Ivy spent the first ten minutes inside the Moretti mansion trying not to stare at things that probably cost more than her entire apartment building.

The chandelier alone looked capable of paying off student loans.

Matteo walked beside her through another endless hallway lined with dark wood and oil paintings of dead men who all looked deeply disappointed in modern society.

“You people really love frowning portraits,” Ivy muttered.

“They’re family.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

Matteo grinned.

He had one of those dangerous faces that got away with too much. Sharp suit, lazy smile, expensive watch. The kind of man who probably flirted during hostage situations.

Rocco followed behind them in silence.

Ivy glanced back once. “Does he ever talk?”

“Only when violence is involved.”

“That feels healthy.”

“He’s improving.”

Rocco opened a door near the staircase.

“This is your room.”

Ivy stepped inside and stopped.

The room looked bigger than the apartment she shared with Rosie. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the snowy grounds. A fireplace crackled quietly near a velvet couch. Someone had already placed folded clothes on the bed.

Women’s clothes.

Her size.

Ivy turned slowly.

“Oh, no.”

Matteo leaned against the doorframe. “Problem?”

“You people guessed my bra size. That’s a problem.”

“Very talented staff.”

“This is serial killer behavior.”

“It’s hospitality.”

“It’s terrifying.”

Rocco walked back into the hallway.

Matteo lowered his voice slightly. “You’ll want to shower before dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Lucien prefers discussions over food.”

“That sentence sounds legally threatening.”

“He’s in a better mood when fed.”

“Does he eat human souls or regular pasta?”

Matteo smiled again but didn’t answer.

That bothered her more than an answer would have.

The door shut behind them.

Silence settled over the room.

Real silence.

No upstairs neighbors screaming about parking spaces. No pipes rattling. No sirens outside. The mansion felt insulated from the rest of the city, sealed behind stone and money and armed guards.

Ivy crossed slowly toward the window.

Snow drifted across the frozen gardens outside.

A black SUV rolled through the gates.

Another one waited near the fountain.

Jesus Christ.

What kind of man needed this much security?

Her phone still showed no service.

Of course.

She dropped onto the edge of the bed and stared at the envelope from her father again.

Three million dollars.

The number kept circling through her head like a bad song.

Her father repaired boilers.

He reused zip ties.

He once got banned from Home Depot for arguing with a display toilet.

How the hell did a man like that end up owing millions to Lucien Moretti?

A knock interrupted her thoughts.

Ivy opened the door carefully.

A woman in her sixties stood outside holding folded towels. Silver hair twisted into a low bun. Sharp eyes. Black dress.

Housekeeper energy.

“You must be Ivy.”

“Depends who’s asking.”

The woman handed her the towels.

“Marta.”

“Ivy.”

“I know.”

“Right. Creepy rich people house.”

Marta’s mouth twitched slightly.

“Dinner is at seven.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

Ivy sighed dramatically.

“You people are exhausting.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Debatable.”

Marta glanced briefly toward the hallway before lowering her voice.

“Try not to provoke Mr. Moretti tonight.”

Ivy blinked.

“That implies other people already tried.”

Marta gave her a long look.

Then she walked away.

Fantastic.

Absolutely comforting information.

—

At six fifty-eight, Ivy stood outside the dining room wearing borrowed black clothes and the expression of someone moments away from committing tax fraud.

The dress fit perfectly.

Which annoyed her.

Matteo appeared beside her carrying two glasses of whiskey.

“You look nice.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I sound respectful.”

“You sound like trouble.”

“Also true.”

He handed her one of the glasses.

“I don’t drink whiskey.”

“You might tonight.”

The dining room doors opened before she could answer.

The room beyond looked less like a place people ate and more like a scene where billionaires quietly planned murders over expensive soup.

Long black table.

Low golden lighting.

Fireplace burning near the windows.

Lucien sat alone at the far end.

Black suit again.

No tie this time.

One hand resting near a glass of dark liquor.

The moment Ivy entered, his eyes lifted.

That strange stillness from earlier returned immediately.

Like the room shifted around him.

Matteo leaned toward her.

“See? Better mood.”

“He looks like he kills people recreationally.”

“He kills people professionally.”

Ivy looked at him sharply.

Matteo only smiled into his whiskey.

Rude.

Lucien’s gaze moved slowly over Ivy’s dress.

Not lingering.

Not obvious.

Which somehow made it worse.

He looked away first.

Interesting.

Ivy walked toward the table carefully.

The chair beside Lucien had been pulled out already.

Absolutely not.

She chose the chair directly across from him instead.

Matteo coughed suddenly into his glass.

Lucien said nothing.

Ivy folded her hands.

“So.”

Lucien took a slow sip of whiskey.

“So.”

“Your house is insane.”

“You’re direct.”

“You kidnapped me.”

“I invited you.”

“With armed men.”

“You came willingly.”

“That feels manipulative.”

A tiny flicker touched Matteo’s face.

Amusement.

Lucien remained unreadable.

Dinner arrived in silence carried by staff who moved like ghosts. Steak. Potatoes. Wine she absolutely could not pronounce.

Ivy stared at the plate.

Then at Lucien.

Then back at the plate.

“Is this poisoned?”

Matteo nearly choked on his drink.

Lucien cut into his steak calmly.

“No.”

“You answered that very fast.”

“You ask strange questions.”

“You own armed guards.”

“You insulted me within thirty seconds of meeting me.”

“That wasn’t intentional.”

“That concerns me more.”

Ivy picked up her fork.

“Look, I just want to understand something.” She pointed vaguely around the mansion. “Why does a man with Batman-level finances care about my father?”

Lucien’s knife stopped briefly against the plate.

“Your father stole from me.”

“My father steals batteries from hotel remotes. Three million dollars feels ambitious for him.”

