THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE CALLED ME “A DESPERATE LITTLE MAID” WHEN I TOOK A SILVER TRAY FROM A LITTLE GIRL’S HANDS—BUT THE MOMENT HE SAW WHO WAS WEARING THE WAITRESS UNIFORM, HE STOOD UP.

The third floor of the Moretti mansion had been locked up and untouched for four years—ever since Clara Moretti, Lily’s mother, had passed away. When Daniel and I unlocked the double oak doors at the top of the grand staircase, I expected a dusty mausoleum filled with sheet-covered furniture and lingering ghosts.

Instead, it smelled of lavender, old paper, and beeswax.

“The boss had the maids clean this wing every Tuesday,” Daniel explained, carrying my single battered suitcase and placing it gently at the foot of a massive mahogany four-poster bed. “Even when nobody was sleeping here. He said it had to be ready for when she grew up.”

I looked around the room. It wasn't just a guest suite; it was a sanctuary. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with children's classics, historical biographies, and veterinary guides. A large bay window looked out over the private gardens and the dark, sweeping line of the Illinois pine forests beyond the iron gates.

“Thank you, Daniel,” I said quietly.

The burly head of security nodded once, his rugged face expressionless. “If you need anything—locks changed, guards stationed at the stairwell, anything at all—you call my direct line. The boss doesn't take chances anymore. And neither do I.”

He turned and walked out, closing the heavy door softly behind him.

Ten minutes later, there was a gentle, hesitant knock.

I opened the door to find Luca standing in the dimly lit hallway. He had taken off his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the pale, jagged scar of an old knife wound across his left wrist.

“Is she asleep?” I asked.

“Out like a light,” Luca murmured, stepping into the suite. He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on the framed watercolor painting of a sunlit garden hanging above the fireplace—a painting Clara had done before she died. “She refused to go to bed until I promised that you would read her a story.”

I smiled softly. “I have a few favorites saved.”

Luca stood by the window, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, staring out into the dark night. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant howling of the autumn wind through the cypress trees outside.

“Vanessa cleaned out her dressing room an hour ago,” Luca said suddenly, his voice flat and detached. “Daniel supervised. She took her clothes, her shoes, and her pride. By morning, her father’s shipping conglomerate will be tied up in federal receivership. By tomorrow night, the Bellini family will be packing their bags for Europe.”

“It was a swift execution,” I noted, leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk.

Luca turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “In my world, Claire, hesitation is a death sentence. Vanessa made a calculated bet that she could erase my daughter and I wouldn't notice until it was too late. She miscalculated.”

He walked a step closer, stopping just out of arm's reach.

“You took a massive risk tonight, Claire. You stood up to a woman backed by half the city's corrupt politicians. Why?”

“Because I couldn't look at her standing there in that oversized uniform and pretend I didn't see what was happening,” I answered honestly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “My mother raised me to believe that silence in the face of cruelty makes you complicit. I’ve scrubbed your floors for a year, Mr. Moretti, but I’ve never lost my self-respect.”

A slow, genuine smile—the first real smile I had ever seen touch Luca Moretti’s face—spread across his features, softening the hard, dangerous lines of his jaw.

“Not many people in Chicago would dare lecture a Moretti on morality,” he said quietly. “Especially not while holding a silver tray.”

“Consider it a bonus service, sir.”

Luca let out a short, low chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small bronze key, and laid it gently on the wooden desk between us.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“The key to the estate's private library,” Luca said. “Lily loves mythology and old folklore. You’ll find all the books her mother collected down there. Feel free to use it whenever you want—day or night.”