THE MAFIA'S FAVORITE MAID

CHAPTER 4

The next morning felt the same as the one before.

I woke to the soft buzz of the alarm, washed my face with cold water, and pulled on the black uniform. The fabric was still stiff from the laundry, the white collar neat against my neck. I pinned my hair back and left the small room without looking in the mirror. There was nothing new to see.

In the servants’ kitchen the air already smelled of coffee and warm bread. I joined the others without speaking much. We moved around one another in the quiet rhythm of people who had done this many times. I helped crack eggs, slice fruit, and set the large trays that would go upstairs. Mrs. Lang gave short instructions. No one asked questions.

The morning chores followed the same path as yesterday—dusting, polishing, carrying trays through long hallways that still felt too grand for someone like me. I kept my eyes lowered and my steps careful. By midday my arms ached in the familiar way, and the quiet promise I repeated to myself remained the same.

Just keep working. Just keep giving. Everything will be all right.

Afternoon light filtered weakly through the tall windows when Mrs. Lang handed me a silver tray with a single cup of coffee and a small plate of dark chocolate.

“Mr. Moretti is in the living room,” she said. “Leave it on the table. Do not linger.”

I nodded and carried the tray carefully down the wide corridor.

The living room was large and quiet. Heavy curtains framed the windows. A fire burned low in the stone fireplace even though the day was not cold. He sat on the long dark couch near the center of the room, a stack of documents spread across the low table in front of him. One arm rested along the back of the couch. His head was slightly bowed as he read.

I did not look at his face.

I walked forward, stopped at the edge of the table, and leaned down to set the cup and saucer gently in front of him. The porcelain made almost no sound against the wood.

“Your coffee, sir,” I said softly.

I straightened and turned to leave.

A warm hand closed around my wrist.

The touch was sudden and firm. Before I could react he pulled. The tray nearly slipped from my other hand as my body lost balance. I fell forward, the world tilting, and landed across his lap. My free hand shot out instinctively, fingers gripping the hard line of his shoulder so I would not fall further. The documents shifted beneath us. The scent of his cologne—dark, clean, expensive—filled the small space between us.

For one stunned second I could not move.

Then the reality of the position crashed over me. I was sitting on his thighs, my chest almost against his, one of my hands still clutching his shoulder. Heat rushed up my neck and into my face.

I yanked my hand back as if burned.

“I… I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, voice shaking. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

I tried to push myself up, to scramble off him, but his grip only tightened. One strong hand slid to the back of my shoulder, holding me in place. The other settled heavily on my thigh, fingers pressing into the fabric of my uniform skirt. He did not let me rise.

I froze.

Slowly I lifted my eyes and met his.

Dante Moretti’s gaze was dark and unreadable, yet sharp enough to pin me where I sat. He studied my face for a long moment, as if measuring every panicked breath I took. Then his fingers on my thigh gave a deliberate, firm squeeze.

“Are you seducing me, little girl?” he asked, voice low and calm, almost quiet enough to be mistaken for kindness.

The words hung between us.

My heart slammed so hard against my ribs I was certain he could feel it. I could not speak. I could only stare back at him, trapped in the heat of his hands and the weight of his eyes, while the rest of the large, silent house seemed to disappear.