"THE MAFIA BOSS CAME HOME TO FIND HIS MAID DRAGGING HIS MOTHER’S EMPTY WHEELCHAIR THROUGH THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY—THEN HE NOTICED THE BLOOD SOAKING THROUGH HER WHITE SLEEVE.

Every step up the grand staircase sent a dull, throbbing shockwave through my left arm.

Luca took the stairs two at a time, his polished leather shoes striking the stone with rapid, purposeful thuds. I lagged three paces behind him, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as I pressed my bloody left sleeve against my waist to keep it from swinging.

Behind us, down in the foyer, chaos was beginning to erupt. I could hear Vanessa’s shrill, angry voice arguing with Marco—Luca’s towering security chief—as the heavy wrought-iron front doors were pushed shut with a resounding boom that echoed through the lower floor.

When we reached the second-floor landing, Luca didn't slow down. He marched straight down the wide, carpeted hallway toward the private elevator that led to the third floor, where his mother’s master suite occupied the entire east wing.

He didn't wait for the elevator. He shoved open the heavy oak door to the private staircase and took those steps even faster.

I scrambled up behind him, my hand clutching the brass railing. "Mr. Moretti... please..."

He didn't stop until he reached the heavy double doors of Mrs. Eleanor Moretti’s suite at the far end of the third-floor corridor.

The third floor was deathly quiet. The soft ambient music from the main floor didn't reach up here. The air smelled faintly of lavender, rosewater, and old paper—the familiar scents that had surrounded Eleanor for as long as I had worked in this house.

Luca grabbed the brass handle and shoved the door open.

"Mother?"

The room was bathed in the soft, orange glow of the setting sun filtering through the sheer lace curtains.

The bed was made. The silk sheets were pulled tight, pristine and unruffled. On the mahogany armchair beside the window, a light blue hand-knitted cardigan—Eleanor’s favorite, the one she wore every afternoon when she sat by the glass—was folded neatly over the armrest.

The room was completely empty.

Luca stood in the center of the Persian rug, his broad back rigid. He turned slowly around, taking in the empty space, the undisturbed pillows, the silent air.

He turned toward me.

"Where is she?"

I leaned against the doorframe, my chest heaving, the pain in my arm turning my vision slightly spotty around the edges. "She... she was here, Mr. Moretti. I brought her up here forty minutes ago."

Luca took two steps toward me, his gray eyes dark with a terrifying mixture of worry and lethal focus. He looked down at my bloodied arm again, his gaze lingering on the torn fabric near my cuff.

Then, his eyes caught something else.

Along the back of my light blue maid's apron, near the right shoulder, the fabric was ripped, and a long, dusty streak of gray plaster covered my back—as if I had been forcibly shoved against a rough wall.

His voice dropped to a quiet, dangerous murmur.

"Sophie. Look at me."

I raised my eyes to meet his.

"What happened in this house this afternoon?" he asked softly. "Tell me everything. Right now."

Tears finally overflowed my eyelashes, running hot down my cheeks. The exhaustion, the physical pain, and the terror of the last two hours smashed through whatever restraint I had left.

"I tried to stop them," I whispered, my voice breaking.

Luca didn't move an inch. "Stop who?"

"At four o'clock... before the guests arrived," I sobbed, wiping my face with my right hand. "I was in the linen closet down the hall. I heard heavy footsteps in Mrs. Moretti’s room. When I came out, there were two men... men in dark suits I’d never seen before. They weren't your regular security guards."

Luca’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Go on."

"They had brought a transport chair from the service elevator," I continued, my breath hitching. "They were trying to lift Mrs. Moretti out of her armchair. She was crying, Mr. Moretti. She was trying to fight them off, but she's so weak... she couldn't stand."

"Where was Vanessa?" Luca asked, his tone flat as ice.

"She was standing right by the elevator," I said, the words spilling out of me now like a broken dam. "She was holding a clipboard. She told the men to hurry up, that the private transport van was waiting at the side entrance. Mrs. Moretti didn't want to go! She kept calling for you!"

Luca’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles turning stark white.

"What did you do, Sophie?"

"I ran at them," I whispered, looking down at my bruised, bloody forearm. "I grabbed the back of Mrs. Moretti’s wheelchair before they could push her into the service elevator. One of the men... the big one with the scar on his neck... he grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back. He shoved me against the hallway wall—that’s how my apron tore."

"He hurt you," Luca stated, not as a question, but as a fact that he was recording in his mind.

"I didn't let go of the chair," I said, fresh tears spilling over. "I kicked his shin, and Mrs. Moretti pulled the emergency alarm cord on the wall. It startled them. They thought the main security team was coming up, so they let go of the chair and ran down the service stairs."

