He Threw His Maid Out Without Hearing Her Explanation—Then the Mafia Boss Learned She Carried His Twins

Dominic turned the silver locket over in his hand, his thumb catching on a tiny, almost invisible scratch along its back hinge.

“She wasn't a criminal, Matteo,” Dominic said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet office like a blade. “A thief would have taken the watch off my wrist or the signet ring off my finger. She left before dawn and took nothing except her own clothes.”

“Then she was a guest who realized she made a mistake,” Matteo replied, crossing his arms. “Either way, Celeste’s father is pressing for a wedding date. The Rossi family is growing impatient. If you don't secure the alliance by spring, the New York board will start backing Moretti’s distribution lines in the Midwest.”

Dominic stood, slipping the small silver bird into his vest pocket. “Let them press. I don't sign contracts under pressure, and I certainly don't let New York dictate who I take to my bed.”

He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the blizzard whipping through the iron beams of the elevated train lines below. Four months had passed since he had thrown that clumsy maid out of his penthouse. Four months of listening to Celeste complain about interior decorators, caterers, and the smell of cigar smoke in his private lounge.

He missed the quiet.

He missed the subtle, lavender scent that used to linger near his desk every morning before he woke up—a detail he had only noticed after it disappeared.

“Did human resources ever fill the morning cleaning position?” Dominic asked suddenly, not turning around.

Matteo blinked, caught off guard by the shift in subject. “The maid you fired? Mrs. Gable hired a commercial service from North Avenue. Why?”

“The current staff is loud,” Dominic remarked coldly. “They move my ledgers. Tell Mrs. Gable I want individual staff, not a commercial crew.”

“Dominic, you threw her out yourself,” Matteo pointed out, brow furrowed. “The girl... Layla Bennett, right? You gave her five hundred dollars and told her my guys would toss her into the alley if she stayed.”

The name struck Dominic’s ear like a misplaced key on a piano.

Layla Bennett.

He had never bothered to learn her full name while she worked for him. She had just been a quiet shadow in a gray uniform, moving through the background of his life for six months, polishing silver, dusting mahogany, and vanishing whenever he stepped into a room.

“Where did she go?” Dominic asked.

“How should I know? She was a domestic worker with zero references after you terminated her,” Matteo spat softly. “Probably left the city.”

“Find out,” Dominic commanded. “Check the severance records. Get her address from her tax files.”

Matteo stared at his boss as if Dominic had lost his mind. “You want me to deploy syndicate resources to locate a dismissed maid?”

“I want to know who enters and leaves my home, Matteo,” Dominic snapped, turning to face his underboss with cold, lethal authority. “She worked here for six months. She had access to my study, my files, and my safe. If she was compromised by the Moretti family before I let her go, I need to know.”

Matteo’s expression hardened. Security threats were something he understood. “I’ll have Marco run her social security number through the county registry tonight.”

Three miles south, in a drafty, third-floor walk-up apartment above an abandoned laundry shop, Layla Bennett sat on the edge of a narrow mattress, wrapping her swollen ankles in elastic bandages.

The room was freezing. The radiator clanked violently every twenty minutes, emitting a burst of steam that smelled of rust and damp copper before dying out completely.

Layla placed her hand gently over her stomach.

At seven months, her abdomen was rounded, heavy, and undeniably prominent beneath her oversized thrift-store sweater. The ultrasound technician at the county clinic had confirmed it six weeks prior: two heartbeat signals, strong, rapid, and unmistakable.

Twins.

Two boys.

Two heirs to the Gallo fortune, sleeping beneath a threadbare blanket in a room that cost four hundred dollars a month.

Layla leaned back against the wall, taking a slow breath as a sharp kick struck her ribcage from the left side.

“Quiet down in there,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly in the chill air. “Your father doesn't even know you exist, and he’d probably throw us out of this room too if he saw us.”

She picked up the local newspaper lying beside her bed. She had been searching the classifieds for remote data entry jobs, anything she could do from a desk once her movement became too limited to take on evening shift work at the local diner.

Her savings were almost gone. The five hundred dollars Dominic had tossed onto the liquor-soaked carpet had gone straight to her father’s outstanding memorial expenses and two months of back rent. She had fifty-four dollars left in her checking account.

A sudden, sharp knock echoed against her thin wooden front door.

Layla froze.

No one came to her apartment. The landlord only visited on the first of the month, and her few acquaintances from her previous employment had long since stopped calling after she vanished from the Gallo estate.

She stood slowly, supporting her lower back with one hand, and crept toward the door.

“Who is it?” she called out, her voice barely louder than the howl of the winter wind rattling the windowpanes.

Silence answered her.

Then, the heavy sound of leather boots descending the wooden staircase echoed down the hallway.

Layla peered through the tiny brass peephole.

The hallway was empty, but resting on the floor directly outside her threshold was a heavy manila envelope stamped with a red wax seal.