I pulled it from my pocket and saw the notification count climbing rapidly. Lorenzo’s executive group—the inner circle that ran his syndicate’s legitimate fronts—was active. Too active.
I hesitated, then opened it.
The first thing on the screen was a photo Francesca had just shared. Lorenzo was on one knee in her new villa, sleeves rolled to his elbows, broad shoulders tense as he worked on exposed wiring near the wall. Sweat darkened the fabric of his shirt, the angle deliberate, intimate. It wasn’t just a candid moment—it was a statement.
My fingers curled around the phone.
Beneath the photo, her caption glowed brightly on the screen.
Does every boss personally handle repairs at midnight? I might just dedicate my entire future to this company. Maybe I should make it official and sign on for life.
The replies came flooding in almost instantly—men and women who knew exactly who Lorenzo was, what he ruled, and what his attention meant.
Never seen the boss like this. Guess the rumors about him being cold were nonsense.
That’s not a CEO—that’s a man auditioning for husband of the year.