Luca took a deep, steadying breath, his chest expanding. "You fought off two grown men to protect my mother."

"I pulled her out of the chair," I stammered, shaking my head. "I knew they’d come back if they realized the alarm was just a local chime. I carried her down the back corridor... but my arm was bleeding so badly I couldn't push the heavy wheelchair anymore. I hid her... and then I tried to get the wheelchair out of sight so Vanessa wouldn't know where we were."

Luca looked at me, a strange, profound shift occurring in his eyes. For a fraction of a second, the cold, lethal boss of the Chicago underworld dissolved, revealing a man deeply moved by the absolute courage of a twenty-nine-year-old maid who had bled to protect his helpless mother.

"You hid her," Luca said, stepping closer. "Where?"

"She told me not to let Vanessa know," I whispered, grabbing his sleeve with my good hand, desperate to make him understand. "Mrs. Moretti was terrified, Mr. Moretti! She grabbed my collar and whispered to me while we were in the hallway."

Luca froze. "What did she say?"

"She said... she said Vanessa had been coming into her room late at night for the past three weeks," I stammered. "She said Vanessa was putting something in her evening tea to make her weak and confused. And she said... she heard Vanessa on the phone in the study two nights ago, talking to someone about transferring Eleanor’s estate power of attorney the moment she was placed in a private care facility."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop below freezing.

Luca stood absolutely motionless. The air around him felt so thick with violence that I could barely breathe.

"Who was she talking to?" Luca asked softly.

"I don't know, sir," I shook my head frantically. "Mrs. Moretti didn't know the name. She just said Vanessa told the person on the phone that once Eleanor was moved out of the house, Luca wouldn't have any legal standing to stop the transfer."

Luca stared at the empty bed, his eyes dark as midnight.

"Where did you hide her, Sophie?"

"The old sewing room," I said, pointing toward the far end of the third-floor corridor. "At the end of the east wing. Behind the heavy tapestry. Nobody uses that room."

Without another word, Luca turned and strode out of the master suite, his heavy strides echoing through the quiet hallway. I followed right behind him, clutching my arm.

We reached the end of the corridor. Luca shoved aside the antique Flemish tapestry hanging on the wall, exposing the small, low wooden door of the disused sewing room.

He grabbed the brass knob and twisted it.

The door swung open with a soft creak.

The room was small, dusty, and filled with old dress forms and covered furniture. The overhead light was on, casting long shadows across the floor.

On the dusty floorboards lay Eleanor’s soft woolen wheelchair blanket.

Beside it, a small porcelain teacup lay shattered into three pieces.

The room was empty.

His mother was gone.

Luca stopped in his tracks, staring at the blanket on the floor.

Before either of us could move, the phone in Luca’s jacket pocket began to vibrate loudly.

He pulled it out and pressed it to his ear. He didn't say hello.

"Speak, Marco."

"Boss," Marco’s heavy voice came through the speaker, sounding rushed and uneasy over the line. "There's an unmarked private medical transport van sitting right outside the north gate. The driver says he's here for a scheduled patient pickup. Vanessa is down here screaming at my men, claiming you approved the transfer yesterday."

Luca’s gaze remained fixed on the shattered teacup on the floor.

"I approved nothing," Luca said, his voice dropping into a register so low and terrifying it gave me goosebumps. "Is my mother in that van?"

A pause on the other end of the line. I heard the sound of static, followed by Marco’s hesitant voice.

"Boss... the back windows are tinted pitch black. They won't open the door. The nurse in the passenger seat is claiming the patient is highly contagious and refusing to let us inspect the interior without a court warrant."

Luca’s jaw tightened. "Force the door."

"Wait—Boss!" Marco interrupted, his tone suddenly shifting. "Someone just rolled down the small side partition window. There's an elderly woman inside."

Luca held his breath. "Is it her?"

"She's refusing to let us see her face clearly, sir... she's pulled a shawl over her head. But... wait, she's speaking to the gate guard."

Over the phone speaker, amidst the faint background noise of rain beginning to patter against the metal gate, a frail, trembling, but distinctly familiar voice came through the line.

"Tell my son..." Eleanor’s voice crackled through the speaker, sharp with fear. "Tell my son not to trust the woman in the red dress."

Luca closed his eyes, a tight, painful breath escaping his nose. "Mother..."

But before Luca could speak into the phone, his mother’s voice came through the line one last time, louder and clearer, speaking directly into the guard's radio.

"And tell Sophie I'm sorry," Eleanor cried out, her voice breaking with raw emotion. "I should have warned her who Vanessa really is!"

The line went dead with a harsh burst of static.

Luca slowly lowered the phone from his ear.