By the time the security guard starts reaching for his radio, I’m already sprinting.

Heat slams up from the pavement, a full-body punch of Phoenix, Arizona summer. The sun is so bright it feels like someone cranked up the saturation on reality and lost the remote. I’m tearing across the wide stone plaza of the Phoenix Commerce Center in a pencil skirt and half-broken heels, clutching a black briefcase to my chest like it’s a life raft instead of the reason I’m probably about to die. Or get sued. Or both.

Honestly, at this point in my life, I’m not even sure which would be worse.

People in suits scatter out of my way, giving me the look you reserve for a raccoon in a Target parking lot. Phones lift. Nobody actually helps. Of course they don’t. This is America. Our national sport is watching things happen and pretending we’re not involved.

“I swear I didn’t mean to steal this!” I yell, because I’m an optimist even when I’m being an idiot. My voice bounces off glass and steel, swallowed by the heat. “It was an accident!”

No one answers. A guy holding a Starbucks just steps aside so I don’t crash into him. He takes a sip like he’s watching live daytime television.

The problem is the man chasing me does not look amused.

His footsteps pound the stone behind me, getting louder. Grant Hail: six-four, built like a CrossFit instructor who hates joy, currently powered by rage and whatever pre-workout Wall Street guys snort instead of feelings. He’s also my boss. Or he was, approximately four chaos-filled minutes ago.

“Harper!” he shouts. “Stop! Now!”

Harper. That’s me. Harper Lane. Professional assistant, part-time disaster, and—if the universe really wants to spice things up today—future headline: LOCAL WOMAN SOMEHOW BOTH FIRED AND ARRESTED ON SAME MONDAY.

My left heel chooses that moment to start rubbing a blister raw. Perfect.

I dart around a concrete planter, nearly take out a guy in a navy blazer, and tighten my grip on the briefcase. It’s heavier than it looks, all sleek black leather and bad choices. It contains, allegedly, Victor Seldero’s schedule, meeting notes, and something else. Something important enough that my boss shouted, Don’t touch anything, before leaving me alone with it in a glass-walled conference room on the twenty-second floor.

So naturally, obviously, inevitably, that’s when the universe decided to remind me that I am clumsy.

The briefcase toppled off the chair. The latch popped. And something small, metallic, and shiny rolled out onto the carpet like a dropped coin in a casino. It looked illegal in the way certain tax write-offs and offshore accounts are illegal—too clean, too deliberate, wrong in a way you feel more than see.

I’d barely bent down to scoop it up when Grant came back in, saw the open case, and went white.

“What did you touch?” he’d barked.

“Nothing,” I’d squeaked. “It touched me.”

Then he saw the shiny thing in my hand, shouted words I’m pretty sure HR would not approve of, and lunged for me.

Now we’re here. Me running. Him chasing. And somewhere above us, the Arizona sun frying my last three brain cells.

I cut around a corner at the edge of the plaza, aiming for the circular driveway out front. The sunlight ricochets off mirrored skyscraper glass so hard it makes my eyes water. A valet in a red jacket jumps back as I barrel past him.

“Sorry, my bad, please don’t sue me!” I yelp over my shoulder.

A sleek black SUV pulls up to the curb, windows tinted, paint so shiny it reflects the whole brutal blue sky. My plan is to dart around it and keep running until I either pass out or hit the freeway. I’m three steps from clearing the front bumper when the rear door opens.

He steps out like he owns the day.

At first it’s just a silhouette against the glare: tall, broad shoulders, easy posture. Then he moves into the light and my brain short-circuits.

He’s in a charcoal suit that fits like it was engineered, not tailored. Sharp jaw, straight nose, mouth set in a line that says he has never waited in a DMV line in his life. His hair is dark, styled like it fell that way on its own. And his eyes—ice-blue, cool and assessing—take me in with the lazy attention of someone who’s used to people falling all over themselves around him.

He’s holding sunglasses in one hand like this is just another Monday in downtown Phoenix and he’s not accidentally in the middle of my personal crisis.

I choke on my own breath. Literally. My lungs forget what air is.

One perfect eyebrow lifts. “You either stole that,” he says, voice smooth and low, “or you run marathons with office supplies.”

The SUV driver snorts. I would flip him off, but I’m currently juggling a stolen briefcase, a blister, and the intense desire not to die in front of a man who looks like a magazine spread.

“Harper!” Grant’s voice hits me like a shove. He skids into the driveway behind me, already red in the face like he’s allergic to cardio. “Stop! Put—”

He sees the man in the suit. Sees me standing directly in front of him. And stops dead.

“Oh,” he breathes. His eyes go wide. “Oh, crap.”

