The first time the Mafia boss’s baby reached for me, I thought he wanted the silver necklace around my throat. The second time, I realized he wanted me—and by the third, his father had stopped looking irritated and started looking genuinely afraid.

At 6:45 the following morning, a sleek black Maybach idled quietly outside my dilapidated South Philly apartment building.

I sat on the edge of my squeaky mattress, surrounded by two worn suitcases filled with the few clothes and personal items I owned. My heart was pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Part of me knew this was madness. Luca Moretti was a powerful, dangerous man linked to the city's criminal underworld. Accepting an offer from a man like him felt like stepping willingly into a lion's den. But every time I closed my eyes, I remembered the heartbroken look in little Leo's eyes, the way his tiny hand had rested against my cheek, and the sheer desperation in his father's voice.

Plus, twenty thousand dollars a month meant I could pay off my mother's remaining medical debts, fix my car, and finally breathe without the constant terror of eviction hanging over my head.

I picked up my bags, locked my apartment door, and walked down the creaky stairs.

The Maybach driver—a tall, silent man named Viktor wearing a slate-gray suit—stepped out the moment I crossed the threshold. He loaded my luggage into the trunk without a word and held the rear door open for me.

The drive to Chestnut Hill took forty minutes. We left the cramped, brick-lined streets of South Philadelphia behind, moving northwest into the affluent, tree-shaded suburbs where sprawling historic mansions sat hidden behind stone walls and thick iron gates.

The Maybach turned onto a winding private road framed by towering oak trees, approaching a massive set of wrought-iron gates bearing a stylized brass M.

The gate swished open smoothly, revealing the Moretti estate.

It was a staggering stone manor built in the French Normandy style—three stories of dark granite, slate roofing, leaded glass windows, and manicured gardens that stretched toward a dense forest line at the rear of the property.

As the car pulled up the gravel driveway, I noticed the security. High-definition infrared cameras were tucked into the slate eaves, and four men in dark suits with tactical earpieces were patrolling the perimeter. This wasn't just a home; it was a fortified fortress.

Viktor opened my door. "Welcome to the estate, Miss Vance."

I stepped out onto the gravel, clutching my purse tightly against my chest.

The massive double oak doors of the mansion swung open, and an older woman in a crisp gray housekeeper's uniform stepped out to meet me. She had silver hair pinned into a tight bun, sharp blue eyes, and a stern, no-nonsense posture.

"You must be Avery," she said, her voice crisp with an Italian accent. "I am Mrs. Rossi, the head housekeeper. Mr. Moretti is currently in his study taking an international call. I will show you to your quarters first."

I followed Mrs. Rossi through the grand foyer, where marble floors, soaring arched ceilings, and oil paintings created an atmosphere of quiet, intimidating wealth. We took a sweeping grand staircase up to the second floor, down a carpeted hallway, and stopped at a set of double doors near the east wing.

"This is your suite," Mrs. Rossi said, pushing the doors open.

I stepped inside and gasped.

The room was larger than my entire South Philly apartment. It featured a plush king-sized bed with cream silk sheets, a stone fireplace, a private balcony overlooking the rear gardens, an ensuite marble bathroom with a deep soaking tub, and a walk-in closet already stocked with cashmere sweaters, silk robes, and comfortable indoor wear in my exact size.

"This... this is too much," I stammered, turning to Mrs. Rossi. "How did he know my sizes?"

Mrs. Rossi offered a faint, knowing smirk. "Mr. Moretti makes it his business to know everything about the people who enter his home, my dear."

Before I could answer, a soft whimpering sound echoed from the adjacent room.

The connecting door swung open, and Luca Moretti walked into my suite carrying Leo. He was dressed in a charcoal vest and white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark ink sprawling across his forearms. He looked exhausted, with dark shadows beneath his gray eyes.

"He woke up twenty minutes ago," Luca said, his voice low. "He refused the bottle again."

The moment Leo saw me standing near the bed, his wide eyes lit up. He kicked his small legs, reaching out both hands with a happy, gurgling babble that echoed through the room.

"A-Avey!" Leo squeaked.

My heart melted instantly. I stepped forward, taking the boy into my arms. Leo buried his face against my shoulder, his small fingers immediately wrapping around my silver pendant.

Luca watched us, the tension in his shoulders visibly melting away.

"You see?" Mrs. Rossi whispered behind us, her stern expression softening. "It is a miracle."

Luca stepped closer to me, his presence dominating the room. "Thank you for coming, Avery."