THE JEALOUS MAFIA BOSS LOCKED THE DOORS WHEN HIS CURVY MAID TRIED TO GO ON A DATE—UNTIL HER DARKEST SECRET DESTROYED HIS ENTIRE EMPIRE!

The rain was coming down in sheets, drenching Tessa’s silk dress and plastering her dark curls against her cheeks as she ran down the long, winding driveway of the Santoro estate. Her breath came in ragged, painful gasps. She didn't care about the cold, she didn't care about the storm, and she didn't care about the blood on her shoes. She just wanted to escape the suffocating gravity of Leo Santoro.

She reached her battered Honda Civic parked near the outer security gates, fumbled with her keys, and threw herself inside the driver’s seat. The engine sputtered twice before roaring to life. She slammed the car into drive and sped down the deserted mountain road toward the city, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled up in front of the quiet Italian restaurant downtown. The warm, yellow glow of the windows spilled out onto the wet pavement. Through the glass, she could see Greg sitting alone at a corner booth, wearing his trademark beige sweater, nervously checking his wristwatch.

Tessa cut the engine, sat in the dark car for a moment to catch her breath, and tried to wipe the gunpowder smudge from her cheek. She straightened her damp dress, fixed her hair, and pushed open the restaurant door. The bell chimed merrily above her head, clashing horribly with the internal chaos raging inside her chest.

Greg looked up immediately, relief washing over his mild, unassuming face. He stood up as she approached the booth.

“Tessa! Oh, thank God,” Greg said, stepping forward to pull out her chair. “I was starting to worry you got into an accident with this awful rain. You’re soaked!”

“I’m sorry, Greg. I had... car trouble,” Tessa lied smoothly, sliding into the booth and pulling her damp coat tight around her shoulders. “A flat tire miles out of town. It took forever for roadside assistance.”

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s what matters,” Greg smiled kindly, signaling the waiter for a menu. “You look absolutely stunning, by the way. Even if you’re a little wet.”

“Thank you, Greg,” Tessa forced a weak, genuine smile.

For the next hour, she tried desperately to lose herself in his normal, predictable world. Greg talked about his golden retriever Buster, his recent tax audits at work, and a funny documentary he had watched on television. It was everything she had wanted—boring, safe, mundane normalcy.

Yet, as she sat across from him, sipping lukewarm water, she found her mind drifting entirely back to the dark, blood-soaked foyer of the Santoro estate. She kept picturing Leo kneeling on the marble, checking her for injuries with frantic, desperate eyes. She kept hearing the thunderous crack of his pistol and the terrifying realization that men were hunting him in his own home.

By 10:30, they finished dinner and walked out into the cool, rain-washed street.

“Let me follow you home, Tessa, just to make sure your car is running okay,” Greg offered, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“No, no, that’s okay, Greg. I live pretty far out, and you’re tired,” Tessa insisted gently, desperate to get away before her spiraling nerves betrayed her. “I’ll text you as soon as I’m home.”

“Alright. Drive safe, Tessa,” Greg smiled, leaning in to place a polite, chaste kiss on her cheek.

Tessa turned and walked back toward her Honda Civic parked down the block. As she reached for the door handle, a pair of headlights suddenly cut through the rainy darkness, blinding her with a harsh, glaring white beam.

A sleek, black armored Mercedes pulled up silently beside her car, blocking her in from behind.

Tessa froze. The rear door of the Mercedes swung open, and Salvatore, Leo’s heavily armed enforcer, stepped out into the rain, holding a large black umbrella.

“Get in the car, Miss Jenkins,” Salvatore said politely, though his tone left zero room for negotiation.

“No! Tell Leo I’m not going back!” Tessa snapped, backing away toward her Civic.

“You don't understand, Miss Jenkins,” Salvatore interrupted, his face grave. “The moment you left the estate, Moretti’s cleanup crew tracked your car. Mr. Santoro knows you went to meet Gregory Allan Davis.”

Tessa’s blood ran ice-cold. “What did you do to him?”

“We didn't touch him,” Salvatore replied steadily. “Mr. Santoro wouldn't allow it. But Moretti’s men didn't care about us. They paid a visit to Mr. Davis’s apartment ten minutes ago.”