THE MAFIA'S FAVORITE MAID

CHAPTER 5

His fingers stayed on my thigh, firm and warm, pressing just enough to make my breath catch. The hand at the back of my shoulder slid slowly upward until his palm rested against the side of my neck, thumb brushing the soft skin just below my ear. He leaned in slightly. I could feel the heat of his breath against my cheek.

“You walk around this house with those quiet eyes and that careful little voice,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “Do you know what that does to a man, Aria?”

My name in his mouth sounded different—darker, heavier. I had not told him my name. Someone must have.

I tried to answer, but only a shaky breath left my lips. His hand on my thigh moved higher, the tips of his fingers slipping just beneath the edge of my skirt. Not far. Just enough to make every nerve in my body light up with panic and something else I did not want to name.

He watched my face the entire time, dark eyes calm, almost curious, as if he was studying how I reacted to every small movement.

Then, without warning, he released me.

Both hands left my body at once. The sudden absence of his touch felt colder than the air in the room. He sat back against the couch as if nothing had happened, reached for the coffee I had brought, and took a slow sip.

“You may go,” he said quietly.

I scrambled off his lap so quickly I almost tripped. My legs felt unsteady. I kept my head down, murmured another broken apology, and walked out of the living room as fast as I could without running. My heart was still slamming against my ribs when I reached the servants’ hallway. I pressed my back against the wall, one hand over my mouth, trying to breathe normally again.

I did not understand what had just happened.

That night I barely slept.

The next two days passed in a strange new rhythm.

In the mornings I still woke early, still put on the same black uniform, still helped with breakfast and the endless list of chores. But something had changed. Mrs. Lang began giving me different tasks—ones that took me closer to the private areas of the house. Once she sent me to deliver documents directly to his study. Another time she asked me to bring fresh flowers to the living room while he was still there reading.

Each time I felt his eyes on me.

He never called me over. He never touched me again. He simply watched. Sometimes from across a room. Sometimes from the top of the staircase as I carried trays below. Once, when I was polishing the long table in the dining room, I looked up and found him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze fixed on me with that same unreadable intensity. He left without a word.

I tried to pretend it meant nothing.

I told myself he was only testing me, or that he was bored, or that powerful men simply enjoyed making people uncomfortable. I repeated the old promise in my head—keep working, keep giving, everything will be all right—but the words felt thinner now.

On the third evening after the living-room incident, Mrs. Lang stopped me as I finished clearing the dinner service.

“Mr. Moretti has requested that you bring his nightcap to the study at ten,” she said. Her expression gave nothing away. “Do not be late.”

My stomach tightened.

I nodded, changed into a fresh uniform, and waited in the kitchen with the small silver tray until the clock struck ten. Then I walked the long corridor toward the study, heart beating too fast, the memory of his hands still vivid on my skin.

I did not know what he wanted from me.

I only knew that the quiet, invisible maid I had tried so hard to remain was no longer invisible at all.