The Curious Curvy Maid Secretly Sipped the Mafia Boss’s Wine—Until He Caught Her Mid-Sip and Asked, “Enjoying Yourself?”

Sophie Bennett had been staring at Dante Romano’s wine for exactly 4 minutes.

4 increasingly irresponsible minutes.

She knew because the antique clock above his private study had chimed once, and Sophie had somehow managed to spend the entire time dusting the same corner of his desk.

Her eyes shifted toward the bottle again.

Dark glass. Cream label. Deep burgundy seal.

It was the kind of bottle that looked expensive enough to have its own security detail.

Sophie tightened her fingers around the feather duster. She had work to do. There were shelves behind her, a fireplace mantel, 3 enormous windows, and enough polished furniture inside Dante Romano’s private study to keep a maid professionally occupied until retirement.

Unfortunately, none of those things were sitting beside a crystal glass and looking as though they had been placed there specifically to destroy her common sense.

Sophie looked toward the door.

Empty.

Then toward the hallway beyond it.

Also empty.

Her gaze returned to the bottle.

She narrowed her eyes.

This was becoming personal.

The bottle had been bothering her since she had entered the room 15 minutes earlier. Not because Sophie wanted a drink. At least, that was the version of events she intended to tell herself.

It was the label.

She recognized the vineyard, or thought she did, and that small possibility had been scratching at the back of her mind ever since.

Sophie moved toward the bookshelf, stopped, and looked back.

The wine remained exactly where Dante had left it.

Of course it did.

Wine did not usually flee when accused of being suspicious.

Sophie exhaled.

“Absolutely ridiculous.”

The bottle declined to defend itself.

That somehow made things worse.

She crossed the room only to look.

That was all.

Looking was harmless.

Looking had never gotten anyone dismissed from the employment of a man who could make grown men straighten their posture simply by entering a room.

Probably.

Sophie reached the desk.

Up close, the label became clearer, and her expression changed.

The playful curiosity disappeared for half a second.

Her thumb brushed lightly over the faded emblem near the bottom.

A vineyard crest.

A particular year.

A region she had not allowed herself to think about in a very long time.

Something tightened beneath her ribs.

Then, just as quickly, Sophie pushed the feeling away.

No.

She was not doing that today.

She stepped back.

Good.

Excellent.

Responsible adult behavior had finally arrived.

Sophie turned toward the cleaning cart, took 2 steps, then stopped with her eyes closed.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

She turned around again.

That was mistake number 1.

Mistake number 2 was noticing that the bottle had already been opened.

There was no cork to struggle with, no seal to break, and no obvious evidence that anyone had touched it.

Just an expensive bottle of wine.

Already waiting.

Sophie approached again.

She leaned forward and smelled near the opening.

Her eyebrows lifted.

Interesting.

She smelled again, more carefully this time.

Dark cherry. Oak. A little spice. Something floral beneath it.

And something else Sophie could not immediately place.

That bothered her.

She picked up the empty crystal glass only to smell the wine properly.

That was all.

Sophie poured barely enough to cover the bottom.

Then she stared at what she had done.

Silence.

The glass sat in her hand.

The wine glimmered innocently beneath the afternoon light.

Sophie looked toward the ceiling as though divine intervention might arrive before poor judgment continued.

It did not.

She lifted the glass, swirled it gently, and breathed in.

Her expression sharpened.

For 1 beautiful second, Sophie Bennett was no longer standing inside the private study of Chicago’s most intimidating man.

She was not wearing a pink maid’s uniform.

She was not thinking about laundry schedules, polished silver, rent, bills, or the fact that touching her employer’s personal wine collection was probably somewhere between inadvisable and career suicide.

She was somewhere else.

Years ago.

Somewhere with wooden barrels and dusty sunlight, with her father’s hands guiding hers around a glass while telling her to smell before she tasted.

Sophie blinked.

The memory disappeared.

She looked down at the wine.

That had been enough.

She should pour it away.