The stranger tilts his head toward Grant without taking those cold eyes off me. “He belongs to Seldero.”

Great. Wonderful. So this stranger knows my boss’s boss. The boss Grant works for. The boss I technically work for if you zoom out on the org chart and squint: Victor Seldero. My personal boogeyman in a five-thousand-dollar suit.

Grant swallows. “Mr. Carrera, sir. Good to—good to see you.”

Carrera.

The name hits me harder than the heat.

I know who he is. Everybody who lives near organized money in Arizona knows. Luciano Carrera. The rival. Obscenely rich, dangerously powerful, the kind of man men like Victor and Grant say with their voices lowered even when they’re alone.

Underworld royalty with a better stylist.

And I’m standing three feet from him on a driveway in downtown Phoenix, clutching Seldero’s briefcase to my sweaty chest like a contest prize.

“Hi,” I whisper. My voice cracks like a dollar-store glow stick.

Grant lunges toward me. “Give that to me, Harper!”

I jerk back on instinct.

I don’t know if it’s survival or stupidity, but I move behind Luciano like he’s a human blast shield. One second I’m in front of him, blinking in the sun. The next I’m half hiding behind his shoulder, peeking around him like a raccoon with a law degree.

I don’t know this man. He definitely has men who “handle problems” before breakfast. But Grant looks like he might strangle me right here in the driveway. And Luciano looks… unbothered. Dangerous, yes. But not out-of-control dangerous. The kind of dangerous with a schedule and a team.

His head turns slightly, just enough that he can see me over his shoulder. There’s the faintest ghost of amusement in his eyes, like this is the most interesting thing that’s happened to him all day.

“You hiding from him,” he murmurs, “or auditioning for a very strange hug?”

“I—I’m being framed,” I blurt. “Or fired. Or chased. Possibly all of the above.”

Grant’s face goes tomato red. “She took Seldero’s confidential case!”

“I dropped it,” I correct, stung he’s ignoring the real villain here, which is gravity. “Huge difference.”

Luciano’s gaze drops to the briefcase, then back up to my face. He studies me for a beat, the way a man like him probably studies stock charts and rival empires.

“You Seldero’s assistant?” he asks.

I shake my head so fast my ponytail whips my neck. “No. I’m Grant’s assistant. I don’t do crime. I just staple things.”

His mouth curves. Not a full smile. Just a subtle shift, like his face is considering the idea and isn’t sure how to feel about it.

“Well,” he says, “you’re running through downtown Phoenix with his boss’s intel, sweetheart. Looks like you’re in the family business whether you meant to be or not.”

Sweetheart. My nervous system files that away for later.

Behind us, the fountains in front of the Commerce Center toss arcs of water into the burning blue air, glittering like something out of a luxury resort commercial. Glass towers knife into the sky. Somewhere a car honks. The whole scene is ridiculous—sharp, bright, way too dramatic for a Monday morning.

Grant thrusts out his hand. “Give it back.”

Luciano steps smoothly between us, blocking Grant with a movement so casual it feels like a warning. “She’s with me,” he says.

I choke. “I am?”

“You are now.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. His gaze stays on Grant, cool and flat. “Looks like you’re switching teams.”

My jaw drops. “Teams? This isn’t dodgeball. This is—”

“Organized business,” he finishes dryly. “I’m aware.”

Grant sputters. “Sir, this woman works for Seldero—”

Luciano finally turns his full attention on me. Up close, those blue eyes are even more intense. There’s a weight to his attention, like he doesn’t just see you. He measures you.

“Does she look,” he asks Grant, “like she works for a family like his?”

Grant hesitates. He looks at my scuffed flats, my off-the-rack blouse, the way I’m clutching the briefcase like a terrified intern who wandered onto the wrong Netflix show. “No,” he admits grudgingly.

“Right,” Luciano says. “She looks like she tripped into this.”

“I ran into this dramatically,” I protest.

“That too.” His tone says he’s giving me that one.

For a moment, no one speaks. The sun beats down. Sweat slides between my shoulder blades. The air feels thick with something I don’t have words for.

Grant breaks first. “You can’t take her. Seldero will—”

“What?” Luciano cuts in, voice mild. “Send his interns after me?”

Grant goes pale in a way that has nothing to do with the heat.

Luciano glances back at me, eyes sharper now. “What’s your name?”

“Harper,” I manage.

“Well, Harper,” he says, extending his hand, “give me the briefcase.”

My fingers tighten around the handle on reflex. Not because I want to keep it—the thing feels cursed—but because every instinct I have is screaming that this is one of those no-return moments. The kind that rearranges the next ten years of your life in one stupid decision.

Luciano’s voice softens just enough to be disarming. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I swallow. Grant lunges again. “Harper, don’t you dare—”

That decides it.

