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

Within forty-eight hours, the Moretti estate underwent a seismic transformation.

Word had already leaked onto the streets of New York that Don Giovanni Moretti had miraculously recovered his strength, but the syndicate’s captains and the rival families assumed it was mere propaganda—a desperate rumor circulated by Lorenzo to hide his father’s impending demise.

To crush those whispers once and for all, Giovanni ordered an emergency banquet held in the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate. Every underboss, captain, and allied family head across the five boroughs was summoned.

Attendance was not optional.

Upstairs in the private master suite, Nora stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror, staring at her reflection in pure shock.

She wore an emerald green velvet evening gown, custom-tailored in a single afternoon by a high-end Italian designer brought directly to the mansion. The fabric draped elegantly over her five-month baby bump, accentuating her delicate shoulders and graceful neck. Her auburn hair had been styled into soft, tumbling waves pinned with diamond clips, and her cheeks held a healthy, rosy glow that had returned thanks to two days of rich food and continuous rest.

"You look stunning, Miss Nora," whispered Maria, a gentle young maid who had replaced Gable's cruel regime. "The Don asked that you wear this."

Maria held out a velvet box. Inside lay a breathtaking necklace—a cascading stream of genuine emeralds and white diamonds that gleamed under the chandeliers.

"I... I can't wear this," Nora said, stepping back in panic. "This costs more than my entire neighborhood! What if I break it? What if people stare?"

"Let them stare," a deep, commanding voice rumbled from the open doorway.

Nora turned to see Lorenzo stepping into the room. He was dressed in a tailored black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders to perfection. His dark hair was slicked back, his sharp jaw freshly shaved, exuding the raw, predatory magnetism of an undisputed king.

He took the velvet box from Maria, dismissing the maid with a brief nod.

Walking up behind Nora, Lorenzo lifted the emerald necklace. His hands were steady, his knuckles brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of Nora’s throat as he fastened the heavy clasp. Nora shuddered at the contact, her eyes locking onto his in the mirror.

"Lorenzo... I don't belong down there," Nora whispered, her voice trembling. "Those men down in the ballroom... they're mob bosses. Killers. They’ll see a pregnant girl who cleaned toilets yesterday. They'll laugh."

Lorenzo placed his hands firmly on her shoulders, his gaze dark and absolute.

"Tonight, Nora, you sit at the high table beside my father and me," he said, bending down so his lips hovered just inches from her ear. "The men in that room bow to power. And the only person in this city who holds more power over Giovanni Moretti than I do is you. You saved his life. You saved this family. Walk with your head held high, little bird. If anyone laughs, they won't live to see the sunrise."

Her heart thumping wildly against her ribs, Nora let Lorenzo tuck her arm into the crook of his elbow.

When the double doors to the grand ballroom swung open, the deafening roar of laughter, clinking champagne flutes, and brass music abruptly died.

Over a hundred hardened mafia soldiers, capos, and syndicate leaders turned toward the entrance.

Walking through the doors was Don Giovanni Moretti, looking every bit the ruthless emperor who had conquered New York decades ago. He wore a midnight-blue suit, his silver cane gripped with commanding authority, his sharp eyes surveying the room with lethal clarity.

And right behind him walked Lorenzo Moretti, his arm securely looped around Nora.

Gasps rippled through the sea of men. Whispers broke out like wildfire. Everyone recognized the emerald necklace—the legendary Moretti Empress, an heirloom reserved solely for the matriarch of the family.

Among the crowd, near the center of the hall, stood Mateo Falcone. The Brooklyn boss froze, his champagne glass trembling in his hand. His face flushed bright crimson, then drained into a sickly, sheet-like gray. He had expected to see an empty chair, or at least a faltering old man. Instead, he saw Giovanni alive and commanding—and beside him was Nora, dressed like royalty.

"Friends," Giovanni’s voice boomed across the ballroom, silencing the murmurs in an instant. "I thank you for coming to celebrate my return to full health. Some of you prayed for this day. And some of you paid a great deal of money to ensure it would never come."

Giovanni’s eyes locked straight onto Mateo Falcone, holding the man in a suffocating, predatory stare.

"Before we raise our glasses," Giovanni continued, gesturing toward Nora, "I want everyone in this room to look upon this woman. Her name is Nora. She is under the eternal protection of the Moretti bloodline. Whosoever raises a hand against her, raises an army against me. Her child will be born under my roof, carry my protection, and inherit my favor."

Lorenzo pulled Nora slightly closer to his side, his hand resting possessively over the curve of her hip, his eyes sweeping across the frozen crowd like a scythe.