Chapter 1 - My face warmed.
“You were not supposed to hear that.”
“I hear more than people think.”
“That is not romantic. That is mildly terrifying.”
For the first time all day, one corner of his mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
Then it disappeared.
“I’m asking for one evening, Emma.”
“You’re asking me to lie to your grandmother.”
“That is apparently where your moral line is?”
“She sends me birthday cards.”
“She sends birthday cards to our doorman.”
“She writes mine by hand.”
That stopped him.
Luca glanced away.
There it was again—that subtle change I had learned to notice after three years working for him. A tightening around the eyes whenever conversation approached something personal.
I had become fluent in Luca Moretti’s silences.
It was part of my job.
The more dangerous realization was that I had become interested in them.
“What happens if I say no?” I asked.
“Then I go alone.”
“No firing?”
“No.”
“No terrible assignment in Newark?”
“You already survived the terrible assignment in Newark.”
“Barely.”
“I remember.”
Of course he did.
I folded my arms. “Why do you need a girlfriend tonight?”
His expression changed.
The amusement vanished completely.
“My grandfather left instructions regarding certain voting shares in the family company. My grandmother controls them until she feels the family is stable enough to transfer them.”
“And your romantic life determines corporate stability?”
“It shouldn’t.”
“But?”
“My uncle Stefano believes it should.”
I knew the name.
Everyone at Moretti Holdings knew Stefano Moretti, although he rarely appeared at headquarters.
He owned hotels in Europe, sat on several boards, and had spent two decades telling financial magazines he had no interest in running the family empire while somehow attending every important shareholder meeting.
“And Stefano wants you married?”
“He wants me predictable.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“To him, it is.”
I considered that.
“So he has someone in mind.”
Luca walked behind his desk.
“Valentina Bianchi.”
I recognized that name too.
The Bianchis owned a luxury shipping company headquartered in Genoa. Their business relationship with the Morettis stretched back generations.
I looked at him.
“Is this some kind of arranged marriage?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
Then he exhaled.
“Not formally.”
“Luca.”
“My family likes tradition.”
“That is a very elegant way of avoiding my question.”
His eyes met mine.
“Stefano has spent months encouraging a closer alliance between our families.”
“And Valentina?”
“Knows nothing about it, as far as I’m aware.”
That relieved me more than it should have.
I picked up my legal pad again, mostly because I needed something solid.
“And you think showing up with me ends the conversation?”
“It changes it.”
“Because I’m your assistant?”
“Because they know I don’t do anything casually.”
That was true.
Luca selected restaurants with the seriousness of military planning. He had once rejected three conference rooms because the acoustics weren’t right.
The man did nothing casually.
Especially relationships.
As far as I knew, there hadn’t been one since I started working for him.
“You understand,” I said slowly, “that pretending to be emotionally involved with your employee creates approximately eight hundred problems.”
“Name five.”
“Workplace boundaries. Rumors. Your board. My dignity. Your grandmother.”
“Again with my grandmother.”
“She likes me.”
“She likes everyone.”
“She does not like your uncle Stefano.”
“That is proof of excellent judgment.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
And that was the moment everything became more dangerous.
Because Luca smiled.
A real smile.
Small, tired, unexpected.
I had seen him negotiate billion-dollar acquisitions without blinking.
I had seen him stare down men twice his age until they reconsidered entire business strategies.
But I had almost never seen Luca Moretti smile.
It made him look younger.
Less untouchable.
More human.
And somehow, that was worse.
I looked away.
“One evening,” I said.
His smile vanished.
“You’ll do it?”
“I have conditions.”
“Of course you do.”
“No kissing.”
A pause.
“Fine.”
“No inventing private details without warning me.”
“Fine.”
“You tell me everything your family expects before we walk in.”
“Agreed.”
“And after tonight, we go back to normal.”
Something unreadable crossed his face.
“Yes.”
It was only later that I remembered he hadn’t said agreed.
At six-thirty, a black car waited outside my apartment building.
I had expected Luca to send a driver.
I hadn’t expected Luca himself.
He stood beside the car in a charcoal overcoat, snow beginning to dust his shoulders.
“You’re early,” I said.
“You’re three minutes late.”
“It’s snowing.”
“You live upstairs.”
“You’re already acting like my boss.”
“I am your boss.”
“Tonight you’re supposed to be my boyfriend.”
His gaze held mine.
“That can be arranged.”
My stomach did something deeply inconvenient.
