DOMINANT BY MY BOSS

His Mother

**Lyla’s POV**

The morning came in pieces.

I woke again around 7:30, still in his bed, still wrapped in his scent, but alone.

The sheets on his side were cool.

He must have left hours ago for the office.

I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint bruises on my wrists from where he’d held me down last night.

They didn’t hurt.

They felt like proof.

Like ownership stamped into skin.

I finally forced myself up.

My legs were unsteady when I stood.

Every step reminded me of him,deep thrusts, rough hands, the way he’d growled my name when he came inside me.

I found my uniform folded neatly on the leather chair.

Someone,probably him,had brought it up while I slept.

I dressed slowly.

No underwear again.

The fabric felt rougher today against my sensitive skin.

Every movement made me ache in the best-worst way.

I slipped out of the master suite carefully.

The hallway was empty.

I took the servants’ stairs down, avoiding the main corridors.

My plan was simple: act normal.

Clean disappear into the routine.

Pretend I hadn’t spent the nights in Russo El Massimo’s bed.

Pretend I wasn’t still leaking him.

But the house felt different.

Charged.

Like the walls themselves were watching me.

Mia caught me first,near the linen closet on the second floor.

She froze mid-step, eyes widening.

“Lyla… you look…”

She trailed off.

Her gaze dropped to my neck.

To the faint purple mark that no high collar could fully hide.

She stepped closer.

Whispered.

“That’s not from a curling iron, is it?”

I touched the spot instinctively.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”Her voice cracked.

“You’re glowing and terrified at the same time. What the hell is going on?”

Before I could answer, the front doorbell rang, sharp, insistent, echoing through the entire estate like an alarm.

Mia frowned.

“No one’s scheduled today. Bernstein said the family never comes unannounced.”

Family?

My stomach dropped.

Russo never talked about family.

Not once.

In six months I’d heard nothing,no mother, no father, no siblings.

Only vague mentions of “the old house in Sicily” or “business overseas.”

I’d assumed he was alone.

Like me.

The bell rang again, longer this time.

Impatient.

Mia grabbed my arm.

“Come on. We need to see this.”

We hurried down the main staircase.

Bernstein was already at the door spine rigid, face pale.

He opened it slowly.

Two people stood on the threshold.

A woman,mid-fifties, elegant, black hair pulled into a severe chignon, dressed in a tailored cream coat that screamed money.

Her eyes were the same obsidian as Russo’s, but colder.

Sharper.

She carried herself like she owned the ground she walked on.

Beside her, a man, younger, late twenties maybe.

Tall.

Broad like Russo.

Same jawline.

Same dark hair.

But his smile was easy, almost playful.

He wore a leather jacket over a white shirt, sleeves pushed up, a gold watch glinting on his wrist.

The woman spoke first.

Italian accent, thick, melodic, but edged with steel.

“Bernstein. It has been too long.”

“Signora El Massimo.”

Bernstein bowed slightly.

“We were not expecting...”

“We do not announce ourselves,” she cut in.

“Where is my son?”

Son.

My knees almost buckled.

His mother.

And the man beside her, his brother, I realized.

The family resemblance was unmistakable.

Bernstein stepped aside.

“Please come in.”

They entered.

The woman’s heels clicked on the marble like gunshots.

Her eyes swept the foyer,disapproving, assessing.

Then they landed on me.

I was halfway down the stairs.

Frozen.

She tilted her head.

Studied me the way one studies a painting in a gallery, interesting, but not quite valuable enough.

“And who is this?” she asked, voice silky.

Bernstein cleared his throat.

“One of the maids, signora. Lyla Romano.”

The brother’s gaze snapped to me.

His easy smile turned sharper.

Curious.

Interested.

“Maid,” the mother repeated.

She took one step closer.

Her perfume hit me, expensive roses and something bitter underneath.

“You are new.”

“Not… very,” I managed.

Her eyes narrowed on the mark on my throat.

Then lower, to the way my uniform sat slightly askew, the faint tremor in my hands.

She smiled.

Thin.

Dangerous.

“My son has always had… particular tastes.”

Heat flooded my face.

I wanted to disappear.

The brother laughed low, amused.

“Mother, don’t scare the girl. She looks like she might faint.”

He stepped forward.

Extended a hand.

“Leonardo El Massimo. Russo’s younger, better-looking brother.”

I stared at his hand.

Didn’t move.

His smile didn’t falter.

But his eyes flicked to my neck too.

Then back to my face.

Something flickered there,recognition, maybe.

Or calculation.

The mother waved a dismissive hand.

“Enough. Where is Russo?”

“He’s at the tower, signora,” Bernstein said quickly.

“I can call him immediately....”

“Do it.”

Bernstein nodded.

Disappeared toward the study.

The mother turned back to me.

“Girl. Bring coffee. Black. No sugar. And something sweet for my son. He has a weak stomach for travel.”

Leonardo rolled his eyes.

“Mother, I’m twenty-eight. My stomach is fine.”

She ignored him.

I nodded quickly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I turned to go.

“Wait.”

Her voice stopped me cold.

She walked up two steps.

Close enough that I could see the fine lines around her eyes.

Close enough to smell that bitter rose perfume again.

“You have his mark on you,” she said quietly.

Not accusing.

Observing.

I couldn’t speak.

She reached out, slow, touched the bruise on my throat with one manicured nail.

Lightly.

Almost gently.

“He never marks lightly,” she murmured.

“He marks like he means to keep.”

My breath stopped.

She dropped her hand.

Smiled again, that thin, cold smile.

“Be careful, little maid. My son does not love gently. He possesses. And when he possesses… he does not release.”

She turned away.

Glided toward the drawing room like she owned it.

Leonardo lingered a second longer.

Looked at me.

“Welcome to the family,” he said softly.

Then he followed his mother.

I stood there shaking.

Coffee.

I had to get coffee.

But my legs wouldn’t move right away.

Because I’d just met his family.

Unannounced.

Unexpected.

And they already knew exactly what I was to him.

******

The coffee tray felt heavier than it should have.

Porcelain cups clinked softly against the silver as I carried it down the hallway toward the drawing room.

My hands shook just enough that a few drops of black coffee spilled over the rim of Signora El Massimo’s cup.

I wiped them quickly with the edge of my apron before anyone could see.

Voices drifted out before I reached the doorway,low, clipped Italian mixed with English.

The mother’s tone was ice.

Leonardo’s was lighter, almost teasing, but there was an edge to it I didn’t trust.

I knocked once on the open door.

Soft.

Respectful.

“Enter,” the mother said without looking up.

I stepped inside.

The drawing room was one of the most formal spaces in the house, high ceilings, gold-leafed molding, velvet sofas in deep burgundy.

She sat in the high-backed armchair like it was a throne.

Leonardo lounged on the sofa opposite her, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone with lazy swipes.

I set the tray on the low table between them.

Poured the coffee first for her,black, no sugar, exactly as ordered.

Then a smaller cup for him with a side of biscotti Bernstein had insisted on adding.

“Grazie,” Leonardo said, flashing that easy smile again.

His eyes lingered on me a second too long.

Not leering exactly, just… assessing.

Like he was trying to figure out what his brother saw in the quiet maid standing in front of him.

Signora El Massimo took her cup without a word of thanks.

Sipped once.

Set it down.

“You are American,” she stated.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Six months.”

She nodded slowly.

Her gaze drifted to my neck again,the mark still visible, still darkening.

“And how long have you been warming my son’s bed?”