I hand the briefcase to Luciano.

Grant lets out a mangled noise that sounds like a blender full of regret. Luciano takes the case with one hand. His other brushes my wrist for the briefest second.

It’s nothing. Just skin on skin. But a jolt shoots up my arm anyway, confusing and sharp, like my nerves are waking up after a long nap.

“Good choice,” he says quietly.

It doesn’t feel like a good choice. It feels like I just accidentally rewrote my entire life.

“Get in,” he says, nodding toward the open SUV door.

“Excuse me?” My voice comes out thin and high.

“You want Seldero’s people to come scoop you off the sidewalk?” he asks. “They’re not going to believe your ‘I dropped the shiny thing’ speech. Not after you climbed into my shadow on live security footage.”

Grant is muttering a rapid-fire stream of curses behind us, so fast and furious it sounds like a broken lawn mower.

Luciano leans in, just a little, his voice dropping low enough that it buzzes across my skin. “Harper, you’ll be safer with me.”

“Why?” I whisper.

He gives a slow, shark-like half-smile that does terrible things to my heart rate. “Because I’ve just decided you’re not leaving my sight until I know exactly why Seldero cares about this case.”

The SUV looms behind me like a black-metal mouth. The doors are open. So is the sky path above, full of drone cameras and office windows and people with phones who will absolutely record a woman being dragged into whatever comes next.

Grant is vibrating like a furious Chihuahua. Luciano is waiting.

I take a breath of scorching desert air and climb into the SUV.

The leather seats are cool against my legs, smelling faintly of something expensive and subtle. As soon as I’m in, Luciano slides in beside me, taps twice on the tinted glass partition, and the SUV glides away from the curb. The plaza, the fountains, and Grant’s stricken face shrink in the side mirror until they’re just heat-blurred shapes.

“You just quit your job,” Luciano says conversationally.

I blink at him. “I what?”

“You can’t exactly go back after that,” he points out. “Welcome to Team Carrera.”

My stomach drops.

Dear God, I have just been kidnapped by the most dangerous man in Arizona. And the messed-up part?

I’m not entirely sure I want to get out.

I keep waiting for the adrenaline to wear off, but apparently my body has locked itself into permanent panic mode. The SUV glides through downtown Phoenix like it’s a different universe from the one I usually inhabit—the one with traffic jams and suspiciously sticky bus seats and grocery store self-checkout machines that judge you.

Here, the ride is smooth, the air-conditioning perfect, the outside world tinted to a softer glare through dark glass.

Luciano sits beside me like we’re on a casual carpool run instead of whatever this is. Sunlight pours through the windshield and side windows, bouncing off polished leather and brushed metal, turning the whole interior a soft gold.

He taps the stolen briefcase with two fingers. “Tell me what happened.”

“I told you,” I say, my hands flailing a little because apparently that’s what they do when my life is imploding. “I dropped it. Gravity committed the crime, not me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He tries not to smile. Fails. It’s not huge, but it’s there. A crack in the armor.

“You’re really leaning into this defense,” he says.

“It’s the truth,” I insist. “The universe was like, hey, what if instead of staying closed like a normal briefcase, we dramatically yeet the secrets onto the carpet today.”

“And the thing inside?” he asks. “The shiny object that rolled out.”

“I didn’t touch it,” I say quickly. “It touched me.”

Luciano tilts his head, studying me like a puzzle. “You do realize none of this makes you sound less suspicious.”

I groan and drop my face into my hands. “I’m a broke assistant, not some undercover agent. I barely have dental coverage. I can’t keep a basil plant alive. I am not built for… whatever this is.”

Outside, the city slips past: palm trees lining wide streets, a flash of an American flag in front of a federal building, mirrored office towers, a billboard advertising air-conditioning repair. Another Monday in Phoenix for everyone else.

“What exactly do you do for Seldero?” he asks.

“I don’t do anything for Seldero,” I protest. “I do things for Grant, who does things for Seldero. I answer calls, schedule meetings, color-code spreadsheets, book flights, once ordered very specific cigars from Miami that smelled like regret and old money. I staple things. I make coffee. I am aggressively normal.”

He watches me for a long moment, the city reflected in his eyes. “Where are we going?” I ask when the buildings outside start shifting from downtown glass to midtown condos.

“My office,” he says. “The nicer one.”

“Oh good,” I mutter. “I was worried you’d take me to the budget crime headquarters.”

That earns an actual huff of a laugh. It’s short, surprised, like he didn’t mean to let it out. “You really don’t know when to stop talking, do you?”

“It’s a coping mechanism,” I say. “When life gets scary, I get sarcastic. It’s either that or cry, and I already did my mascara.”

