The doors of the Garrison creaked open—and silence fell like a guillotine blade.

He entered like a ghost in a tailored black coat—broad, burly, cold. 6'4" of pure, commanding presence. Luca Changretta, the Don from New York. The kind of man whose name could silence entire rooms and whose eyes could freeze blood midstream. But today? It wasn’t just Luca who had jaws dropping.

She stepped in behind him.

His woman.

Soft, curvy, and glowing like sin dressed in sugar. An innocent smile, mischievous eyes, those thunder thighs wrapped in a dress that hugged her hourglass figure like it was made for worship. The Garrison had never seen anything like her. The contrast was shocking—this warm, lively, expressive doll attached to a man like him. A man who dealt in blood and vengeance.

Even Tommy raised a brow. Arthur blinked. John whistled low.

But it was Polly… Polly who sat next to Luca, speaking low, trying to pull him from the edge. Trying to negotiate. To keep him from starting a war.

And that’s when YN walked in again—slower this time, her gaze narrowing like a blade. Gone was the sweet innocence. Her expression was sharp, eyes locked on Luca and Polly like she was two seconds from turning this entire pub into a crime scene.

Jealousy. Possessiveness. Pure and unfiltered.

Luca didn’t even flinch. He didn’t turn, didn’t blink. He could feel her glare burning holes into his side, and still—he smirked. A slow, dangerous smirk. Because he knew.

She was going to throw a fit. And he was going to love every second of it.

"This’ll be good," he murmured under his breath, barely loud enough for Polly to hear as he took a slow sip of whiskey. His eyes finally flicked toward the storm brewing in the doorway—his woman, possessive and fuming.

Polly?

Still had no damn idea what was coming.