THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME STRUGGLE TO CARVE THE ROAST WITH A BRUISED WRIST—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE HURT IT CARRYING A CLEANING BUCKET,” AND HE QUIETLY ASKED, “HOW DO YOU KNOW?”

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on a plush leather sofa in Luca’s private study, feeling completely out of place.

The study was a sanctuary forbidden to most of the staff. Towering bookshelves lined the dark oak walls, filled with leather-bound volumes on maritime law, rare histories, and corporate ledgers. A fire crackled in the massive stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the Persian rug. The air smelled of old paper, polished wood, and Luca’s signature cologne.

I kept my hands folded in my lap, nursing my injured wrist, staring at the amber liquid in the crystal tumbler Luca had poured and placed on the side table beside me.

“Drink it,” he said, standing by the fireplace with his hands in his trouser pockets.

“I don’t drink whiskey, Mr. Moretti.”

“It’s not for your enjoyment. It’s for the pain. Drink half of it.”

I hesitated, then picked up the heavy crystal glass with my left hand and took a tentative sip. The liquid burned like liquid fire down my throat, making my eyes water and my chest tighten, but almost immediately, a dull warmth settled into my stomach, easing the rigid tension in my shoulders.

A knock sounded at the double doors.

“Enter,” Luca commanded.

The door swung open to reveal a tall, silver-haired man carrying a leather medical bag. He wore a heavy wool overcoat, damp with rain, and wire-rimmed glasses perched on a sharp nose.

“You called on a Sunday evening, Luca,” the man said, stripping off his leather gloves. “I assume someone is dying, or someone needs to be buried.”

“Neither, Marco,” Luca answered calmly. “Emma needs an examination.”

Dr. Marco Ramos paused, his keen eyes shifting from Luca to me. He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised to find a young housemaid sitting in the inner sanctum of the Moretti patriarch. But he was a man who had treated the Moretti family for decades; he asked no questions.

He walked over to the sofa, setting his black bag on the coffee table. “Let me see the wrist, young lady.”

I carefully held out my arm. Marco sat beside me, gently rolling back the black fabric of my uniform cuff. He inspected the deep purple and yellowing marks circling my skin, his fingers pressing lightly against the bones.

I winced, biting my lower lip to keep from crying out.

“Tendon strain,” Marco muttered after a moment. “No fractures, fortunately. But extensive soft-tissue bruising. Someone took hold of her with deliberate force and twisted.” He looked up over his spectacles directly at Luca. “This isn’t an accident.”

“I know,” Luca said from across the room. The coldness in his tone made the fire in the hearth seem dim.

“She shouldn’t use this hand for at least a week,” Marco continued, pulling a jar of dark medicinal salve and a roll of heavy cotton bandages from his bag. “No lifting, no scrubbing, no carrying trays. If the inflammation worsens, she could risk permanent nerve damage.”

“Understood,” Luca said. “Wrap it.”

Dr. Marco worked with practiced efficiency. The cooling salve took the stinging edge off the bruise, and the tight, professional wrapping gave my wrist the support it desperately needed. When he finished, he packed his bag, gave me two small white bottles of pain medication, and stood up.

“Follow me out, Marco,” Luca said, walking toward the heavy mahogany doors.

They stepped into the dimly lit corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar. I sat motionless on the leather couch, clutching the glass of whiskey, straining my ears to listen. I knew I shouldn't eavesdrop, but when you are a servant in a house like this, survival depends on what you hear in the shadows.

“It was Isabella, wasn’t it?” Marco’s voice was hushed, but distinct.

“Yes,” Luca replied.

“Luca, listen to me carefully,” the doctor murmured. “Her father, Vincent Valenti, controls three of the major shipping terminals in the bay. You need those routes secured before the winter freeze. The alliance between your family and the Valentis is the only thing keeping the eastern syndicate from moving on your father’s old territory.”

“I don’t care about the Valentis’ shipping routes, Marco.”

“You should care! A bruised maid isn’t worth a territorial war! If you break this engagement over a servant girl, Vincent will consider it a declaration of hostility. He will pull the contracts. He will take his business to the Romanos.”

A heavy silence followed. I held my breath, my chest aching with terror. The doctor was right. In the world of men like Luca Moretti, maids were disposable. Contracts were not. Empires were built on marriages of convenience, not on justice for the help. If I became the catalyst that shattered his alliance, Luca would eventually realize that protecting me cost him too much. And when men like him realized that, they discarded the problem.

“Are you finished?” Luca’s voice was deadly quiet.

“Luca—”

“Vincent Valenti needs my security force more than I need his docks,” Luca stated with absolute, chilling certainty. “He thinks he can send his spoiled daughter into my house to stake a claim before the ring is even on her finger. She struck someone under my roof. She frightened my child. If Vincent has an issue with how I discipline his daughter, he can come tell me to my face.”

“And what about the girl?” Marco asked quietly. “Emma. What happens to her? You know how the Valentis operate. If they find out Isabella was humiliated because of her, Emma won’t be safe walking to the grocery store, let alone working in this house.”

My heart hammered so hard against my ribs I thought it would burst.

“She won’t leave the estate,” Luca replied.

“And what role does she play here if she can’t clean?”

There was a brief pause before Luca answered.

“Starting tonight, she doesn’t work for the house. She works for me. She will be Sofia’s private companion. Her only job is to protect and care for my daughter.”

“Luca, that puts a target directly on her back.”

“Let them try to aim at it,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, lethal cadence. “They will find me standing in front of it.”

Footsteps echoed down the hall as Marco left. A moment later, the study door pushed open, and Luca stepped back inside. He looked at me, taking in my pale face, the half-empty glass in my hand, and the heavy bandage on my arm.

He knew I had heard every word.

“You don’t have to do this, Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Let me pack my things. Give me my severance, and I’ll take the morning train out of the city. I’ll go somewhere far away. Nobody has to fight over me.”

Luca walked over to the desk, leaning against the edge, his arms folded across his chest. He looked at me with an intensity that pinned me to the cushions.

“You think running will keep you safe from the Valentis, Emma?” he asked calmly. “If you leave this house alone, they will find you in forty-eight hours just to prove a point. In their world, witnesses are liabilities, and wounded pride demands blood.”

Tears burned the corners of my eyes. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“You stay,” Luca said simply. “You stay in the nursery wing with Sofia. You take your meals with her. You let my guards watch the perimeter. You don’t leave this gate without me.”

“Why?” I asked, desperate to understand. “Why would you risk a war for a maid you barely know?”

Luca tilted his head, his dark eyes studying me with a terrifying clarity.

“Because when you were in pain, when that carving knife was slipping from your hands, you didn’t cry out. You didn’t beg. You protected my daughter from seeing how much it hurt. And when Sofia spoke up, you looked terrified for her, not for yourself.”

He stepped closer, stopping right in front of the sofa.