He leans his head back against the seat for a second, eyes still on me. “That explains a lot.”

We pull off the freeway on the north side of the city, where the sprawl turns cleaner, richer. In the distance, red rock buttes rise like something out of an Arizona tourism poster. The SUV turns through a pair of sleek security gates and up a drive toward a building that looks like a luxury eco-resort got confused and became an office.

The exterior is all pale stone and sunlit glass, Tier-One modern, surrounded by perfectly manicured desert landscaping and fountains that shoot water in carefully choreographed arcs. It’s the kind of place where real estate listing photos use words like “iconic” and “award-winning design.”

“This is an office?” I ask weakly.

He shrugs. “I have a few.”

“Just out of curiosity,” I say as we pull into the underground entry, “is one of them a volcano lair?”

He glances at me over his shoulder as we step out. “If I had one, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Fair,” I say. “I wouldn’t, either.”

Inside, the lobby is pure intimidation. White marble floors so polished they might sue you if you scuff them. Art pieces that probably have their own insurance policies. A reception desk manned—well, woman-ed—by someone who looks like she models for beauty brands in her lunch breaks.

“Sir,” she says, nodding respectfully at Luciano.

Then she looks at me. Her eyes flick from my flats to my hair to the slight panic I’m almost sure is still stamped across my entire soul. Her expression doesn’t change, exactly, but there’s a microsecond of visible confusion. Like: why is there a scared raccoon following the boss?

“I need the penthouse,” Luciano says.

“Of course.” She taps something on her tablet.

Luciano’s hand rests against the small of my back as he guides me toward a private glass elevator tucked behind a living wall of greenery. It’s not a heavy touch. Just a steadying pressure. But my nerve endings are overachievers, so they all light up at once.

We step inside. The doors whisper shut.

As the elevator rises, the city unfolds below us in bright postcard colors—blue sky, terracotta roofs, palm trees, the serrated silhouette of the mountains in the distance. Phoenix looks weirdly peaceful from up here, like a screensaver.

“Okay,” I say, because standing in total silence with a man like this feels illegal. “Can I ask you something?”

“Ask,” he says.

“Why are you being… nice?” I squint at him. “Or, I don’t know, not… worse?”

He looks at me, one eyebrow lifting. “You ran straight into me with Seldero’s secrets,” he says. “That makes your problem my problem.”

“That wasn’t exactly my plan,” I mutter.

“I believe you.” He leans his shoulder against the glass, relaxed but attentive. “Seldero won’t. He’ll think you gave that case to me on purpose.”

“That’s insane.” My voice comes out small.

“Harper.” His eyes lock on mine. “It looked intentional.”

My stomach drops. “I swear on everything holy, I am not smart enough to sabotage a crime family. I still Google how long to boil eggs.”

That ghost of a smirk returns, quick and sharp. “Trust me,” he says. “I noticed.”

“Wow,” I say, swatting his arm lightly. “Rude.”

He actually chuckles. It’s low and warm, and somehow that feels more disorienting than everything else.

The elevator doors slide open into what should be an office but is really a cross between a modern art museum and a billionaire’s vacation home. Sunlight pours in from massive windows. There’s a balcony overlooking the city, a wall of lush plants, sleek desks that look unused, and a floor-to-ceiling aquarium full of fish that probably cost more than my student loans.

Luciano strides in like he owns the planet. Honestly, he might.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward a pristine cream sofa.

I eye it warily. “I’m scared to touch anything,” I whisper. “My rent couldn’t cover a scratch on that coffee table.”

“Then don’t scratch it,” he says dryly.

Heat creeps up my neck.

He sets the briefcase on a low table, pops the latch, and opens it. Sunlight glances off the shiny illegal thing I met earlier: a drive encased in some kind of matte silver housing, edges too clean, design too clever.

“What is that?” I ask.

He picks it up with two fingers, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “Evidence,” he says.

“Of what?”

“Of something he shouldn’t have,” Luciano says, shutting the case with a snap. “And something I’m very interested in.”

Great. So in one clumsy move, I have apparently helped expose a crime while also committing a different one. Impressive, even for me.

“So what happens now?” I ask, voice thinner than I’d like.

Luciano sits across from me, elbows resting on his knees, hands loose, attention focused in a way that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. “Now,” he says quietly, “I need to ask you something important.”

I brace for the part where he decides whether I’m collateral damage or not.

“Do you want to go back to them?” he asks.

I blink. “Back to who?”

“Seldero’s people.”

My first instinct is to say yes. It was a terrible job, but it paid the bills. Phoenix rent doesn’t care that you’re morally conflicted. My bank account knows only one god, and her name is “Direct Deposit.”

