,” she told him.

Matteo’s practiced smile disappeared.

“I am.”

“Good. Fear keeps you alert. Just don’t let it make decisions for you.”

He watched her cross the room and examine the bookcase, unaware that before sunrise she would expose a traitor inside his family, confront armed men on the estate, and force his father to admit that the woman he had dismissed on sight was the only guard capable of saving his son.

Two days earlier, Mia had not even been employed.

She had arrived at Varro Security Agency wearing a black blazer, sensible shoes, and the determined expression of someone who had already been underestimated before breakfast.

Then she tripped over a trash can.

It was not a graceful stumble.

She struck it hard enough to send it sliding across the lobby, where it collided with a plant stand and scattered dirt across the polished marble floor.

Twelve applicants stared at her.

Mia stood, brushed soil from her sleeves, and nodded toward the overturned can.

“Structural weakness,” she said. “Someone should probably report that.”

Nobody laughed.

The agency did not hire her.

Two days later, they called.

Their best personal-protection officer had broken his leg. His replacement had food poisoning. The third candidate was attending a wedding overseas.

Mia Callaway was the only trained guard available.

Mr. Hensley, the agency director, looked personally offended by the situation.

“You trip over objects that aren’t moving,” he said as she sat in his office. “How are you supposed to protect a human being?”

“My feet are unreliable,” Mia admitted. “My hands aren’t.”

He did not smile.

“I have never failed a combat assessment. I speak three languages. I have a photographic memory, and I notice details most people ignore.”

“You knocked over a plant in front of twelve witnesses.”

“I noticed all twelve witnesses.”

Mr. Hensley pushed a file across the desk.

“The client is Lorenzo DeLuca.”

Mia’s humor vanished.

Everyone in the city knew the name.

The DeLuca family controlled construction companies, hotels, shipping interests, and several businesses nobody discussed in public. Politicians attended their fundraisers. Police captains returned their calls.

Lorenzo DeLuca led the family through patience, silence, and a reputation for never needing to make the same threat twice.

“The assignment is his son,” Hensley continued. “Matteo DeLuca. Twenty-six. He has received threats for the past month. Intelligence suggests the Ferretti family is preparing an attack.”

Mia opened the file.

A photograph of Matteo was clipped to the first page.

Dark hair. Controlled expression. Expensive coat. The unmistakable look of a man raised to expect danger and conceal every reaction to it.

“There is one complication,” Hensley said.

“Only one?”

“Lorenzo specifically requested a male guard.”

Mia looked up.

Hensley read from his notes.

“‘No woman will guard my son. Women are soft, easily distracted, and likely to panic when violence begins.’”

Mia closed the file.

“When do I start?”

The DeLuca estate stood behind iron gates at the edge of the city.

The property included three fountains, a private drive longer than Mia’s entire neighborhood, and enough security cameras to monitor a small country.

Her secondhand car looked embarrassed to be there.

A man named Carlo met her on the front steps. He was the head of household security and wore the expression of someone discovering an administrative error he intended to correct.

“You’re the replacement?”

“Mia Callaway.”

She offered her hand.

Carlo looked at it and then at her.

“Mr. DeLuca is waiting.”

Lorenzo received her in a study lined with dark shelves and older money.

He was in his late fifties, silver threaded through his hair, his attention so precise that Mia felt assessed before she reached the center of the room.

He studied her for three seconds.

“No.”

Mia remained where she was.

“Mr. DeLuca—”

“No.”

He turned toward Carlo.

“Send her back. Find a man.”

“Your son’s previous two guards were men,” Mia said.

Lorenzo’s gaze returned to her.

“The first panicked when he heard gunfire. The second accepted money from someone who wanted access to your son’s schedule.”

“Do you usually interrupt clients?”

“Only when they’re making dangerous decisions.”

Carlo’s posture stiffened.

Mia continued before anyone could remove her.

“I have never panicked during an assignment. I have never taken a bribe. And I do not confuse size with competence.”

Lorenzo looked at her clothes, her slight frame, and the shoelace she had somehow managed to partially untie between the front entrance and the study.

“One night,” he said.

Mia blinked.

“You have until morning to prove you belong in this house.”

“I’ll need access to the security logs, the floor plans, the guard rotations, and all known threats against Matteo.”

“You’ll receive what Carlo considers necessary.”

“I’ll decide what is necessary.”

Carlo looked as though he had swallowed a nail.

Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed.

Then he gave a single nod.

“One night.”

Matteo DeLuca was not what Mia expected.

She found him in the East Wing library, sitting sideways in a chair with one leg over the armrest, reading an Italian novel as though no one had threatened to kill him.

He looked up when she entered.

His gaze moved from her face to her shoes and back again.

“You must be the new guard.”

“Mia Callaway.”

“You’re smaller than the others.”

“You’re less frightened than the file suggested.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“People have wanted me dead since I was nineteen.”

“That does not make ignoring the threat intelligent.”

“Are you always this direct?”

“Indirect people waste time.”

Matteo closed his book.

Mia checked her watch.

“For the next twenty-two hours and forty minutes, I remain close to you. You do not leave the estate without telling me. You do not enter an unsecured room before I do. If I tell you to move, you move.”

“You plan to order me around in my own home?”

“I plan to keep you alive in it.”

He rose.

The photograph had not conveyed his height or the quiet confidence in his movements.

“Can you fight?”

“Would you like to find out?”

“Not enough to risk my furniture.”

He picked up his jacket.

“Why did you accept this assignment? My father made his opinion clear.”

“Because he said I couldn’t do it.”

Matteo laughed.

It was not the restrained amusement of someone performing good manners. It was real, surprised, and warmer than Mia had expected.