By the time I dropped a fork in front of Dominic Vance, half the restaurant had already decided I was dead. At Leon’s on the Magnificent Mile, everyone knew the rule. Serve Chicago’s most feared mafia boss quietly.

The Vance estate on Lake Shore Drive was not a house; it was a fortress of limestone, bulletproof glass, and manicured iron gates.

On my first day, Scar-Eyebrow—whose real name turned out to be Mateo Rossi, a former military contractor with twelve years of service beside Dominic—escorted me through the security checkpoint. I had to register my biometrics, sign an eight-page non-disclosure agreement, and surrender my phone during operational hours.

"Rule one," Mateo said as we walked into the cathedral-vaulted foyer. "If Mr. Vance is in the study with the doors shut, you don't knock unless the building is on fire."

"And if it is on fire?" I asked.

Mateo didn't smile. "You put it out yourself before you knock."

My duties were surprisingly extensive. I wasn't just pouring wine; I was auditing catering bills, vetting guest credentials with the security team, and managing a household staff of twelve who moved with the hushed precision of monks.

Dominic was everywhere and nowhere. He worked out of the east-wing office, surrounded by encrypted terminals and monitors displaying Chicago's maritime shipping routes.

On Thursday night, during a private dinner with three city aldermen and a port authority commissioner, I noticed a discrepancy in the sommelier’s wine crate. A crate of vintage Barolo had an unbroken customs seal from an unregistered dock in Gary, Indiana.

While the guests were in the formal dining room, I walked into the pantry and checked the shipping manifest against Dominic’s master database on my security tablet.

The serial numbers didn't match.

I marched straight down the hall, bypassed Mateo with a sharp glare, and pushed the double doors of the dining room open.

Every eye at the table snapped to me. Dominic sat at the head, a crystal tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

"Mr. Vance," I said, my voice steady. "The 2012 Barolo has an unverified customs transit stamp. The crate arrived from Pier 9, not the state bonded distributor."

Dominic set his glass down slowly. The alderman to his right cleared his throat nervously.

"Is that so, Miss Bennett?" Dominic asked.

"Yes. Pier 9 is currently under an EPA biological quarantine hold. If you pour that wine, you are violating three federal maritime codes—or serving something cut with industrial solvent."

One of the commissioners went pale, pulling his glass away from his mouth.

Dominic looked at Mateo standing by the door. "Secure the cellar. Detain the delivery driver."

Then, Dominic turned his gaze back to me. There was no anger in his eyes—only that deep, razor-sharp admiration that made my skin tingle.

"Thank you, Daisy," Dominic said quietly. "Serve the reserve cabernet instead."

Later that evening, after the guests had departed under armed escort, I was packing the remaining crystal in the pantry when Dominic entered. He had shed his tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

"You saved four men from severe poisoning tonight," Dominic said, leaning against the doorframe. "The shipment was tainted by Victor Rossi's syndicate. They wanted an incident at my table to trigger a federal health raid."

I wiped a glass with a linen cloth. "I just read the numbers. Numbers don't lie."

Dominic stepped closer. The air between us grew thick, charged with an undeniable current. He reached out, his warm, callused fingers brushing a stray strand of dark hair away from my forehead.

"You're very dangerous, Daisy Bennett," he murmured.