BENEATH THE LINEN: HOW HIDING FROM MY MOTHER MADE ME THE MAFIA BOSS'S OBSESSION

The kitchen smelled of garlic butter, roasting prime rib, and industrial degreaser. Line cooks barely glanced up as Frankie led the way through the swinging double doors, moving with the kind of casual authority that parted the staff like the Red Sea. Rocco kept his hand resting lightly against the small of Evelyn's back—a gesture that was supposed to be guiding, but felt entirely proprietary.

"Keep your head down," Rocco told her as they passed the dishwashing station. "Bianca's cousins are loitering by the valet."

"Are they looking for you or for a fight?" Evelyn asked, hitching up the hem of her gown so it wouldn't drag across the wet tiles.

"With the Morettis, it's usually both," he replied dryly.

They slipped through the heavy metal fire exit into the cool October drizzle. The crisp night air hit Evelyn's heated skin, sending a shiver through her shoulders. Instantly, Rocco shrugged off his charcoal jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric was heavy, still carrying the warmth of his body and the subtle scent of cedar, espresso, and expensive tobacco.

A black SUV idled silently against the service curb, its windows tinted opaque. Frankie opened the rear door, stepping aside with a slight nod. "No eyes on this side, Boss. Route seven is clear."

Evelyn hesitated with one foot on the running board. "Wait. Where are we actually going? If I disappear completely, my mother will file a missing persons report by midnight."

"Text Sophie. Tell her you had a migraine and caught an Uber," Rocco said, climbing in right behind her. The door shut with a heavy, pressurized thud that sealed out the noise of the rain. "I'm taking you somewhere you can eat a real meal without crouching under table linens."

"I have work tomorrow, Mr. Ventresca. I have a six-foot brass chandelier from 1890 that needs rewiring by noon."

"I know," Rocco said, settling back against the leather seat. "I bought it."

Evelyn turned to him so quickly her neck cracked. "What?"

"The historic Sinclair Hotel downtown," he explained, watching her reaction with quiet amusement. "I purchased the property three months ago. Your workshop was hired to do the light fixtures in the main ballroom. Luca recommended you, but I went over your portfolio myself."

Evelyn's mouth opened, then closed. "You're my client?"

"I am." He leaned toward her, the ambient streetlights illuminating the intricate black-ink sleeve trailing up his forearm—vines, Roman numerals, and a stylized wolf coiled around his wrist. "And from what I've seen, your restoration work is the only thing in this whole damn town that doesn't pretend to be something it's not. Real brass. Real crystal. No cheap plating."

A strange fluttering took hold of Evelyn's stomach. Her entire life, her mother had viewed her antique restoration studio as an eccentric hobby that kept her from finding a husband. Margaret wanted Evelyn thin, quiet, and married off to someone like Martin Colby who could overlook her lack of social ambition. Nobody ever spoke about her work as if it commanded respect.

"It takes patience," she said quietly, smoothing her hands over the lapels of his jacket. "You can't rush old metal. You force it, it breaks."

"Smart philosophy," Rocco replied. His gaze dipped to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Most people try to force things. Especially family."

The SUV navigated through the winding backroads of Saratoga, bypassing the flashy downtown strip and heading toward the quiet industrial district near the rail tracks. Evelyn expected a private club or an upscale steakhouse, but the vehicle pulled into a gated brick courtyard behind a restored nineteenth-century warehouse.

"My private residence," Rocco stated as the engine died. "Upstairs loft. Nobody knows about it except Frankie and my brother. Your mother can search every country club from here to Lake George. She won't find you here."