A housekeeper walked into the wrong luxury suite and stumbled upon a notorious mafia heir who was supposed to be dead.

Clare blinked, staring at him in utter disbelief. Her mind struggled to connect the terrifying reputation of the Duca family with the man standing two feet away from her.

"You're... you're letting me go?" she asked, her voice barely a breath.

Nicholas allowed the faintest, almost imperceptible trace of a smile to touch the corner of his lips. It was devoid of warmth, yet strangely devoid of malice.

"Would you prefer I didn't?" he countered softly.

Clare shook her head rapidly, clutching her tablet against her chest like a shield. "No. No, I... thank you."

She turned her body slightly toward the door latch, but her eyes lingered on his face. The curiosity that had kept her alive during three years of night-shift work in the city broke through her fear for a brief, dangerous second.

"Everyone thinks you're dead," Clare whispered before she could stop herself. "The papers... the police... they said you were in that car on the ramp."

The faint trace of humor on Nicholas’s face vanished in a fraction of a second. His features hardened into stone, his dark eyes darkening until they looked like polished obsidian.

"Then let them," Nicholas said, his baritone dropping an octave into a cold, lethal register.

He reached behind his back, slid the matte-black handgun off the marble vanity behind him, and tucked it discreetly into the rear waistband of his black trousers, concealing it beneath the tail of his open white shirt.

He stepped past her, reached out, and gripped the brass handle of the suite door.

He turned his head to look down at her, his eyes serious and unblinking.

"Listen to me carefully, Clare," Nicholas said softly, leaning in close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his breath. "The men who put those scars on my chest are still looking for me. If anyone learns you saw me in this room, they won't just come for me."