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?”

The morning sun brought no warmth to the Moretti estate. A thick, grey mist rolled off the harbor, clinging to the manicured hedges and iron gates like a funeral shroud.

By seven o'clock, the atmosphere in the manor was unbearable. The kitchen staff moved about in terrified silence. Pancakes were prepared for Sofia, fresh dark-roast coffee was brewed for Luca, but nobody spoke above a frantic whisper.

I walked into the bright breakfast solarium holding Sofia’s hand. She was dressed in her school uniform—a navy pleated skirt and white blouse—her dark hair neatly braided with red ribbons I had woven in using my good left hand.

Luca was already sitting at the head of the long glass table.

He had exchanged his dark shirt for an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit. His silver cuff links caught the pale morning light, and a stack of financial folders sat untouched beside his porcelain coffee cup. He was reading a single, folded piece of cream-colored paper.

The letter Isabella had slipped under his door.

When Sofia ran forward, calling out, “Daddy!”, Luca instantly folded the paper in half and slid it beneath his leather ledger. The ice in his expression vanished, replaced by a warm, welcoming smile as he caught Sofia in his arms, lifting her onto his knee.

“Good morning, princess,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “Did you sleep well?”

“Emma stayed with me,” Sofia announced proudly, reaching for a strawberry from the silver bowl. “We kept the monsters away.”

Luca’s eyes drifted upward, meeting mine across the table.

His gaze was intense, heavy with questions he wouldn't ask in front of the child. He took in the neat bandage on my wrist, the slight dark circles under my eyes, and the simple navy dress Mrs. Gable had brought up for me that morning—a dress meant for a governess, not a housemaid.

“Sit down, Emma,” Luca said softly.

“I can stand, Mr. Moretti. I should ensure Miss Sofia eats her breakfast before the driver—”

“Sit,” he repeated. It wasn't an order spoken in anger; it was an invitation that left no room for refusal. He gestured to the chair to his right—the chair where Isabella normally sat.

My throat went dry. Mrs. Gable, who was setting down a basket of warm croissants, didn’t bat an eye. With practiced professionalism, the old housekeeper pulled out the chair for me.

“Thank you,” I whispered, sitting carefully on the edge of the seat.

“You received the clothes Mrs. Gable brought up?” Luca asked, pouring a cup of tea from the silver pot and sliding it directly toward me.

“Yes, sir. But... it’s too much. The dresses are expensive, and I am still an employee. If the other staff—”

“The other staff know their place,” Luca interrupted smoothly. “And they know yours. You are Sofia’s companion now. You will be seen with her in public, at her private school, at the riding club. You will not wear a servant’s uniform while representing my household.”

Before I could reply, the double doors of the solarium clicked open.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a tailored trench coat stepped inside. He had iron-grey hair, a thick mustache, and cold, calculating eyes that immediately swept the room. Behind him stood two burly men in dark suits, their coats bulging slightly near the armpits.

Vincent Valenti. Isabella’s father.

The air in the room instantly turned to stone.

Sofia shrank back against Luca’s chest, sensing the danger immediately. I stiffened, my uninjured hand gripping the edge of the glass table so hard my knuckles turned white.

Vincent didn’t look at his daughter, who wasn’t in the room. He didn’t look at Sofia. His eyes locked onto me, sitting in his daughter’s rightful chair, with a cup of tea poured by Luca Moretti himself.

A cruel, thin smirk touched Vincent’s lips.

“So,” Vincent said, his voice a gravelly rasp that sounded like grinding stones. “The rumors traveling through the North End this morning are true. You’ve replaced my daughter before the coffee even got cold, Luca.”

Luca didn’t flinch. He didn’t stand up. He slowly reached out, placing his hand over Sofia’s ears, his thumb stroking her cheek in a steady, calming rhythm.

“You’re early, Vincent,” Luca said, his voice entirely devoid of panic or anger. “Our meeting wasn’t scheduled until eleven at the harbor offices.”

“Things change when a man receives a call from his daughter at three in the morning,” Vincent replied, taking three heavy steps into the room. His two bodyguards stayed by the door, their hands resting ominously inside their coat pockets. “Isabella told me she was confined to her quarters. She told me she was threatened. And she told me that a common gutter-girl was sitting at your right hand.”

Vincent’s gaze snapped down to me, cold and murderous.

“Is this the one? The little thief who bruised her own wrist to play the martyr?”

The breath caught in my throat. *Bruised my own wrist?* Isabella had twisted the entire story. She had framed me as a manipulative social climber trying to break up a powerful engagement.

“Watch your tongue, Vincent,” Luca warned. His voice wasn’t loud, but the dangerous vibration in it made the hairs on my arms stand up. “You are a guest in my home. Do not mistake my hospitality for weakness.”

“And do not mistake my patience for stupidity!” Vincent barked, slamming a heavy leather folder onto the glass table, making the fine china rattle. “The shipping contracts for the southern terminals expire on Friday! If you want my cranes, if you want my tugboats, if you want your precious cargo moving through this port without customs tearing every crate apart, you will bring my daughter down these stairs right now.”

Vincent pointed a thick, scarred finger directly at me.

“And you will fire this girl. Have her thrown into the street where she belongs. Or by tonight, the Moretti name won’t be worth a dime in this city.”

The silence stretched so long that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like gunshots.

Luca gently turned Sofia toward me. “Emma. Take Sofia up to the library. Read her the story about the sea captain.”

“Luca, no,” I whispered, terrified of what would happen if I left him alone with these armed men.

“Go,” he commanded softly, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that brooked no argument. “Now.”

I stood up, taking Sofia’s small, trembling hand. I guided her around the long table, keeping my body between the child and Vincent Valenti’s men. As I passed Vincent, the older man leaned in, his voice a venomous hiss meant only for me:

“Enjoy your pretty dress, girl. It will make a lovely shroud.”

I didn't answer. I pulled Sofia through the doors, rushing her up the grand staircase as fast as our legs could carry us.

We reached the landing of the second floor when a loud crash echoed from the solarium downstairs. The unmistakable sound of shattering glass, followed by a shouted curse.