“It was just a job,” I say. “I answered phones—”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” His voice drops, the room suddenly feeling too bright, too open. “If you go back, they will interrogate you for hours. They will assume you betrayed them. They will make you disappear without messing up the morning traffic.”

My throat clenches. Air feels thick. “And if I stay?” I whisper.

“If you stay,” he says, leaning a fraction closer, “you’re under my protection.”

“Protection,” I echo. “Like… house arrest?”

“More like witness protection,” he says. “With better views.”

“And the catch?” Because there is always a catch.

His eyes dip to my mouth, then back to my eyes, just quickly enough that I might have imagined it. “I ask questions,” he says. “You answer honestly. And until this is resolved, you stay where I can see you.”

My heart does a weird skip. “That sounds… intense.”

He doesn’t deny it. “You want the truth?”

“Probably not,” I say. “But sure.”

He laces his fingers, the sunlight catching the crisp lines of his suit. “I have enemies everywhere,” he says. “I can’t afford surprises.”

“Not even small ones like me?” I try to joke. It comes out shaky.

“Not even small ones like you,” he agrees. Then, after a beat: “I don’t trust easily.”

“And you trust me?” I ask.

“No.” He pauses, considering. “But I don’t not trust you, either.”

I blink. “That was very… poetic. In a ‘threatening fortune cookie’ way.”

He snorts. “You’re exhausting.”

“Thank you,” I say automatically.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m still taking it.”

The air shifts. Something unseen tightens. Before I can decide if I’ve said too much, the door opens and one of his men strides in, tablet in hand.

“Boss,” he says, breath slightly fast. “We have a problem.”

Luciano stands in a smooth, controlled movement. “What kind?”

The man turns the tablet around. Even from the sofa, I can read the headline screaming across a local news site in bold red font:

ASSISTANT TO PHOENIX BUSINESSMAN VICTOR SELDERO SEEN GETTING INTO CARRERA’S SUV. POSSIBLE DEFECTOR?

There’s a bright, crystal-clear photo under it. Me. Briefcase clutched to my chest, climbing into the SUV like I’m boarding a rocket to Mars. Luciano in the background, hand on the door.

My stomach hits the floor.

“Well,” I whisper. “That’s… very not good.”

Luciano’s jaw flexes. “Seldero will think you betrayed him on purpose,” he says.

“I didn’t,” I say, voice breaking. “I would have betrayed him for a health plan and better coffee. Not for free.”

“He won’t care.” Luciano turns to me, voice shifting from amused to command-sharp in half a second. “Harper, get up.”

I jump to my feet so fast I nearly face-plant into the cream sofa. “What are we doing?” I ask.

“We’re leaving,” he says. “Now.”

“Leaving where?” I’m half jogging to keep up with his stride as we head back to the elevator.

“Because every street in this city is about to have eyes looking for you,” he says. “We make it impossible for anyone to grab you.”

A bolt of terror shoots through me. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says as the elevator doors close, “we go somewhere they can’t reach you without coming through me.”

Somehow, despite the fear crawling up my spine, those words settle in my chest like a thrown anchor.

We don’t go back out the front. The SUV pulls up from a private underground exit instead, whisking us out of downtown and into the open desert on the north side of the city. Phoenix falls away behind us, skyscrapers shrinking, traffic thinning, heat mirage shimmering over the road.

We drive for almost an hour, the city giving way to rolling land and distant purple mountains. Saguaro cactus stand like sentries. The sky is that ridiculous Arizona blue, so bright it looks fake.

Finally, the SUV turns down a long private drive flanked by white fences. Ahead, a sprawling ranch unfolds like a country music video that won the lottery: acres of green grass, horses grazing lazily under the sun, low white buildings with red tile roofs, everything scrubbed clean and expensive.

“Is this… yours?” I ask.

“One of mine,” Luciano says.

“Right,” I mutter. “Of course. Why have one ranch when you can have several.”

As soon as we pull up, people move. Workers and security staff appear like they were waiting on some invisible signal. Some head for the fences. Others disappear toward the main house. A few glance curiously at me, but no one stares long. It’s all precise, practiced, a machine humming to life.

Luciano walks beside me, his pace measured so I can match it in my city shoes. His eyes scan the property, always moving, always tracking.

“You all right?” he asks without looking at me.

“No,” I admit. “But I’m trying to be.”

He makes a low sound of approval. “That’s more than most people manage.”

His voice is different out here. Less echo, more open sky. Still sharp, always sharp, but warmer somehow. There’s an undertone I can’t quite name.

He leads me past the main house to a separate building off to the side. Calling it a guest house feels like an insult. It’s bigger than my entire apartment complex: wide windows, soft cream stone, a little porch with chairs that look like they cost more than my car.

