Chapter 1 - Three Words After Midnight
Mila Hart stared at the message on her phone as if someone else had typed it.
Come get me.
Three words.
No explanation. No apology. No second message explaining that she was drunk, lonely, embarrassed, or temporarily out of her mind.
Just three words sent at 1:43 in the morning to Luca Romano.
Her boss.
Her very dangerous boss.
“Oh, no.”
Mila pushed herself upright against the stone wall outside her apartment building and immediately regretted the movement. The world tilted slightly. Rainwater dripped from her hair onto the white blouse she had worn to work that morning, and one of her black heels had somehow ended up half off her foot.
She had left the small birthday gathering downtown earlier than everyone else.
That was supposed to be the responsible part.
She had called a ride. The driver had dropped her half a block from her building because road construction had closed the curb lane. Mila had walked through the rain, discovered she had left her apartment keys inside the office tote she had accidentally given her friend Claire to carry, and then sat down beneath the narrow overhang beside the building entrance to figure out what to do.
She could have called Claire.
She could have called the building superintendent.
She could have booked a hotel.
Instead, after two glasses of champagne and a cocktail she absolutely should not have accepted, she had opened Luca Romano's contact.
Then she had typed those three catastrophic words.
Her phone vibrated.
Mila stopped breathing.
Where are you, Mila?
The alcohol seemed to leave her bloodstream instantly.
She read his message twice.
Then a third time.
She considered throwing the phone into the gutter.
Another vibration came less than thirty seconds later.
Are you safe?
That was somehow worse.
If he had ignored her, she could have spent the weekend inventing a graceful explanation. Wrong contact. Joke. Accidental message. Someone stole her phone.
But Luca was responding exactly the way Luca responded to everything.
Directly.
Efficiently.
Without wasting a word.
Mila pressed her forehead against her palm.
She had worked for Luca for almost three years. In that time, she had learned that he did not ask questions unless he intended to act on the answers.
She typed:
I think so. I'm outside my building. I forgot my keys.
The typing indicator appeared immediately.
Address.
She almost laughed despite herself.
Of course.
Not Do you need help?
Not Should I call someone?
Just one word.
Mila sent the address.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then:
Stay where you are.
Her stomach dropped.
“What did I do?”
The city answered with rain.
Ten minutes later, headlights swept across the wet sidewalk.
A black sedan slowed beside the curb.
Mila knew the car before it stopped.
She had scheduled enough maintenance appointments, airport pickups, and executive transfers to recognize Luca's Mercedes from half a block away.
The rear door opened.
Luca stepped out.
Mila forgot to be drunk.
He wore black trousers and a black dress shirt beneath a dark jacket, no tie. His hair was damp almost immediately. He looked like he had left somewhere expensive in the middle of something important.
Which, knowing Luca, he probably had.
The driver remained behind the wheel.
Luca closed the car door and looked at Mila.
His expression changed.
Barely.
Most people would not have noticed.
Mila did.
He saw the wet blouse. The missing shoe. Her hair stuck to her cheek. Her phone held loosely in one hand.
Then his gaze swept the street.
Not admiring it.
Assessing it.
Searching.
He approached.
Mila wished the pavement would open and swallow her.
“I didn't think you'd actually come.”
Luca stopped in front of her.
“Then why did you ask?”
His voice was low, almost lost beneath the rain.
“I don't know.”
“That answer usually means you know and don't want to say.”
Even exhausted and embarrassed, Mila almost smiled.
He took off his jacket and held it toward her.
“I’m soaked already.”
“I noticed.”
She accepted it.
The fabric was warm from his body.
That small detail nearly undid her.
Luca crouched so they were closer to eye level.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did someone follow you?”
“No.”
“Did someone bother you?”
“No.”
“Did anyone touch you?”
“No.”
His shoulders loosened by perhaps half an inch.
Mila stared.
“Were you expecting one of those answers to be yes?”
Luca ignored the question.
“Where are your keys?”
“With Claire.”
“Claire Jensen?”
Mila blinked.
“You know Claire's last name?”
“You've mentioned her.”
Once.
Maybe twice.
Mila looked away.
“I can call her.”
“At two in the morning?”
“It's one fifty-eight.”
Luca gave her a look.
“Right. Sorry.”
He stood and extended his hand.
“Come.”
She stared at it.
“Where?”
“Somewhere dry.”
“I can wait for the superintendent.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can stand.”
Mila demonstrated.
It did not go well.
Her heel slid on the wet pavement and Luca caught her by the forearm before she went down.
Neither moved.
His hand was warm.
Steady.
The contact lasted perhaps two seconds.
It felt dangerously longer.
Mila pulled back first.
“I’m fine.”
“You are many things, Mila. Fine isn't currently one of them.”
“That's rude.”
“It's accurate.”
He opened the rear car door.
Warm air spilled out.
Mila hesitated.
The sensible part of her brain finally returned to work.
This was Luca Romano.
