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“I’ll make you some tea,” Rosa promised, smiling. “And don’t forget the veins and arteries you mentioned earlier. That sounded fascinating.”

Madelaine knew Rosa was just trying to politely shoo her out of the kitchen, and she almost laughed. “Fine!” she huffed, then smiled at the kind woman. “Thank you for the tea. That would be lovely.”

Instead of going for her sketch pad in the sun room, she drifted into Paulo’s office. The big, leather chair invited her to sit, so she sat, spinning around before pulling herself closer.

“A funeral needs good food and drinks,” she muttered, smirking to herself. Her father would hate the idea of a fake wake and that would be in their favor. He deserved worse. She started a list of his favorite foods, the dishes he demanded from his cooks whenever the whim struck.

But writing a list wasn’t nearly enough to ease her irritation.

So, in between jotting down items like Boxty and Tayto crisps, she began her subtle campaign of office sabotage. Paulo liked to keep his pens in the left drawer? Madelaine shifted all of them into the right-side drawer. That little pot of paperclips? She pulled them all out and linked them into one long, ridiculous chain, setting it back proudly on the edge of his desk.

Irish Apple Cake, she wrote on the list, then slapped a post-it note over the laser sensor on the bottom of his computer mouse.

Black and white pudding, she scribbled, then moved to Paulo’s side cabinet, yanking neatly labeled folders from their slots and sliding them into the wrong places. Disorganized chaos. It made her feel better.

Then she eyed the paintings on the wall. They were lovely, serene scenes, but far too perfect. One by one, she tilted each so that it hung just slightly off-kilter, enough to gnaw at Paulo’s meticulous sense of order, but subtle enough that he wouldn’t notice right away. The thought of him catching one askew days later filled her with wicked glee.

Back at the desk, she tapped the pen against her chin, recalling her father’s other demands over the years when she’d acted as his hostess. Seafood chowder, she wrote. That wasn’t one of his top favorites, but he enjoyed it, and it would round out the buffet. Then, because she couldn’t resist, she opened each drawer in Paulo’s desk and rearranged the contents entirely. His stapler was shoved into the file drawer, sticky notes buried beneath office supplies, scissors hidden behind a sheaf of documents. A few items she pushed all the way to the back, where he wouldn’t find them until he was desperate.

“Perfect,” she whispered, satisfaction thrumming through her.

Finally, she placed the food list squarely in the center of his desk, like a calling card. Not just a plan, but proof.

A signature.

Madelaine didn’t want Paulo to think some stranger had tampered with his sanctuary. She wanted him to know it had been her.

Walking up the stairs, Madelaine hummed a tune that had been stuck in her head all morning. Something jaunty and mischievous, perfect for the task at hand. Down the long hallway, she waved sweetly to a couple of the guards. They nodded back politely, but she didn’t miss the knowing glance they exchanged. No doubt they assumed she was on her way back to Paulo’s bed.

Oh, how wrong they were.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, Madelaine paused, hands on her hips, surveying the masculine space. Time to make a few little…adjustments.

First stop—the bed. With a gleefully determined expression, she yanked the comforter off and set about short-sheeting the bed with the precision of a seasoned prankster. Ten minutes later, the bed looked perfectly normal again, the comforter smoothed down so that Paulo wouldn’t suspect a thing—until he slid in between the sheets tonight and found his legs trapped.

Suppressing a smile, she turned to the bookcase. Rows of leather-bound volumes lined the shelves, but it didn’t take her long to find the ones that looked more like decoration than beloved tomes. Perfect. She chose one, grunting a little as she lifted the corner of the heavy bed and wedged the book beneath. The tilt was subtle, barely noticeable, but just enough to throw the whole balance off. Paulo would sense something was wrong. Oh yes, he definitely would.

Next, the closet. She ran her fingers along the neat drawers, remembering the mornings she’d leaned in the doorway, openly admiring the way Paulo’s muscles flexed as he dressed.

Not anymore.

At his sock drawer, she grinned. There were rows of socks, neatly folded and matched. Too neat. Too tidy. An affront to chaos.

“This won’t do,” she whispered, tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she pulled them out. One by one, she knotted mismatched socks together. Tight, impossible-to-untangle knots, before tossing them back into the drawer in a jumbled heap.

His boxers were next. They were all neatly folded but that wouldn’t last. He preferred the kind that clung snugly to his admittedly impressive backside. Madelaine pursed her lips, flipped each one inside out, and stacked them back as if nothing had happened.

Finally, she drifted to his bedside table. She took the bulb out of the lamp. Then she went from lamp to lamp, methodically collecting every bulb in the room. By the time she reached the bathroom, she was tempted to try the recessed lights, but they were too high. No matter. She’d done plenty for one day.

Leaning back, she admired her work with a smirk. Bed booby-trapped, socks sabotaged, underwear undone, lights useless.

Paulo might be the big, bad mafia boss, but tonight? Tonight, he was going to lose a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting.

Chapter 29

Paulo stalked into the house, fury simmering under his skin. His meetings had gone fine. Better than fine actually. Every deal had been locked down exactly as he wanted. But all day, the issue of Madelaine had gnawed at him like a toothache. Add to that the looming threat of Rosa’s boiled chicken and godforsaken broccoli, and his mood was blacker than midnight.

He was ready to snap at the first person in his path until she appeared.