I had chosen a dark green dress that fell just below my knees, simple earrings, and the good winter coat my mother had bought me the previous Christmas.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing that suggested I had spent forty minutes trying to look like someone a billionaire might plausibly choose.
Luca opened the car door.
“You look beautiful.”
The words were so matter-of-fact that I almost missed them.
“Thank you.”
I slid into the car.
He joined me on the other side.
For the first ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
Manhattan moved past the windows in gold and white, shop windows glowing beneath garlands, people hurrying through the snow carrying gifts.
Eventually, Luca said, “There are a few things you should know.”
“Here we go.”
“My grandmother, Rosa, will know something is unusual immediately.”
“She always does.”
“My mother will try not to interrogate you.”
“Try?”
“She will fail.”
I smiled.
“And Julian,” he continued, “will enjoy this too much.”
Luca’s younger brother.
I had met Julian Moretti perhaps six times.
He was everything Luca wasn’t—easygoing, openly charming, perpetually amused.
“What about Stefano?”
Luca looked out the window.
“He will ask questions politely enough that you may not realize they’re questions until afterward.”
“And Valentina?”
“She may be there.”
My stomach tightened.
“You said she didn’t know.”
“I said as far as I’m aware.”
“That is not comforting.”
“Valentina is reasonable.”
“Wonderful. I look forward to meeting the reasonable woman your family wants you to marry.”
Luca turned his head.
“Are you jealous?”
I nearly laughed.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Are you?”
He frowned.
“Jealous of what?”
“Exactly.”
That ended the conversation.
But ten minutes later, when the car turned onto a quiet street on the Upper East Side, Luca spoke again.
“There’s one more thing.”
I waited.
“My father’s study is off-limits.”
I looked at him.
“Why would I go into your father’s study?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Then why tell me?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because Stefano may mention it.”
That was strange enough that I remembered it.
Before I could ask more, the car stopped.
The Moretti townhouse stood behind iron gates wrapped in cedar garlands and white lights.
It wasn’t flashy.
It was worse.
Old.
Elegant.
Permanent.
The kind of place that looked as if six generations of family secrets had been built directly into the walls.
Luca stepped out first.
Then he reached back.
His hand waited for mine.
I hesitated.
“This starts now?” I whispered.
“It started when you got in the car.”
I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine.
Warm.
Steady.
Unreasonably familiar.
The front door opened before we reached it.
Julian Moretti stood there wearing a navy sweater and a grin.
“Well,” he said.
Luca stopped.
Julian looked at our joined hands.
Then at me.
Then back at Luca.
“This,” Julian announced, “is the best Christmas present I have ever received.”
“Move,” Luca said.
Julian stepped aside.
“Emma, welcome. I’ve been waiting years.”
“For what?”
“For my brother to become interesting.”
“I can still fire you from the family,” Luca muttered.
“No, you can’t. Grandmother loves me.”
A warm voice came from deeper inside.
“I heard that.”
Rosa Moretti appeared beneath an archway.
She was small, silver-haired, and elegant in a deep red dress. The moment she saw me, her face brightened.
“Emma.”
Then she noticed Luca’s hand.
Her smile changed.
Not wider.
Smarter.
“Oh,” she said.
That single syllable contained more suspicion than a federal investigation.
“Nonna,” Luca said, bending to kiss her cheek.
Rosa ignored him.
She took both my hands.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“And my grandson finally had the sense to invite you properly.”
I blinked.
“Properly?”
Luca cleared his throat.
Rosa turned to him.
“Don’t stand there like a man waiting for quarterly reports. Take her coat.”
Julian covered a laugh.
Luca helped me out of my coat.
His fingers brushed the back of my shoulder.
Entirely accidental.
Probably.
Then a woman approached.
She was striking, dark-haired, and composed, with Luca’s eyes.
His mother, Elena.
I had met her once at a foundation dinner.
She hugged me before I could prepare.
“Emma, I’m so glad you came.”
“This was somewhat last minute.”
Elena looked at her son.
“With Luca, everything personal is last minute.”
“I’m standing here,” he said.
“Yes. We noticed.”
Dinner was still an hour away, and the house slowly filled with relatives.
I met cousins, family friends, an elderly great-aunt who immediately asked whether Luca ate enough vegetables, and a thirteen-year-old cousin who politely explained that everyone had bet money on whether Luca would ever bring someone home.
“Who won?” I asked.
“No one yet,” she said. “We have to see if you come back next year.”
Luca overheard.
“Heather.”
“What? It’s true.”
May you like
I laughed.
Luca didn’t.
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