Part 2: The Pregnant Maid Treated the Ignored Old Man Like Royalty—Unaware He Was the Mafia Boss’s Father

An hour later, the heavy sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

The door to room 104 was flung open without warning, banging against the interior wall. Mrs. Gable marched in, flanked by two junior maids who carried fresh, expensive linens and a thick cashmere throw blanket.

"Get up, girl!" Mrs. Gable barked at Nora, who was in the middle of sweeping the corners of the room. "Don't just stand there like a brainless cow! Take that disgusting rag you're holding and get out of the way!"

Nora quickly backed against the wardrobe, gripping her broom tightly.

Mrs. Gable put on an absurd display of hurried preparation. She ripped away the worn, threadbare cotton blanket that Giovanni had been shivering under for three months and tossed it into the corner like trash. In its place, she draped the luxurious cashmere over his lap, smoothing it down with aggressive pats.

"You," Gable hissed, pointing at one of the maids. "Light the fireplace! Make it roar! If Lorenzo walks into a cold room, I’ll skin you both alive!"

"Mrs. Gable," Nora spoke up, unable to keep silent as the sudden billow of soot from the long-dormant chimney puffed into Giovanni's face, causing him to cough weakly. "The flue hasn't been opened in months. It’s going to choke him—"

"Shut your filthy mouth!" Mrs. Gable snarled, rounding on Nora with a raised hand.

The strike never landed, but only because the floorboards outside groaned under the measured, heavy tread of custom leather boots.

Mrs. Gable froze, her arm suspended in mid-air. She dropped it instantly, smoothing her apron, her face rearranging itself into a picture of maternal concern so fast it was sickening.

"Just rest, dear John," Mrs. Gable crooned in a sickeningly sweet voice, leaning over Giovanni and patting his cheek with rough condescension. "We are taking such wonderful care of you."

Giovanni sat perfectly still, but a single muscle feathered along his jawline.

The door swung fully open.

Lorenzo Moretti stood in the frame. Without his heavy snow coat, his broad, powerful frame was even more imposing. His bespoke charcoal suit was immaculate, tailored over broad shoulders and a lean waist. A silver watch gleamed on his wrist, and his dark hair was swept back cleanly, accentuating the razor-sharp contours of his cheekbones.

Behind him stood Marco, his chief enforcer—a six-foot-four mountain of a man with cold eyes and a scar running through his left eyebrow.

The temperature in the room plummeted, not from the draft, but from the raw, suffocating aura of lethal authority radiating from the young Don.

"Mr. Moretti!" Mrs. Gable beamed, stepping aside and bowing her head. "We were just making sure your beloved father had his fresh blanket and that his hearth was properly stoked. The cold can be so cruel to his delicate bones."

Lorenzo didn't look at Mrs. Gable. His gray, predatory eyes swept the room. He took in the blazing fire that had clearly just been lit, smelling the fresh unburnt wood. He looked at the luxury cashmere blanket, pristine and unwrinkled, resting over his father's knees.

And then, his gaze shifted to the corner of the room.

There stood Nora.

She looked tiny against the towering mahogany furniture. Her uniform was two sizes too small to properly accommodate her growing belly, the seams straining at her sides. Her hair was pulled back into a simple, fraying ribbon, and her face was pale with fatigue. But what caught Lorenzo’s sharp, calculating eyes wasn't just her pregnancy—it was the stark, dark purple marks encircling her delicate wrists, and the way her body subtly leaned toward the wheelchair, as if she were prepared to shield the old man from an attack.

"Father," Lorenzo spoke, his voice deep, gravelly, and laced with an undercurrent of restrained emotion.

He stepped forward, crossing the room in long strides. He knelt down before the wheelchair, bringing his fierce gaze level with Giovanni’s.

To the untrained eye, Giovanni remained a broken, mute invalid. But as Lorenzo looked into his father’s eyes, a strange, electric tension snapped between them. Giovanni didn't blink. He lowered his gaze once, shifting it deliberately to Nora’s trembling hands, and then slowly brought it back up to his son’s face.