Inside, it’s all sunlight and neutral tones and impossible softness. The kind of place every lifestyle influencer on the internet would sell their soul for.

“Until this blows over,” he says, “you stay here.”

“And what about you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

He meets my gaze, steady as a promise. “I’ll be around.”

“Protecting me?” I ask quietly.

His answer is simple. “Among other things.”

“What other things?”

His eyes flick down my face, pausing at my mouth, then return to my eyes. His answer is slow, deliberate, careful in a way that makes it more dangerous.

“Figuring out why you interest me.”

Heat floods my cheeks. My heart forgets its job entirely for at least three beats.

“Interest me like…” I clear my throat. “As a potential criminal? A suspect? A liability?”

His gaze slips down my body and back up, not lingering long anywhere but seeing everything with unnerving clarity. “No,” he says. “Not like that.”

He reaches out. For half a second, I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, he lifts a strand of my hair between his fingers, the gesture unexpectedly gentle.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, “how disruptive you are.”

“That sounds bad,” I whisper.

“It isn’t.”

He releases my hair, letting it fall against my shoulder, and steps back like he hasn’t just short-circuited my entire system.

“Rest,” he says. “Eat. I’ll check in later.”

Then he turns and walks back into the blazing afternoon, his shoulders squared, his men already moving to follow whatever orders he gives next.

For the first time since this whole nightmare started, I’m not actively terrified.

I’m something worse. Curious. Drawn.

Maybe a little doomed.

I wake up to sunshine so bright it feels like a personal attack.

Arizona morning light is rude. It doesn’t ease into your life. It barges through the wide guest house windows like, Good morning, bestie, have you considered SPF 90?

For a second, I forget where I am. Then the view slams back into focus: sprawling ranch, grazing horses, distant mountains. A room that looks like a Pinterest board for “Desert Luxury,” not my usual one-bedroom with a view of a parking lot and a dumpster that’s always, somehow, overflowing.

The sheets smell faintly of something clean and expensive, like a billionaire who uses soap imported from a tiny country no one can spell without Google.

Right. Luciano Carrera. Underworld boss. Unwanted new boss. Potential crush. Complicated life ruiner.

On the small table near the bed, sunlight glints off a silver tray someone slid in while I was passed out. There’s a glass of fresh orange juice sweating in the heat, a perfect plate of fruit, and avocado toast that looks like it belongs in a food magazine, not in front of me.

There’s also a note. Thick white card, dark ink, handwriting sharp and decisive.

Eat. I need you alive.
— L.C.

Bossy. Slightly threatening. Weirdly thoughtful.

Great combination, honestly.

I’m halfway through the toast—a crime in itself, it’s so good—when a knock hits the door with more urgency than you’d expect on a peaceful morning.

“Miss Lane,” a voice calls. Male, clipped. “Mr. Carrera needs you at the stables. Now.”

My stomach does a flip worthy of an Olympic gymnast. “Is this a good ‘needs me’ or a bad one?” I ask, opening the door.

The man—a security guy with an earpiece and the build of someone who has never skipped leg day—hesitates. “He didn’t specify.”

“Fantastic,” I mutter, grabbing my shoes.

I’m escorted outside into the full assault of Arizona sun. The ranch looks almost unreal in the morning—white fences glowing, grass a shocking green against the desert, horses flicking their tails lazily. It’s all so calm it makes me suspicious, like those murder podcasts where the neighbors always say, “It was such a quiet area.”

Luciano waits by the main stable, sleeves rolled up, forearms bare, shirt open at the throat. The sunlight turns his hair almost bronze at the edges, like someone added highlights just for fun. His expression, however, is anything but relaxed.

The second his eyes land on me, I know something is wrong.

“What happened?” I ask, heart thudding.

He hands me a tablet.

A news article blares across the screen, this one from a bigger outlet than before. The headline is somehow even worse:

SELDERO FAMILY DECLARES HOSTILE MOVE. TARGET: HARPER LANE, POSSIBLE INFORMANT.

Below it is a photo. A different angle this time: me stepping into Luciano’s SUV in downtown Phoenix, Grant in the background, expression twisted. The clarity is brutal. You can practically see the moment my employment status evaporates.

I feel the blood drain from my face. The sun suddenly feels too hot, too white, like the world just turned up the exposure.

“They think I betrayed them on purpose,” I whisper.

Luciano nods once, the motion tight and controlled. “They want to grab you,” he says. “Use you. Blame you. Maybe even trade you.”

“Trade me,” I repeat, my voice faint. “For what?”

He turns fully toward me, his gaze steady. “For that piece of evidence you accidentally dropped into my hands.”

