THE MAFIA'S FAVORITE MAID

CHAPTER 13

The evening light was fading outside the grand windows of the Moriti mansion, casting long golden shadows across the polished floors. Dinner time had arrived, and I changed into my crisp uniform again — the same white blouse and black skirt. It felt heavy on my shoulders, but I pushed the feeling down. I had a plan, and tonight I was about to execute it.

I stepped into the warm glow of the kitchen, where the air smelled of simmering sauces, fresh herbs, and something sweet baking in the oven. Mrs. Lang was already there, directing two other maids with quick, efficient orders. She glanced at me, her sharp eyes softening just a fraction when she saw I’d changed.

“You’re back early,” she said, handing me an apron. “Here, help with the main course. We need to get everything plated before the family gathers.”

I nodded and rolled up my sleeves. Together we worked side by side — chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, seasoning the roast with loving care. The other maids whispered among themselves, but I kept my head down, my heart steady. When everything was ready, Mrs. Lang clapped her hands once.

“Everyone out of the kitchen!” she called. “Servants’ duty is done until tomorrow. But there’s one order from Mr. Moretti himself tonight.”

I froze, holding a stack of clean plates. The room quieted instantly.

“He wants only you to serve his dinner,” Mrs. Lang announced, her voice carrying clearly. “No one else. You are to take the tray straight to the dining room. Do not return until he’s finished.”

A few maids exchanged uneasy glances, but I kept my face calm. I nodded once, the movement small and practiced, the way I’d learned to do everything in this house. My hands didn’t shake as I picked up the heavy silver tray — silver covers over the steaming plates, crystal glasses, and a single glass of wine. The weight was familiar. I was ready.

The dining room was dim and elegant, candlelight flickering across the long mahogany table. At the head sat Mr. Moretti alone, his broad shoulders filling the high-backed chair, a glass of whiskey half-empty beside his plate. He looked up as I entered, his dark eyes unreadable.

I set the tray down with quiet precision, then stepped back. “May I ask if you need anything else, sir?”

He was silent for a long moment, staring at the food. Then he spoke, his voice low and measured. “No.”

Another pause stretched between us. The only sound was the soft clink of silver on porcelain as he lifted his fork.

“Where were you this evening?” he asked, not looking at me directly. “I didn’t see you at the mansion.”

I kept my hands clasped in front of me, voice steady and respectful. “I went to meet my boyfriend, sir.”

His eyebrow rose a fraction — the only sign that he’d noticed. I continued, the words coming out exactly as I’d practiced in my mind all day.

“He has a huge debt, sir. The debt collector is threatening him. I’m helping him pay it off.”

For a heartbeat, the room felt still. Mr. Moretti set his fork down slowly, his gaze locking onto mine. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes — calculation, I realized, not anger.

“So,” he said finally, the word heavy, “you are working here in this mansion to pay off your boyfriend’s debt.”

I nodded, the movement small but firm. “Yes, sir.”

He studied me a moment longer, then gave the barest nod. “Okay. You can go now.”

I curtsied once — deep, perfect, the way the rules required — and slipped out of the dining room before he could say another word. My heart was pounding, but I kept my steps even as I made my way back to the kitchen. The chores could wait a little longer; I needed a moment to breathe.

Mr. Moretti was already finished eating when I peeked in again. He wiped his hands on a napkin, pushed his chair back, and stood. In one fluid motion he moved to the study door, pausing only long enough to call out.

“Marco.”

A moment later his right-hand man appeared in the doorway — tall, sharp-suited, expression blank as always.

“What do you want, sir?” the man asked.

Mr. Moretti didn’t even look up from the desk. “I want you to investigate Aria’s boyfriend. Every detail. His name, his location, his number — and the exact size of the debt.”

Marco’s eyes narrowed for a split second, then he nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

He turned and vanished down the corridor without another word.

Mr. Moretti sat down in the leather chair behind the heavy oak desk. The study was quiet, filled only with the low hum of the city beyond the windows and the faint scent of leather and whiskey. He picked up a pen, twirled it once, then set it down again. His eyes stared at the closed door for a long moment, dark and unreadable.

Somewhere out there, his right-hand man was already moving — quiet, efficient, unstoppable. And Aria… she had just handed him the one thing he couldn’t ignore.

He leaned back, a slow, dangerous smile touching the corner of his mouth.

The game, it seemed, had just become much more interesting.