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

Six months later, the DeLuca estate had undergone a profound transformation. The old, heavy velvet curtains had been replaced with lightweight, ballistic-grade fabrics that allowed maximum light while providing reinforced protection. The security command center had been completely overhauled; the physical cables were now encased in solid steel conduits beneath three feet of reinforced concrete, and the software utilized an un-loopable, decentralized encryption system designed by Mia herself.

The Ferretti family, having lost their primary tactical squad and their inside informant in a single disastrous night, had been systematically dismantled by the DeLuca syndicates, their territories absorbed without a single shot being fired in return. The city knew that the DeLucas were untouchable, not just because of their muscle, but because of their mind.

Mia sat in her new office—the one overlooking the central courtyard. Her desk was organized with mathematical precision: every file aligned, every pen in its designated holder. She wore a tailored, midnight-blue blazer that fit her perfectly, though her shoes were still chosen strictly for comfort rather than style.

The door opened without a knock.

Matteo walked in, carrying two cups of high-end espresso. Over the past half-year, he had taken over the primary legitimate operations of the family’s shipping interests, his confidence no longer the lazy arrogance of a protected heir, but the focused authority of a true leader.

"You're analyzing the logistics reports again," Matteo said, setting one of the cups on her desk. "It’s Sunday, Mia. Even the most feared security chief on the East Coast is allowed to look out the window for five minutes."

"The logistics reports contain an anomaly in the southern shipping lane schedules," Mia said, taking a sip of the espresso. "The trucks are arriving four minutes earlier than the traffic models predict. It means the drivers are speeding, which increases the risk of an accident, which increases the risk of a cargo inspection."

Matteo leaned against the edge of her desk, looking down at her with an expression that had long since evolved past simple professional respect. "Let the transit managers handle the speeders. I came in here to ask you about tonight."

Mia looked up. "Tonight is the charity gala at the Metropolitan Museum. The security detail is already finalized. Twelve external guards, three checkpoints, and I have personally inspected the fire exit layout."

"I know the security is handled," Matteo said softly, his voice dropping into a warmer, more intimate register. "I'm asking if you're going to attend as my guard... or as my date."

Mia paused, her cup halfway to her lips. She looked at him, catching the subtle, genuine vulnerability in his eyes—a look he only ever showed to her.

"The protocol states that a protection officer should never engage in personal relationships with the client," Mia said, her voice clinical but the corner of her mouth twitching upward. "It compromises objectivity during a threat scenario."

"The protocol also states that guards shouldn't trip over trash cans or throw heavy bronze busts at people," Matteo countered, stepping closer. "And yet, you've broken every single rule in the book since the day you got here."

He reached out, his hand gently covering hers where it rested on the desk. "My father already considers you a member of the family, Mia. And I think you know that I stopped looking at you as just my guard a very long time ago."

Mia looked down at their joined hands. Her heart, usually as steady and controlled as a metronome, gave a sudden, erratic flutter that had absolutely nothing to do with her balance.