Except pouring expensive wine away would be wasteful, and Sophie Bennett had many flaws, but she was not wasteful.

Therefore, drinking it was practically an act of financial responsibility.

Sophie nodded to herself.

Excellent reasoning.

Completely defensible.

She raised the glass.

1 sip.

That was the plan.

A tiny taste.

Then she would return the glass, finish cleaning, and spend the remainder of her employment pretending none of this had occurred.

The wine touched her tongue.

Sophie froze.

Her eyes narrowed.

She swallowed slowly and stared at the glass.

“No.”

She tasted again.

A slightly larger sip.

Her face changed.

Now she looked offended.

“You cost how much?”

Unfortunately for Sophie, the bottle still was not interested in answering questions.

She examined the label again, then tasted once more.

By the 3rd sip, curiosity had transformed into professional outrage.

“This is showing off.”

She swirled the glass.

“Completely unnecessary oak.”

Another sip.

“And whoever told him this needed another 12 years in a cellar should be arrested.”

Sophie paused and considered whose wine she was criticizing.

Her lips twitched.

“Actually, perhaps not arrested.”

He might take that suggestion seriously.

She lifted the glass again, then stopped halfway.

Sophie stared at it.

This was becoming ridiculous.

She had already tasted enough to satisfy her curiosity.

More than enough.

Any further investigation would stop being professional curiosity and become drinking Dante Romano’s wine, which was exactly what she was doing.

Sophie lowered the glass.

Done.

She placed it beside the bottle.

There.

Finished.

Common sense had finally won.

Late, but still technically victorious.

Sophie picked up her feather duster and returned to the bookshelf.

3 seconds passed.

Her eyes moved toward the desk.

No.

She dusted another shelf.

Looked again.

Absolutely not.

She turned her back to the bottle.

That should solve everything.

Unfortunately, Sophie possessed peripheral vision.

She could still see the glass.

Barely, but enough.

She frowned.

The problem was that the wine had changed after sitting in the glass. The aroma would be opening now, and if she had already committed the crime, surely leaving before obtaining complete information would simply make the crime pointless.

Sophie slowly looked over her shoulder.

The glass waited.

She sighed.

“This is how people end up in documentaries.”

She returned to the desk.

Not quickly.

A woman walking toward possible unemployment should at least maintain dignity.

Sophie picked up the glass again.

This time, she swirled it longer, waited, and smelled.

Her eyebrows rose.

There it was.

The heavier oak had softened slightly.

The fruit came through better now.

Sophie tasted.

Her expression changed.

“Hm.”

Another tiny sip.

“Oh.”

She looked at the bottle.

“So now you decide to behave.”

Sophie turned the label toward herself.

The bottle was beginning to annoy her for entirely different reasons.

Because it was good.

Very good.

Still too expensive, but good.

She tasted again, then frowned.

“No, don’t become smug.”

Silence.

“$4,000 does not make you special.”

Another sip.

“It makes somebody irresponsible.”

Sophie paused.

Her gaze slowly traveled across Dante’s study.

Hand-carved desk. Leather chairs. Imported rug. Artwork that probably required insurance policies of their own.

Her eyes returned to the bottle.

“Actually, irresponsibility may not be his primary financial concern.”

The corner of her mouth lifted.

She had become far too comfortable.

That should have worried her.

Instead, she pulled out the chair beside the desk.

Then stopped.

Absolutely not.

Standing while stealing wine was 1 thing.

Sitting down would suggest permanence.

Sophie pushed the chair back.

Good boundaries.

She leaned against the edge of the desk instead, which apparently was completely different.

The glass rested delicately between her fingers.

For several moments, she simply enjoyed the taste.

Then something inconvenient happened.

She remembered.

Not clearly.

Memories rarely asked permission before arriving.

A wooden counter.

Rows of mismatched glasses.

Her father’s old notebook lying open beside a corkscrew.

The smell of crushed grapes and polished wood.

His laugh when Sophie had once declared that an expensive bottle tasted like angry berries.

She had been 16.