“He transported money.”

“For you?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“He disappeared with it.”

Ivy laughed once.

Not happily.

“No. Somebody lied to you.”

Lucien looked up slowly.

“You’re very certain.”

“I know my dad.”

“Do you?”

The question landed harder than she expected.

Ivy leaned back in her chair.

“He’s irresponsible. He’s immature. He thinks duct tape can solve electrical problems.” Her voice tightened slightly. “But he’s not stupid enough to rob dangerous people.”

Lucien studied her face in silence.

The fire cracked softly behind him.

“You love him very much,” he said.

The words sounded observational. Clinical.

Like he was identifying weather patterns.

Ivy frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means loyalty affects judgment.”

“That sounds like something said by a man with no friends.”

Matteo covered his mouth quickly.

Lucien’s eyes shifted toward him.

Matteo immediately looked down at his plate.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Ivy pointed between them.

“Oh my God. You terrify your own family.”

Lucien returned his attention to her.

“I don’t terrorize Matteo.”

Matteo lifted his glass slightly.

“You absolutely do.”

Lucien ignored him.

Ivy leaned forward.

“So what now? You hold me hostage until my father appears?”

“You’re not a hostage.”

“Right. Sorry. Guest.” She gestured around dramatically. “Very normal guest experience. Love the armed surveillance.”

“You’re free to leave.”

Ivy blinked.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Hope flashed too fast across her face.

Then Lucien continued.

“The debt remains yours.”

There it was.

She sank back in the chair.

“Okay, wow. You really know how to ruin a moment.”

“You inherited his obligations.”

“I inherited emotional instability and bad eyesight. I didn’t sign mafia paperwork.”

“You benefit from his money?”

“We lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a haunted radiator.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Ivy opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Lucien watched her quietly.

Got her.

Damn it.

Her father paid rent.

Bought groceries.

Paid Rosie’s school fees.

Not consistently. Not well.

But enough.

The realization tasted awful.

Lucien cut another piece of steak.

“You’re beginning to understand.”

“I’m beginning to hate everyone in this room.”

“That’s healthy,” Matteo said.

Ivy glared at him.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Honestly? This is the most entertaining dinner we’ve had in months.”

Lucien drank his whiskey slowly.

Ivy noticed something then.

He barely touched the food.

Mostly the drink.

His eyes looked tired up close.

Not sleepy.

Something deeper.

Like exhaustion had settled into the bones and refused to leave.

And weirdly—

that bothered her.

She hated that.

Absolutely hated that.

The silence stretched again.

Then Lucien spoke without looking at her.

“Matteo said you work in a café.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You dislike it?”

“I dislike customers who order six modifications and then say ‘surprise me.’”

Matteo nodded seriously.

“That’s fair.”

Lucien’s fingers tapped once lightly against the glass.

“Can you make espresso?”

Ivy stared.

“You kidnapped me for coffee?”

“You exaggerate often.”

“You ask weird questions often.”

Lucien’s eyes lifted to hers again.

“Answer it.”

“Yes,” Ivy said slowly. “I can make espresso.”

“Good espresso?”

“Insultingly good.”

Matteo snorted into his drink.

Lucien remained still for another second.

Then he stood.

The movement shifted the entire room instantly.

Like gravity changed direction.

“Come with me.”

Ivy frowned.

“Why?”

“I want coffee.”

“You have staff.”

“I want yours.”

Matteo looked down quickly, hiding another smile.

Ivy pointed between them again.

“See? This. This is serial killer behavior.”

Lucien walked toward the door.

“Ivy.”

Something about the way he said her name made her stand automatically before she could stop herself.

Annoying.

Deeply annoying.

She followed him through another hallway toward the kitchen while muttering under her breath.

“If this ends with my organs in a cooler, I’m haunting all of you.”

“Noted,” Matteo called behind them.

The kitchen looked bigger than Saint & Finch Café.

Of course it did.

Steel counters. Hanging copper pans. Espresso machine worth more than her tuition.

Ivy walked straight toward it.

Then stopped.

Her eyes widened slightly.

“Oh.”

Lucien leaned against the doorway watching her.

“You know the model.”

“This machine is obscene.”

“You disapprove?”

“I’m emotionally overwhelmed.”

Her fingers brushed the polished metal carefully.

La Marzocco GS3.

Perfect condition.

No scratches.

No milk stains.

Whoever cleaned it deserved sainthood.

Ivy glanced over her shoulder.

“You own a twenty-thousand-dollar espresso machine?”

Lucien loosened one cuff slowly.

“Yes.”

“You’re either divorced or deeply lonely.”

Silence.

Matteo made a choking sound somewhere behind her.

Oops.

Lucien’s expression did not change.

Which somehow felt more dangerous.

Ivy cleared her throat quickly.

“Okay. Right. Coffee.”

She moved faster now.

Beans.

Grinder.

Portafilter.

Her body slipped automatically into routine.

For the first time all night, she stopped performing.

No jokes.

No sarcasm.

Only rhythm.

The soft grind of beans.

Steam hissing.

Cup warming beneath her fingers.

Lucien watched from the doorway in complete silence.

Something in his face shifted while she worked.

Not softer.

Just… quieter.

Ivy handed him the cup finally.

“There.”

Lucien took it carefully.

Their fingers brushed briefly.

Cold again.

Weirdly cold.

He lifted the cup.

Drank once.

The kitchen stayed completely silent.

Matteo looked between them carefully.

Waiting.

Lucien lowered the cup slowly.

Then drank again.

No reaction.

No praise.

Nothing.

Ivy crossed her arms.

“Well?”

Lucien looked at her over the rim of the cup.

And for the first time that night—

his eyes lost a little of their distance.

“It tastes familiar,” he said quietly.

Then he drank again in silence.