Rossi’s house looked like something snatched out of a fairytale.

The garden was bursting with wild orange blossoms that swayed gently under the summer sun, clueless that its master now rotted six feet under. Neatly trimmed grass lined the path like it had been preparing for a guest who would never return.

But Torre Scarpa had arrived. And this house, this pretty, ghost-ridden place, belonged to him now. Legally, spiritually, and intentionally.

He muttered under his breath, “This is a property in debt to me, you dead motherfucker.”

The door creaked open after a single knock, revealing her—Montana.

She stood there in soft cotton shorts and a pale yellow shirt, her bare legs nipped at by the curious gaze of a shaggy, unbred dog that clearly hadn’t learned to fear men like him.

Her look was unprepared, casual… and intimate. The kind of comfort a woman wore when she thought no one important would visit.

She wasn’t Italian, that much was clear. Her skin was pale like sugared snow, untouched by Mediterranean sun. But those dark, coiled curls on her head? They could’ve belonged to a woman from Napoli. Women like Torre's mother.

Montana looked up at him, her thick lashes giving way to her eyes that were the color of oceans that had never seen war, to see him.

Torre found it amusing how she didn’t know yet that everything; her hours, her heartbeat, her unborn child, was already on the verge of becoming his.

“Oh… hello, Mr. Scarpa,” she greeted.

He stepped forward, easy and sure, like a man entering confessional with a loaded prayer. “You can drop the formalities. Montana… mind if I come in?”

Her hesitation was brief but polite. She stepped aside, and the dog didn’t bark. That was good.

‘One day,’ Torre thought, ‘the mutt would sit calmly and watch me ruin every inch of its sweet and pale owner in this house her dead husband once cherished. Even the garden.’

Montana brought him sweet and cold lemonade and served him with the kind of gentle hospitality that whispered of innocence. That was fine. Innocence was just another currency, and Torre was a man who bought in bulk.

“I was baking,” she said, fumbling with the words. “Cookies and buns. It helps when I’m not inspired to sew or knit, I guess. I work faster when I’m distracted. Oh sorry, I’m rambling. Why are you here?”

Torre folded his hands and offered her a smile. One of those easy, show-all-your-teeth kinds of smiles. The type men wear when they’re lying through those teeth.

“I thought we could solve each other’s problems,” he said.

He laid it out plainly. Her debt was nothing compared to what he spent on private security. She had no one and he had a daughter. He needed someone suitable and Montana quite fit the bill.

She stared at him, her lips tightening. He could already taste the resistance in her silence. He almost respected it.

…Almost.

“You want me to be your nanny?” she asked softly.

“Not quite.” He leaned back. “I want you… and your child, to move in with me. This place is… lovely, sure, but haunted. Mine’s new and untouched. A perfect place for a fresh start.”

There was no need to tell her he had burned down the old house with Vittoria's things in it.

“I’ll settle your debts while you keep whatever you earn from your little business. In exchange, you work for me as a live-in nanny for a year. Your debt will be your salary, but there will be profits for just yourself. When it’s over, you leave free with three million euros extra from me.”

Montana blinked, then swallowed. Her hand brushed her belly unconsciously.

Torre’s gaze didn’t waver. He imagined her, her thighs wrapped tight around him, her body trembling in surrender, her gasp echoing through the halls Rossi once prayed in.

“Three million,” he repeated. “One year.”

She bit her lip. “That’s… a lot for just being a nanny. Living in your house, eating your food.”

He smirked. “There’s no price too high for the safety of my daughter… or for loyalty. You understand that, don’t you?”

She was beautiful in that untouched kind of way. She didn't look like one of those glossy models made for the camera. She was the kind of woman you don’t stream online, rather you collect her and hide her inside, in a cage.

She also looked to Torre like she wouldn't be so easy to take to bed.

“I need a contract,” she said finally, her voice firm.

Good. He liked fire.

It meant she’d fight. And he liked women who fought him before they fell.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, sliding the papers across the table like a dealer revealing a winning hand. “I expected nothing less.”

She flipped through it fast. Smart girl, but still… desperate.

“I want a lawyer to see this,” she said, already calculating.

He didn’t flinch. “Reasonable. Here.” He handed her a card. “You can also meet Alessia if that helps your decision.”

She walked him to the door.

She looked dazed. As if she already knew what she was signing up for but couldn’t yet name it. She thanked him and he didn’t say anything.

Torre Scarpa was certain he had already won. After all, desperation made women predictable. And he had always been good at reading the end of the story before the book began.

“Mr. Scarpa?” she called, just as he was about to step out.

He turned. “Mrs. Rossi?”

She wasn’t smiling.

Her eyes were sharply fixed on his chest. Particularly on the gold-and-onyx cufflink there.

“That cufflink…” she said softly. “I—it…”

Torre's pulse skipped. His hand drifted slowly toward the inside of his coat.

No way. She couldn’t know. No one outside the bloodline could recognize that piece. It was a family heirloom for only Scarpa-born who were the post-Cosa Nostra. They were legendary in the darkest circles of Italy.

“What about it?” His voice was calm, but death was waiting in his pocket. A gun.

Montana looked up at him again, her voice trembling now. Her gaze was steady. “I’ve seen it before.”

Shit. She didn't look afraid in Torre’s eyes, and that… that was the worst part. ‘She would’ve made a perfect fuckmate,’ Torre thought.

But now? She might have to die.