THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME POLISH THE SILVER WITH A BANDAGED HAND—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CUT HERSELF BEING CARELESS,” AND HIS EYES WENT COLD.

The private quarters on the fourth floor were an entirely different universe from the basement dormitories where the rest of the staff lived.

Down below, pipes hissed constantly in the walls, the air smelled faintly of damp masonry, and four girls shared a single shower stall. Here, the guest suite Luca assigned me featured heated marble floors, a king-sized bed wrapped in Egyptian cotton, and French doors leading out to a stone balcony that overlooked the misty pine forests of the estate.

I didn't sleep.

I sat on the edge of that absurdly expensive mattress, cradling my bandaged hand, watching the rain carve streaks down the glass. Moving me up here was an act of war, and everyone in the mansion knew it. By dawn, the rumor mill would have chewed my name to pieces. They would say I seduced him. They would say I was a scheming social climber trying to wedge myself between a prince of high society and his aristocratic bride.

At seven in the morning, a soft knock rattled my door.

I opened it to find Jennings standing in the hallway, holding a charcoal-gray wool blazer, a pleated black skirt, and a pair of sensible leather loafers. His expression was tight, his lips pressed into a bloodless line.

“Mr. Moretti’s instructions,” Jennings said, holding out the garments. “You are to dress in business attire. No uniforms. You will report to his study at seven-thirty sharp.”

“Jennings,” I said quietly, taking the clothes. “I didn’t ask for this.”

The older man sighed, his professional mask dropping for just a fraction of a second. “It doesn’t matter what you asked for, Emma. In this house, whatever the master desires becomes law. But be careful. Miss Romano has spent five years securing her place as the future Mrs. Moretti. She will not surrender her crown to a girl who was scrubbing baseboards yesterday.”

Before I could reply, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the carpeted corridor.

Thirty minutes later, dressed in the surprisingly well-fitting suit, I pushed open the double doors of Luca’s study.

The morning sun broke through the clouds, casting long beams of pale gold across stacks of architectural schematics, financial ledgers, and shipping manifests. Luca was sitting behind his mammoth desk, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, a pen turning between his long fingers. A cup of black coffee sat steaming beside him.

“Good morning,” he said without looking up from a spreadsheet.

“Good morning, Mr. Moretti. What are my duties?”

He finally raised his head. His eyes lingered on the tailored suit, sweeping over me with an intensity that made my collar feel uncomfortably tight.

“Drink this,” he said, sliding a second porcelain mug toward the edge of the desk. It was coffee, laced with just enough milk and sugar to turn it caramel. Exactly how I drank it in the staff kitchen.

How did he know that?

“I shouldn't drink in your office, sir.”

“Sit down, Emma. That’s an order.”

I sat in the leather chair opposite him, holding the warm mug carefully with my uninjured hand. “Mr. Moretti, with all due respect, I don't know how to run a corporate office. I know how to polish silverware, iron linen, and make beds without wrinkles.”

“You have an associate degree in accounting from Rutgers,” Luca stated calmly, opening a leather dossier with my name embossed on the tab. “You maintained a 3.9 GPA while working thirty hours a week at a diner until your brother, Liam, relapsed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia eight months ago. You dropped out because the tuition money was needed for his copays, and you took a maid’s position here because the benefits included private health insurance.”

My cup rattled against the saucer. My chest tightened until I could barely draw air.

“You investigated me?”

“I don’t bring people into my inner circle without knowing who they are,” Luca replied smoothly. He closed the file and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the polished wood. “You’re wasted holding a duster, Emma. And more importantly, you have clean hands. Everyone else in this house is on Victor Romano’s payroll or terrified of him. I need someone who owes him nothing.”

“Victor Romano?” I asked, leaning in despite myself. “Isn't he your future father-in-law?”

Luca’s mouth curled into a cold, humorless smirk. “That merger was brokered by my late father before he died. The Romanos control the terminal ports in New Jersey. They want to integrate our logistics infrastructure into their network. But over the last six months, thirty million dollars in freight value has gone missing between our loading docks and their customs warehouses.”

The realization hit me like a slap. “You think the Romanos are stealing from you.”

“I know they are,” Luca corrected. “What I don't know is the paper trail they’re using to wash the funds. Isabella isn't here because she loves me, Emma. She is here to keep an eye on my ledgers until the contracts are signed at our engagement gala this Saturday. Once the ink is dry, her father gains fifty-one percent voting power over our combined shipping lanes.”

“And you want me to find the leak?”

“I want you to reconcile these manifests,” he said, tapping a mountain of freight logs stacked on the corner of the desk. “Compare the weight manifests from our cranes against the bill of lading stamps from the Romano port authority. If numbers don’t match, you flag them.”

“Isabella will realize what I’m doing,” I warned. “She already hates me.”

Luca rose from his chair. He walked around the desk, his presence overwhelming the small space between us. He reached out and tapped the bandage covering my right palm.

“Let her try something again,” Luca said softly, his voice vibrating with suppressed violence. “I’m almost hoping she does.”

Before I could answer, the study doors burst open without a knock.

Isabella stood in the threshold, wearing a pristine ivory pantsuit, a quilted Chanel bag draped over her arm. Her eyes took in the scene—the coffee cup in my hand, Luca standing inches away from me, the dossiers spread out on the desk.

Her face drained of color, replaced by an expression of pure, unfiltered venom.

“Luca,” she said, her voice shaking with forced composure. “Why is the maid sitting at your desk drinking coffee?”

Luca didn't move away from me. He didn't even drop his hand from the arm of my chair.

“Emma has been promoted,” Luca said coldly. “She is my personal logistics clerk. If you have business in this office, Isabella, schedule an appointment through Jennings.”

Isabella took a sharp step forward, her manicured nails digging into the leather of her handbag. “You are humiliating me! In front of the staff! In front of my father!”

“You humiliated yourself the moment you laid hands on someone under my roof,” Luca fired back, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet tone that made the air freeze. “Get out.”

Isabella stared at him, then turned her murderous gaze to me. Her eyes narrowed into slits of pure malice.

“You’re going to regret this, little girl,” she whispered. “You think he’s your savior? You have no idea what monsters you’re playing with.”

She spun on her designer heels and slammed the heavy doors behind her.

The silence that followed was suffocating. I looked down at the freight logs on the desk, the reality of my situation crashing down upon me. I wasn't just a maid anymore.