Men in meetings watched their language around him. Bankers returned his calls before leaving dinner tables. Senior executives lowered their voices when he entered rooms.
She knew the public version of him well: Romano Holdings, commercial property, logistics, private investment, hospitality.
She also knew there were phone calls she never logged.
Meetings without surnames.
Visitors who entered through the private elevator.
People who looked relieved when Luca agreed with them.
And terrified when he did not.
“I'm not taking you anywhere you don't want to go,” Luca said.
Mila realized she had been standing motionless.
“I know.”
That was the disturbing part.
She did know.
She slid into the car.
Luca sat beside her.
The driver pulled away.
For the first minute, neither spoke.
Mila stared at the blue and gold reflections sliding across the window.
“Where are we going?”
“My place.”
Her head snapped toward him.
Luca's expression did not change.
“Your guest room,” he added.
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I absolutely do not.”
The faintest flicker crossed his mouth.
Not quite a smile.
She looked away before it became dangerous.
His phone rang.
Luca glanced at the screen.
Something in his face hardened.
He answered in Italian.
Mila did not speak Italian fluently, but after three years working for him, she recognized enough words to know this was not a dinner reservation.
“Where?”
Pause.
“When?”
Another pause.
Then Luca looked at her.
The warmth in the car seemed to disappear.
“No,” he said in English now. “Don't touch anything. I'll handle it.”
He ended the call.
Mila swallowed.
“Problem?”
“Work.”
“At two in the morning?”
“My work has poor boundaries.”
She laughed quietly.
“You're one to talk.”
His eyes shifted toward her.
That almost-smile appeared again.
Then vanished.
The sedan turned onto another avenue.
Mila glanced through the rear window.
A dark SUV turned too.
She thought nothing of it at first.
Cities were full of dark SUVs.
At the next light, Luca looked into the side mirror.
His entire posture changed.
He leaned forward.
“Marco.”
The driver nodded.
No explanation.
The Mercedes took a right.
The SUV followed.
Mila sat straighter.
“Luca?”
“Seat belt.”
She already had one on.
“What's happening?”
“Probably nothing.”
“You don't say ‘probably’ unless something is definitely wrong.”
He looked at her.
Even now, some part of him seemed impressed.
“That's an annoying habit you have.”
“What?”
“Knowing when I'm lying.”
The car turned again.
This time the SUV did not follow.
Luca watched until it disappeared.
Then he relaxed.
Slightly.
Mila did not.
“What was that?”
“Someone going the same direction.”
“You changed direction three times.”
“Manhattan has complicated roads.”
“We're not in Manhattan.”
Luca looked out the window.
For the first time that night, Mila saw something close to frustration.
Not with her.
With himself.
She folded his jacket tighter around her.
“Is this about you?”
He didn't answer.
That frightened her more than a lie would have.
Twenty minutes later, the sedan entered the underground garage beneath a narrow residential tower overlooking the river.
Luca escorted her upstairs.
His apartment surprised her.
She had expected cold marble, museum furniture, something intimidating.
Instead, the place was quiet. Dark wood. Books. Clean lines. A piano in the corner that looked used rather than decorative.
Luca handed her a towel.
“The guest room is down the hall.”
“I should probably call Claire.”
“In the morning.”
“Luca—”
“You need sleep.”
“You're my boss.”
“Unfortunately.”
She stared.
“Was that a joke?”
“No.”
“It sounded suspiciously like one.”
“Go to bed, Mila.”
She started down the hall.
Then stopped.
“Thank you.”
Luca stood near the kitchen, watching her.
“For what?”
“Coming.”
His expression became unreadable again.
“You asked.”
As if that explained everything.
Maybe to him, it did.
Mila slept badly.
At 6:17 a.m., she woke to voices.
Low.
Male.
One belonged to Luca.
The other she recognized as Adrian Cole, Romano Holdings' head of security.
Mila sat up.
She should not listen.
She knew that.
Then she heard her own name.
She froze.
“…checked the building twice,” Adrian said. “No forced entry.”
Luca answered too quietly to hear.
Adrian continued.
“The camera feed was interrupted for eleven minutes.”
Mila slipped from bed and moved closer to the door.
“Could be coincidence,” Adrian said.
“No.”
Luca's answer was immediate.
“Someone accessed the office system at 1:36,” Adrian added.
Silence.
Then Luca asked, “Using what credentials?”
Adrian hesitated.
Mila knew before he answered.
She didn't know how.
She simply knew.
“Mila Hart's.”
Her hand tightened around the doorknob.
Her account?
At 1:36?
Seven minutes before she had texted Luca?
Impossible.
She had been across town.
The voices outside stopped.
Mila realized the bedroom door was partly open.
Luca stood at the end of the hallway.
Looking directly at her.
Neither spoke.
Then he said, very quietly:
“Mila, I need you to tell me exactly what you did yesterday.”
And suddenly her drunken message was no longer the most dangerous mistake she had made.
May you like
Someone had been using her name before she ever sent it.
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