Adrien Moretti did not look back down at his hands. He kept his eyes fixed on the entrance.

A woman stood in the threshold, catching her breath.

She wore a dark wool coat draped over her shoulders, revealing a simple, tailored red silk dress beneath it. Her dark hair was gathered into a soft, hurried twist, a few stray strands falling against her cheek. She was flushed, her chest rising and falling from running across the damp parking lot, holding a small leather clutch in one hand and a smudge of white royal icing drying near her left wrist.

She was thirty-two, perhaps thirty-three, with high cheekbones and clear, almond-shaped hazel eyes—eyes that belonged, without a shadow of a doubt, to Lily, Sophie, and Emma.

Her gaze swept frantically across the dining room, skipping past the older couples and the quiet corner booths, until it landed squarely on Table Four.

She froze.

Her eyes dilated in terror as she saw her five-year-old triplets sitting around a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit, three red dresses fluttering over three chairs, three glasses of cranberry juice sitting on the white tablecloth, and a pink notebook resting beside an expensive bottle of untouched Nebbiolo.

"Oh... oh my God," she whispered.

She practically ran across the room, her heels clicking rapidly against the terrazzo floor. "Lily! Sophie! Emma!"

"Hi, Mommy," Lily said cheerfully, waving her small hand as if they were meeting at a park pavilion rather than an exclusive dining room reserved by Chicago’s most dangerous syndicate boss. "We finished the interview."

"You... you walked in here alone?!" The woman’s voice cracked into a breathless, horrified squeak. She reached the table, her hands trembling as she pulled Emma into her side, checking Sophie’s napkin, and grabbing Lily’s shoulders all at once. "I told you to wait in the car! I told you I was finishing the phone call with Mrs. Gable!"

"The car was cold, Mommy," Sophie explained calmly, adjusting her collar. "And the gentleman was waiting by himself. You said it is impolite to make people wait."

"I... I am so sorry," the woman gasped, turning her eyes up to meet Adrien’s.

For the first time in eleven years, Adrien Moretti felt the breath catch in his throat.

Up close, her face was striking—not with the artificial, polished perfection of the socialite women Dante usually tried to introduce him to, but with a raw, fierce, and exhaustion-worn beauty. There were tiny lines of strain around her eyes, but her hazel gaze held a sharp, protective fire that burned bright despite her panic.

"My name is Clara," she choked out, holding out a trembling, flour-dusted hand. "Clara Vance. I am so embarrassed... I am their mother. I swear they normally listen to me—"

Adrien stood up smoothly, his six-foot-two frame towering over the small table. He didn't take her hand with the cold, distant formality he used in business. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a clean, ironed white silk handkerchief, and gently handed it to her.

"Your wrist, Miss Vance," Adrien said, his baritone voice calm, deep, and smooth as smoked velvet. "You have icing on your sleeve."

Clara blinked, looking down at her wrist, then up at his face. The sheer size of him, the absolute stillness in his gray eyes, and the flawless cut of his Italian suit told her instantly that he was not a corporate accountant or a mid-level midwest executive.

He was a man who commanded heavy doors to stay closed.

"Thank you," she stammered, taking the handkerchief, her face burning a bright, flushed crimson. "Mr. Moretti... I am so sorry. The bride's mother was screaming because the fondant collapsed, and I had to remount the entire top tier in the back of my van..."

"Sit down, Clara," Adrien said softly.

He didn't call her Miss Vance. He used her name. He stepped around the table, pulled out the empty chair directly across from his own, and waited until she sat down.

Lily leaned over to her mother, leaning close to her ear in a loud, stage-whisper that carried across the entire restaurant: "He doesn't snore, Mommy. And he makes omelettes."

Clara covered her face with both hands, letting out a soft, mortified groan that made the corners of Adrien’s mouth twitch upward for the second time that night.