I Accidentally Texted My Cheating Ex ""F*ck You""—A Ruthless Billionaire Mafia Boss Answered, And Now I’m Decorating His Penthouse

For two weeks, we existed in an intoxicating, secret paradise suspended high above the Chicago skyline.

I had officially moved my things out of the dingy sublet into a gorgeous short-term loft Lucian had quietly arranged in River North, though I spent nearly every night in his temporary executive suite at the Drake Hotel while the penthouse neared completion. Lucian was attentive, surprisingly passionate, and fiercely protective. He never pressured me, never treated me like an ornament, and celebrated every minor milestone of the design project as if we had just built the Taj Mahal together.

But paradise in Lucian Moretti’s orbit was always rented on borrowed time.

The crack in the armor appeared on a freezing Friday afternoon. I was on the thirty-fourth floor supervising the installation of the master dressing room when my personal phone rang with an unknown local number.

Assuming it was the fabricator for the vanity mirrors, I answered without looking. “Harper Delaney.”

“Harper. Don't hang up.”

It was Kyle. His voice was frantic, breathless, and laced with an edge of sheer panic that made my blood run cold.

“Lose this number, Kyle, before I have Gideon look into your bank accounts again,” I said coldly, preparing to end the call.

“Harper, listen to me!” he practically screamed into the receiver. “You’re in danger! Real danger! Lucian Moretti isn't just some wealthy client. His rival, Victor Romano... he knows about you!”

I paused, my finger hovering over the red disconnect button. “What are you talking about?”

“Vantage Capital manages commercial debt for Romano’s shipping ports,” Kyle rushed out, his words tumbling over each other. “Romano found out Moretti has a woman living on his security grid. Madison... God, Harper, Madison opened her stupid mouth at a charity gala last weekend bragging about how you were sleeping with Lucian Moretti! Romano’s people pulled your firm’s records. They know you’re designing the penthouse. They know about the layout!”

A sick, heavy stone dropped into my stomach. “Kyle, if this is some pathetic attempt to get back into my life—”

“It’s not!” he sobbed. Kyle Bradley was many things—a cheater, a narcissist, a coward—but he had never been an actor capable of faking this degree of raw, pathetic terror. “Romano approached me yesterday. He knows I was your fiancé. He told me that if I didn't get him the architectural security blueprints for the Halcyon penthouse, he was going to drown me in the Chicago River. Harper, please. You have to give me the schematics. Just the security bypass codes Gideon gave you. If I don't give them to him by midnight, he’s going to kill me!”

“You want me to commit corporate espionage and hand over the security blueprints of a man who could kill us both?” I whispered, horrified.

“Moretti will survive! He has an army!” Kyle pleaded hysterically. “I don't! Please, Harper, for old time’s sake—”

I hung up the phone.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably. I leaned against the unfinished mahogany wardrobe, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Madison. My own cousin had used my association with Lucian as party gossip to elevate her social status, inadvertently painting a massive target on my back—and handing a mafia rival the leverage he needed to strike at Lucian.

Before I could process the terror racing through my veins, the private elevator doors chimed.

I whipped around, expecting to see Lucian or Gideon.

Instead, three men in industrial maintenance uniforms stepped out into the foyer. They weren't wearing Caldwell & Rowe badges. And the lead man wasn't carrying a toolbox.