MY MAFIA BOSS IS INLOVE WITH ME

Isabella stood under the rusted roof of an abandoned bus stop, cradling her feverish son. His breathing was weak, his small chest rising and falling too fast. She tightened the blanket around him, whispering comfort that neither of them believed. She hadn't eaten since the night before. The clinic had refused them earlier—again. No money, no treatment. That was the unspoken law on this side of the city. Isabella was exhausted. At twenty-four, life had aged her more than time ever could. Her clothes were worn, her shoes nearly falling apart, but it wasn’t shame that filled her eyes. It was survival. Raw and constant. Then came the moment that would change everything. A sleek black car slowed beside her. She clutched Samuel tightly, unsure whether to run or beg. But it wasn’t danger that stepped out—it was kindness. A frail, elderly man in a tailored coat with sharp eyes that saw too much. Marcelo’s grandfather. He didn’t ask many questions. He just looked at Samuel and said, “Come with me. No child should suffer this way.” That was about a year ago. *** The mansion was cold—not by temperature, but by spirit. After the death of Don Hugo, Marcelo’s grandfather, warmth vanished like mist at sunrise. What was once a home of silent kindness became a palace of sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Isabella’s position was no longer protected. Marcelo, Don Hugo’s heir and the feared leader of a mafia empire, didn’t say much to her. In fact, he barely acknowledged her presence. She had seen him only a few times in her first months at the estate—passing glances, a nod, nothing more. He was powerful, cold, and untouchable. And she was just the help. At first, she thought he resented her—perhaps for being brought in by his grandfather, or maybe for simply existing in a space meant for perfection. But slowly, she realized something else. Something unsettling. He watched her. Not obviously. Never when others were around. But in the quiet, in the shadows—when she walked down the hallways with laundry, when she helped Samuel through the garden—she would feel it. His eyes on her. Not angry, not warm, but curious. Intense. Still, he never said a word to her. *** She walked into the hallways again thinking She would walk into the room and find Marcelo already looking at her. His expression unreadable. Other times, she would find little gestures—things that didn’t make sense. She had no friends in that house. Only Samuel. Only silence. But even in the silence, Marcelo was always watching. Always. *** Isabella stood by the window of the linen room late one night, staring at the moon. Her hands ached. Her back throbbed. She hadn’t slept in two days. From the hallway behind her, she heard slow, deliberate footsteps. She turned instinctively. Marcelo. Tall, composed, and unreadable, he walked past without sparing her more than a sharp glance. His expression was distant—almost cold—as if her presence was a nuisance. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Their eyes met for the briefest second. Something flickered in his—curiosity? Disdain? She couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it came. He looked through her, not at her, like she was just another piece of the furniture in his palace. And then he was gone. She stood frozen, pulse racing. He hadn’t said a word. But that look… What she didn’t know was that Marcelo had noticed her—long before that night. He noticed the curve of her silhouette when she thought no one was watching. He noticed her strength, the way she held herself upright through pain and humiliation. He noticed her resilience. But he also resented it. Because no matter how much she intrigued him, she didn’t belong in his world. At least, not yet. Don Marcelo was a man ruled by his desires — a chronic drunkard and womanizer whose nights were filled with endless parties and reckless living. From sunset to sunrise, the mansion echoed with the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses. Marcelo was always the center of attention, surrounded by rich friends who admired his power and envied his fortune. But behind the charm and the wild lifestyle, Marcelo was cruel and careless. The women who came into his life were just fleeting pleasures. Some were willing; others, merely victims of his selfish whims. Names and faces blurred together in his memory as he drank glass after glass of whiskey, drowning the emptiness inside. Don Marcelo’s family was worse. Proud and harsh, they looked down on anyone not born into wealth and status. They saw Isabella as nothing but a lowly servant — a stain on their legacy. When they passed her in the hallway, their eyes barely flickered her way, but the hatred was clear. They expected her to work hard, stay quiet, and disappear like a shadow. Isabella had no protection here. No one cared about her suffering or Samuel’s worsening condition. Even when she begged for mercy, the answer was always silence or cruelty. One evening, Marcelo arrived home later than usual — his clothes smelling of liquor, his steps unsteady. His friends followed, their voices loud and rough. They drank from expensive bottles, laughing as they stumbled through the halls. Marcelo spotted Isabella cleaning the grand staircase and sneered. “Why are you still here, wasting your time?” he spat. His voice was thick with alcohol, harsh and cold. Isabella lowered her eyes, swallowing the insult. She didn’t dare answer. His friends laughed and shouted insults, some making rude gestures her way. The others in the house pretended not to see, but the message was clear — Isabella was beneath them all. When she tried to move past them, one of Marcelo’s friends grabbed her arm roughly. “Watch yourself,” he growled. “You don’t belong here.” Fear and shame flushed Isabella’s cheeks. She pulled away, but the pain lingered. That night, her bruised arm throbbed as she cared for Samuel, who was too weak to cry but restless with fever. His little body shook, his breaths shallow. Isabella’s heart broke with every cough he forced out. Days passed with no sign of kindness. Marcelo continued his reckless lifestyle, throwing wild parties and ignoring the world beyond his pleasure. Isabella’s suffering grew, but so did her determination. She would protect her son no matter what. Even if the entire mansion was against her, even if Marcelo and his family never noticed her pain. Meanwhile, Isabella’s world was shrinking every day. The small room she shared with her ailing son Samuel felt colder than ever. Her hands were cracked and sore from endless hours of work, her eyes red from sleepless nights spent comforting her sick child. Yet, the medicine Samuel needed was still out of reach — she barely earned enough to buy food, let alone expensive drugs or hospital bills. At the mansion, Isabella was invisible to everyone except for the sneers and cruel jokes from the other helpers. They were loyal to Don Marcelo and his family, and loyalty in that house meant cruelty toward anyone weak or different. They mocked her worn-out clothes and dirty hands, whispered about her being a poor single mother with a sick son, and deliberately left her out of small comforts. Some nights, when the mansion’s noise faded and the servants were asleep, Isabella would sit by Samuel’s bedside and cry silently. She wished for just one kind word, one moment of relief. But those nights were rare. All she cared and ever wanted was to take care of her son,send money back home but life was unfair. Isabella wasn’t ready to give up yet stowaway not now because of her son