He Sent His Maid Into a Christmas Blizzard for One Bottle of Wine, but the Mafia Boss Learned Who Had Really Ordered Her to Die

Inside the grand dining room of DeLuca House, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of roasted meats, expensive cigars, and aged bourbon.

Roman DeLuca sat at the head of the long mahogany table, surrounded by powerful men in dark suits and women dripping in diamonds. To his right sat Vivian Mercer, looking breathtaking in her red silk dress, laughing effortlessly at a joke made by a visiting underboss from Chicago.

Roman didn't laugh. He rarely did.

He swirled the dark amber liquid in his crystal glass, his dark eyes scanning the room with calm, methodical observation. To the world, Roman was a ruthless modern mob boss who had consolidated power across three states through sheer intelligence and unyielding discipline. To those inside his house, he was a silent, imposing presence who noticed everything.

He noticed that the service was slowing down.

He looked toward the service door. Usually, the staff moved with quiet efficiency. But for the past half-hour, there had been a subtle tension among the housekeepers. He saw Mrs. Patel, the senior housekeeper, standing near the kitchen entrance, her face pale, repeatedly checking her gold wrist watch.

Roman motioned to his primary lieutenant, Frank, who was standing discreetly against the wall.

Frank leaned down. "Boss?"

"What's wrong with Mrs. Patel?" Roman asked, his voice low and smooth as velvet.

Frank glanced toward the service area. "I'll check."

A few moments later, Frank returned, leaning in close to Roman's ear. "One of the servers went out to the carriage house to fetch a specific bottle of wine for Mr. Mercer. She hasn't come back."

Roman’s brow furrowed. He glanced outside the tall bay windows. The storm was raging furiously, the heavy glass vibrating against the fierce gusts.

"Who went out in that?" Roman asked, a sudden edge to his tone.

"Claire Bennett," Frank whispered.

Roman froze. His grip on the crystal glass tightened so hard the thick glass nearly cracked.

Claire.

The image of the full-figured, quiet woman with the soft brown eyes flashed in his mind. She was the only person in this sprawling, corrupt house who never looked at him with fear or calculated flattery. She simply did her work, spoke gently to the kitchen staff, and maintained a quiet, unbreakable dignity that had secretly caught his eye months ago.

Roman stood up abruptly. The movement was so sudden that several conversation groups around the table fell silent.

"Roman, darling, what is it?" Vivian asked, touching his forearm with her manicured hand.

Roman ignored her completely. He stepped away from the table and walked directly toward Mrs. Patel at the service door.

"How long has she been gone?" Roman demanded.

Mrs. Patel looked terrified. "Nearly forty minutes, Mr. DeLuca. Ms. Mercer requested the 1990 Bellamy Reserve from the carriage house..."

Roman turned his gaze slowly toward Vivian, who had followed him over, her glass of champagne held delicately between her fingers.

"You sent a server out to the carriage house in a category three winter storm?" Roman asked, his voice dropping into a register that made even Frank take a step back.

Vivian blinked, maintaining her cool, aristocratic smile. "My father wanted the special vintage, Roman. It's just across the lawn. I'm sure she just got distracted or took a break in the staff quarters."

"The carriage house is locked, Vivian," Roman said, every word clipped and lethal. "Howard has the only key."

Vivian’s smile wavered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovered, shrugging her elegant shoulders. "Well, how was I supposed to know that? She should have said something."

Roman didn't wait to hear another word. He turned on his heel and grabbed a heavy thermal flashlight from the security cabinet near the door.

"Roman!" Vivian called out, annoyance creeping into her voice. "You're going outside? In the middle of dinner? Let security handle it!"

Roman didn't even look back at her. He shoved open the heavy oak door and plunged directly into the howling white hell outside.

The wind tore at him, but Roman didn't feel the cold. His chest was tight with a suffocating, unfamiliar dread. Forty minutes in sub-zero temperatures without a winter coat was a death sentence.

"Claire!" he shouted into the storm, sweeping the powerful beam of the flashlight across the blinding expanse of snow. "Claire!"

The storm consumed his voice. He forced his way through the deep drifts, following the general direction of the path to the carriage house. The flashlight beam reflected off millions of falling ice crystals, creating a disorienting wall of glare.

He reached the midpoint of the south lawn. Nothing. Just an ocean of white.

Think, DeLuca, think, he commanded himself, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast. If she couldn't get in, she would turn back. She would try to reach the lights of the house.

He angled his search path back toward the mansion, sweeping the beam low along the snow banks.

Fifty yards from the main terrace, the light caught a small, subtle anomaly in the snow—a slight mound that didn't match the natural wind-swept drifts.

Roman sprinted forward, plunging hip-deep into the powder.

He reached down and brushed away the top layer of snow.

A hand. Small, pale, and frozen hard as marble.

"Claire!"

Roman dropped to his knees, frantically digging with his bare hands, tearing away the white burial shroud that covered her. He uncovered her face. Her beautiful, soft face was deathly white, her dark eyelashes matted together with ice crystals, her cracked lips parted slightly.

He reached under her jaw, pressing his fingers desperately against her freezing throat.

Silence. One second. Two seconds.