The mafia boss's fiancée humiliated his 25-year-old maid for keeping his elderly mother warm—until the old woman whispered, "I don't have a bed anymore," making him put his glass down.

Upstairs, the private parlor smelled faintly of old leather and beeswax. Hannah lit the gas fireplace, watching the blue flames dance across ceramic logs while Teresa sat quietly in a velvet armchair, still clutching the frayed edge of her pale-blue blanket.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Moretti?" Hannah asked gently, pouring hot water over chamomile leaves in a porcelain pot.

"I’m tired, child," Teresa said, closing her eyes. "For forty years, I kept this family together by pretending I didn't see the blood on the carpets. I thought if I baked enough bread and smiled at enough banquets, the violence would stay outside the front gate. But violence doesn't stay outside, Hannah. It creeps into the kitchen. It crawls into the bedroom. And eventually, it tries to throw you out into the snow."

Hannah handed her the steaming cup. "Mr. Moretti won't let them do that. I saw his face when he looked at your chair. He loves you."

"Luca loves power," Teresa corrected softly, blowing on the tea. "That’s his curse. His father gave him an empire built on fear, and Luca spent his twenties perfecting it. But underneath all that concrete and black cashmere, he has his father’s conscience. That’s why Michael and Vanessa tried to move me out. They knew that as long as I was in this house, Luca’s moral compass pointed north. Without me, they could point him wherever they wanted."

Before Hannah could answer, the heavy oak door of the parlor rattled.

Hannah froze, her hand hovering over the tea tray. "Who is it?"

"It’s me. Luca."

Hannah exhaled a shaky breath and turned the skeleton key in the lock.

Luca Moretti stepped into the room. He had removed his suit jacket, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, dark tattoos tracing the lines of his wrists—markings of a life Hannah had only ever read about in newspaper crime columns.

He didn't look at Hannah right away. He walked straight to his mother’s chair, knelt beside her, and took her fragile hands in his.

"Michael is downstairs in the basement vault," Luca said quietly. "He talked. So did Vanessa’s father, who apparently fronted thirty thousand dollars of the bribe money to fast-track the deed transfer on West Addison."

Teresa opened her eyes. "And the girl, Luca? Did he talk about his daughter?"

Luca’s jaw tightened. "Her name is Mia. She’s twelve years old. Michael kept her locked away in that house with a hired nurse, pretending she was an orphan he was 'sponsoring' out of charity. