*THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME TO SEND THE WOMAN WHO’D COOKED FOR HIS FAMILY FOR THIRTY YEARS HOME BEFORE THEIR ENGAGEMENT DINNER—BUT WHEN I CARRIED HER OLD RED SAUCE POT INTO THE DINING ROOM, LUCA MORETTI STOOD UP AND SAID, “WHY DOES MY MOTHER’S KITCHEN SMELL LIKE THIS?”**

The frantic, glittering chaos of the engagement dinner felt like something that had happened in another lifetime. The gold-plated chargers had been cleared away, the broken champagne flutes swept up, and the lingering scent of expensive designer perfume replaced by the comforting, rich aroma of garlic, basil, and slow-simmered tomatoes drifting from the kitchen.

I was standing at the kitchen island, wiping down the marble countertops with a damp cloth, when heavy footsteps echoed down the tiled hallway.

Luca walked in.

He was dressed in a casual black t-shirt and dark jeans, looking infinitely more relaxed than he had in months. He poured himself a mug of black coffee from the industrial drip machine, leaning back against the edge of the counter.

"Morning, Emma," he said, taking a sip.

"Morning, Mr. Moretti," I replied, pausing my cleaning.

"Drop the 'Mr. Moretti'," he said with a faint half-smile. "After last night, I think we're past formal titles. Unless you want to quit like everyone else."

I let out a soft laugh. "I like my job too much. Besides, Maria threatens to break my fingers with her wooden spoon if I don't chop the onions right."

Luca chuckled, staring down into his coffee mug for a moment before looking up at me. His expression turned serious.

"About last night... I know the media is going to have a field day. The engagement cancellation is already hitting the morning papers. Salvatore Bellini is probably threatening a trade war by noon."

"Are you worried?" I asked quietly.

"Not even a little bit," Luca said, his dark eyes steady. "For the first time in three years, I feel like I can actually breathe in this house." He pushed off the counter and stepped closer. "Which brings me to another matter."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"My mother’s estate manager position—the one Vanessa tried to dissolve and replace with a corporate hospitality firm?"

"Yes?"

"I need someone who isn't afraid to stand up to high-society brides, someone who knows how this house runs, and someone who actually respects the people inside it." Luca set his coffee mug down. "Effective today, I’m promoting you to Estate Director. Double your current salary, full health benefits for your family, and we’ll cover your brother’s remaining university tuition."

My breath caught in my throat.

For eleven months, I had worked seventy-hour weeks, biting my tongue, swallowing my pride, and hiding my family's financial struggles just to keep a roof over our heads while my mother fought through medical bills and my brother tried to finish school.

"Luca..." I whispered, my eyes burning. "You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't," he said softly, a quiet warmth in his eyes. "That's why I'm doing it."

Before I could find the words to answer, the swinging kitchen doors flew open.

Maria marched in carrying a massive tray of freshly baked brioche, her blue apron tied tightly around her waist, humming a tune from an old Italian record she played every Sunday morning.

Behind her shuffled Paul, carrying the little blue chair, which he carefully set down right beside the pantry door where it belonged.