A laugh bursts out of me, high and a little hysterical. “I am so sick of that stupid shiny thing.”

He doesn’t smile. “They’ve sent men into the city,” he says quietly. “Seldero wants to make a public example. He wants everyone to see what happens when someone walks away with his secrets.”

My mouth goes dry. “Over me?” I ask. “I’m a nobody.”

“You’re a very visible nobody right now,” he says. “And they think you know more than you do.”

“Which is literally nothing,” I say. “My entire skill set is calendars and coffee.”

His jaw hardens. “You’re not leaving my side.”

“I never planned to,” I say honestly. “They want to—” I swallow. “They want to get rid of me.”

“No,” he says, stepping closer. His presence is like a shield, blocking out the sun. “They want to use you. That’s worse.”

“I do not enjoy being either option in that sentence,” I point out.

“So we change the sentence,” he says.

“How?” My voice feels small against all the open space.

He takes a breath, deep and measured—the kind of breath you take before you step into a fight. Or a confession.

“We end this,” he says simply.

I blink. “End… what? The story arc? The episode? The—”

“The leverage,” he says. “The threats. The hold he thinks he has over you.” His eyes lock on mine. “His access to you.”

My heart stutters. “Me?” I croak.

“Yes,” he says, not looking away even for a second. “You.”

The air between us feels hot, electric. I can’t tell if it’s the sun or him making me dizzy.

“Luciano,” I say, his name catching on my tongue. “Why do you care so much?”

He inhales sharply, like he’s been expecting the question and still didn’t want to hear it out loud. “Because,” he says quietly, “I don’t let anyone threaten what’s mine.”

My stomach drops straight through the floor. “What?” I manage. “What does that mean? I’m not a—”

“You’re not a possession,” he says. “You’re a choice I keep making.”

I don’t have a comeback for that.

Before I can figure one out, one of his men comes tearing across the yard from the front gate, dust kicking up behind his boots.

“Boss!” he shouts. “They’re on the road. Seldero’s convoy.”

Convoy. In broad daylight. Coming here.

My brain tries to eject from my body.

Luciano shifts from man to commander in an instant. “Secure the perimeter,” he orders. “Everyone armed, non-lethal unless I say otherwise.”

He grabs my wrist, his grip firm but careful. “Harper,” he says, voice low, “stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think my legs work.”

He squeezes gently. “You’re safe,” he says. “I won’t let anyone touch you.”

The crazy part?

I believe him.

Minutes later, the ranch’s long front drive fills with black SUVs. Dust clouds billow. Sunlight glints off chrome and tinted glass. It looks like an action movie forgot to schedule its night scenes and just went for full midday drama instead.

Guards move into position, some near the fence line, others flanking us. Horses in a nearby field toss their heads and snort, sensing the tension. The heat hums, thick and shimmering. My fingers tighten in the back of Luciano’s suit jacket without my permission, clutching the fabric like a lifeline.

The SUVs screech to a halt in a neat row. For a second, no one moves. The only sounds are the distant whine of cicadas and my own heartbeat beating out heavy, panicked thuds.

Then the front passenger door of the lead SUV opens.

Victor Seldero steps out like he owns the ground.

He’s in a crisp tan suit, sunglasses, and a smirk built from ego and money. He adjusts his cuffs as if he’s about to sit down for brunch instead of walk into a standoff on a rival’s land.

His eyes go straight to me. Of course they do.

“Harper Lane,” he drawls. His voice carries easily across the distance. “The little assistant who ran off with the wrong briefcase.”

“I dropped it!” I shout back before my brain can stop my mouth. “Stop saying it like I’m a spy.”

A few of his men exchange looks. One actually snorts.

Luciano’s hand slides subtly behind him, brushing my leg in a small, grounding touch. A silent, I’ve got you. The contact calms me more than anything else has all day.

Seldero turns his attention to Luciano. “Hand her over,” he says, like he’s asking to borrow my stapler.

“No,” Luciano says.

The single syllable hits the air like a grenade. Simple. Absolute.

Seldero laughs. It sounds like ice cubes clinking in a glass. “Come on, Carrera. She’s a nobody.”

Behind him, his men shift, spreading out just a fraction. Behind me, Luciano’s people do the same. The temperature feels like it jumps ten degrees.

“She stumbled into something bigger than her,” Seldero continues. “Accidents happen.”

“If anything happens to her,” Luciano says, his voice gone deadly quiet, “I burn your entire empire down to the foundation.”

Seldero’s smirk thins. “You’re risking a turf problem over an assistant?” he asks.

“Yes,” Luciano says. “I am.”

I suck in a breath so fast it almost chokes me.

