THE MAFIA'S FAVORITE MAID

CHAPTER 8

After the last tremor left my body I lay still for a long time, staring at the dark ceiling. Shame burned hotter than the pleasure had. I wiped my wet fingers on the sheet, forced myself out of bed, and pulled the black uniform back on with shaking hands. The fabric felt too tight against my still-sensitive skin.

I went downstairs.

The kitchen was already busy with the evening service. I kept my head down and joined the others without speaking. We plated the food, filled the crystal glasses, and carried everything to the formal dining room in careful silence. I moved around the long table the way I always did—pouring deep red wine, setting plates, clearing empty dishes—yet every time I passed the head of the table my pulse jumped. I never lifted my eyes higher than the edge of the tablecloth. I could feel him there. I could feel the weight of his presence like a hand still resting between my legs. But I did not look.

When the last guest left and the dining room was empty, I helped wash the silver and put away the leftover wine. Mrs. Lang dismissed me with a short nod. I finished the remaining chores in the lower hallway, then climbed the stairs to my small room, changed into a thin nightgown, and crawled under the covers.

Sleep came slowly, but it came.

Sometime past midnight my throat felt dry and tight. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and slipped out of bed. The house was completely silent. I opened my door as quietly as possible and started toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

The corridor was dark except for a thin line of light spilling from the study.

The door was ajar.

I should have kept walking. Instead my feet slowed, then stopped. Curiosity—or something more dangerous—pulled me closer. I stood just outside the gap and looked inside.

Dante Moretti sat in the large leather chair behind his desk. His shirt was still on, but unbuttoned and open. From the waist down he was completely naked. His long legs were spread. One hand gripped the arm of the chair while the other moved steadily up and down the thick, heavy length of his c**k.

My eyes went wide.

It was massive—nearly twelve inches of thick, veined flesh, the head flushed dark and glistening. Every slow stroke made the heavy shaft flex in his fist. A clear bead of precum gathered at the tip and smeared over his knuckles as he worked himself with deliberate, almost angry strokes.

I could not look away.

The wet sound of his hand sliding over that huge c**k filled the quiet study. His breathing was low and rough. The muscles in his forearm flexed with every upward pull. He tilted his head back slightly, jaw tight, eyes half-closed as he f****d his own fist harder.

I stood frozen in the shadows, pulse pounding between my legs again, watching the man who had touched my virgin p***y only hours earlier now stroking that thick c**k like he was imagining it buried somewhere tight and wet.

Then his voice broke the silence—low, guttural, almost a growl.

“Aria…”

My name.

He growled it again, deeper this time, hips lifting slightly off the chair as his fist tightened and sped up.

I froze completely.

One wrong breath, one small shift of my weight, and the floorboard would creak. He would look up. He would see me standing there in nothing but a thin nightgown, watching him stroke that enormous c**k while he said my name like a curse and a prayer at the same time.

I could not move.

I could only stand in the dark hallway and watch Dante Moretti f**k his fist harder, the wet sounds growing louder, his breathing turning into low, hungry growls that kept repeating the only word that made my knees weak—

“Aria… f**k… Aria…”