He had laughed for almost a full minute.

Then he had told her that descriptions did not need to sound impressive.

They needed to be true.

Sophie lowered the glass.

Her smile faded.

That memory had been buried carefully.

Very carefully.

She had not asked for it back.

Not today.

Not inside Dante Romano’s study.

Not while wearing a pink maid’s uniform and illegally borrowing his Cabernet.

Sophie blinked once, then again.

She placed the glass down.

For real this time.

Enough.

She reached for the cleaning cloth and immediately knocked the cork slightly sideways.

It rolled across the desk.

Sophie caught it just before it reached the edge.

She stared at it, then looked toward the door.

Still empty.

Her shoulders relaxed.

“See?” she whispered to herself. “Perfectly under control.”

The cork slipped from her fingers, dropped, bounced once, and disappeared beneath Dante’s desk.

Sophie closed her eyes.

Of course it did.

She crouched.

The desk was enormous, because naturally Dante Romano could not own furniture designed for ordinary human proportions.

Sophie reached beneath it.

Nothing.

She leaned farther.

Her hair slipped across her cheek.

Still nothing.

Her fingertips finally touched the cork.

“Got you.”

She stood too quickly.

Her hip bumped the desk.

The wine in her glass trembled dangerously.

Sophie grabbed it.

Not 1 drop spilled.

She froze, then slowly smiled.

“Professional.”

She set the cork beside the bottle, then noticed she had left a faint fingerprint on the polished desk.

Her eyes widened.

No evidence.

Sophie grabbed her cloth and polished the spot.

Then another.

Then the area around the bottle.

Then the stem of the glass.

She stopped.

Looked at what she was doing.

“Oh, brilliant.”

Now she was not simply drinking the mafia boss’s wine.

She was wiping fingerprints afterward.

This had become criminally organized.

Sophie placed the cloth down.

She needed to leave immediately before curiosity promoted itself into a felony.

She gathered her supplies, took 1 step toward the door, then glanced at the glass.

There was still wine left.

Not much.

But enough to be suspicious.

Pouring it back into the bottle would be disgusting.

Pouring it away would be wasteful.

Leaving it there would be evidence.

Sophie stared.

Every option was terrible.

She picked up the glass.

1 final sip.

For disposal purposes, obviously.

She drank.

Then realized it was not empty.

Sophie frowned into the glass.

“How are you still here?”

Another sip.

Better.

1 tiny mouthful remained.

At this point, Sophie felt personally challenged.

She raised the glass again.

That was when Dante Romano returned to his own house.

He had arrived 7 minutes earlier.

His afternoon meeting had ended unexpectedly ahead of schedule. The black car had entered through the eastern drive. 2 guards followed him through the marble entrance.

Dante handed his jacket to 1 of them, loosened the watch around his wrist, and headed toward his private study.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing remotely interesting.

Until his footsteps slowed.

A woman’s voice was coming from inside.

Dante stopped.

The guard behind him stopped too.

From beyond the partly open door came Sophie Bennett’s voice.

“Financial irresponsibility.”

Silence.

1 of Dante’s eyebrows moved.

The guard beside him stared straight ahead.

Dante took another step.

The doorway gave him a narrow view into the room.

Sophie Bennett was leaning against his desk, holding his crystal glass and drinking his wine.

Dante said nothing for several seconds.

He simply watched.

The surprising part was not that she had touched the bottle.

People occasionally made stupid decisions.

The surprising part was how completely at home Sophie appeared while making hers.

Her feather duster had been abandoned beside his papers. A cleaning cloth sat beside the decanter, and his curvy maid was studying his wine with the concentration of someone evaluating a hostile business proposal.

Sophie took another sip.

Her nose wrinkled.

Dante’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Not with anger.

With curiosity.

“Still showing off.”

Behind him, the guard’s mouth twitched.

Dante turned his head.

The man’s expression immediately became professional enough for a military portrait.

Dante looked back inside.

Sophie swirled the wine.

“Too dramatic.”