“What’s she to you?” Seldero demands.

Luciano doesn’t hesitate. “Everything you aren’t capable of having.”

My knees almost give out. I stay upright by virtue of clinging to the back of his jacket like a terrified flamingo.

Seldero’s smirk finally cracks. For the first time, something real flashes in his eyes. Not fear of me. Fear of what I’ve somehow become to Luciano.

Luciano steps forward, leaving me directly behind him.

“You sent men to grab her,” he says. “To squeeze her for information she doesn’t have. To turn her into leverage for something she never meant to touch.”

Seldero’s jaw ticks. “She took my property.”

Luciano reaches into his pocket. For a horrible second I think he’s pulling out a weapon. Instead, he holds up the silver device. Even from here, it glints in the sun like trouble.

“This is what you want?” he asks.

Seldero’s gaze locks on it. “You know it is.”

“Then negotiate with me,” Luciano says. “Not her.”

He tosses the device onto the dusty ground between them. It lands with a soft thud, small and unassuming on the baked earth. All that danger, all that power, sitting there like just another piece of metal.

Both men stare at it.

“But you don’t get her,” Luciano adds.

The whole ranch seems to freeze.

“You’re choosing her?” Seldero asks, incredulous.

“Yes,” Luciano says. “I am.”

Seldero looks at me. Really looks. For the first time since I met him from a distance in a conference room, I see uncertainty. The math in his head doesn’t add up. Whatever this girl is, he’s thinking, she is not worth a full-scale fight.

But to Luciano, I am.

Seldero knows he’s already lost.

With a tight nod, he jerks his chin at his men. “We’re done here,” he says.

One by one, they get back into their SUVs. Engines rumble. Dust kicks up as they turn around. The convoy retreats down the long drive, sunlight bouncing off metal until they’re just dark shapes against the brightness.

Silence settles over the ranch like a blanket. The kind that’s heavy and light all at once.

I let out a breath I’ve apparently been holding for three straight minutes. “Okay,” I say weakly. “I think I forgot how to breathe?”

Luciano turns to face me slowly, the hard edge in his posture softening. “You okay?” he asks.

“I think so,” I manage. “My legs might disagree. My brain definitely does.”

He gives a breathy laugh, the sound half relief, half leftover adrenaline. “You did good,” he says.

“No,” I say. “You did good. I just hid behind you like a terrified flamingo and yelled at a billionaire.”

“You’re braver than you think, Harper,” he says.

The compliment lands somewhere in my chest and blooms warm.

He steps closer. Close enough that the sunlight outlines him in gold again, turning the edges of his hair and shoulders bright.

“Harper,” he says softly. “You should know something.”

My heart is suddenly very loud. “What?” I whisper.

He lifts his hand slowly, giving me enough time to pull back if I want to. I don’t. His fingers cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone with a gentleness that feels almost unreal after everything else.

“I didn’t choose you because of the evidence,” he says. “Or the politics. Or the complications.”

“Then why?” My voice is barely there.

“Because the second you ran into me,” he says, “I knew I wasn’t letting you go.”

Something in my chest cracks wide open.

“Luciano,” I whisper.

His forehead rests lightly against mine, breath warm, eyes searching my face. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. “And I will.”

I don’t.

Instead, I breathe, “Don’t.”

His lips find mine.

It’s not tentative. It’s sure, steady, like he’s been holding this decision in his hands and finally set it down. Warmth floods through me, washing away the leftover fear, the dust, the headlines. One hand slides into my hair. The other settles around my waist, pulling me closer until the world narrows to the press of his mouth and the solid line of his body against mine.

The bright, blazing Arizona afternoon becomes background noise—the horses, the dust, the white fences, all of it blurring out.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close enough that his breath brushes my lips.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs.

I rest my forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat under the crisp cotton. “And you?” I ask.

He laughs softly, a low, warm sound that I feel more than hear. “Safer with you than without you, apparently.”

I huff a disbelieving laugh into his shirt because I genuinely do not know what else to do with the insane reality of my life.

“So,” I say, looking up at him. “What now?”

“Now,” he says, sliding his arm fully around me, already guiding me back toward the ranch house, “you’re officially switching teams.”

I snort. “Guess I really am.”

He presses a light kiss to the top of my head. When I glance up, he’s wearing an expression I haven’t seen on him before—something softer, less guarded, like the edges have finally stopped bristling.

“Welcome to my side, Harper Lane,” he says.

And somehow, impossibly, in the middle of the Arizona heat and the chaos and the ridiculousness of it all, it feels like exactly where I’m meant to be.

Hey, sunshine. If you made it all the way through this sun-drenched, chaotic underworld roller coaster, do me a favor.

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