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

The interior of Rocco's loft was a stark contrast to the sterile, gold-leafed mansion they had just fled. High ceilings, exposed brick walls, dark walnut floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glistening expanse of the Hudson River in the distance. What surprised Evelyn most, however, was the absence of ostentatious luxury. Instead, the space was filled with towering bookshelves, deep leather armchairs, and warm, amber lighting.

"Make yourself comfortable," Rocco said, tossing his keys onto a marble console table. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, exposing the thick muscle of his arms. "I don't keep staff here. Less gossip."

Evelyn slipped off her heels with a sigh of absolute relief. "You don't know how long my feet have been screaming. Margaret insisted on four-inch pumps because she thought they made my ankles look 'delicate.'"

Rocco paused, his eyes traveling down to her bare feet on the hardwood, then slowly traveling up the curves of her hips and the emerald glow of her pendant against the wine-red gown. "Your mother is an idiot."

Evelyn's breath hitched at the blunt certainty in his voice. "She means well. She just thinks a woman over size six is an emergency waiting to happen."

"A woman who looks like you isn't an emergency," Rocco said, his voice dropping an octave as he moved toward the open kitchen. "She's a distraction. And in my business, distractions are dangerous."

He opened a high-end refrigerator, pulling out containers of fresh pasta, cured meats, and artisan cheeses. "I can make a decent cacio e pepe, or I can tell Frankie to bring takeout. Pick your poison."

"You cook?" Evelyn followed him to the marble island, leaning against the counter.

"My grandmother had nine boys and three girls. In our house, if you didn't cook, you washed pots for twenty people. You learn fast." He grabbed a bottle of Barolo from a wine rack, drew the cork with effortless practiced precision, and poured two glasses. He slid one across the counter to her. "To escaping the matrimonial firing squad."

She clinked her glass against his. "To hiding under furniture."

The wine was rich, dry, and velvet-smooth. As Rocco moved around the kitchen with practiced economy, Evelyn watched him. This was the man Saratoga whispered about in dark corners—the ruthless operator who had supposedly forced corrupt union leaders out of town and silenced competitors with a single phone call. Yet here he was, grating fresh Pecorino Romano over simmering pasta with the focus of an artist.

"Why haven't you married?" Evelyn asked, the wine giving her an uncharacteristic boldness. "Thirty-nine, wealthy, powerful... Carmela must have twenty socialites lined up every weekend."

Rocco didn't look up from the pan, but the muscle in his jaw clenched slightly. "Because every woman lined up by Carmela wants Mrs. Ventresca on her credit card. They want the security, the lakefront property, the private jet. But the minute the street gets ugly, or a car follows them down Broadway, they look at me like I'm a monster."

He set two steaming plates of pasta on the counter and looked her straight in the eye. "I need someone who doesn't scare easily. Someone who sees the dirt on my hands and doesn't flinch."

Evelyn swallowed hard. "I rewire live antique fixtures with rusted copper terminals, Rocco. I get burned regularly. I don't flinch."

A slow, dangerous smile crossed his face. "Good to know, Evelyn. Very good to know."

They ate at the island, trading sharp banter and easy stories. Evelyn found herself talking about her father's passing, the struggle to keep the family restoration business afloat against corporate developers, and the exhaustion of never fitting her mother's pristine mold. Rocco listened with an attention that felt intoxicating.

By 1:00 AM, the rain was lashing hard against the high glass windows. Evelyn stood by the glass, looking out at the city lights. Rocco stepped up beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

"It's late," she whispered, not really wanting to leave.

"The guest bedroom is down the hall," Rocco said, his hand lightly coming up to cup her bare shoulder. His thumb grazed the soft curve of her collarbone, sending an electric jolt straight through her veins. "Or you can stay here."

Before she could answer, his phone on the counter buzzed loudly with a distinctive, urgent ringtone. The screen flashed bright in the dim room: LUCA.

Rocco's relaxed posture vanished instantly. He stepped back, answering with a curt, icy tone: "What happened?"

Evelyn watched as his face hardened into the ruthless mask Saratoga feared. He listened for ten seconds, his eyes darting to her with sudden grim realization.

"Don't move," Rocco ordered Luca into the phone. "Keep the doors locked. I'm coming right now."

He hung up, grabbing his car keys.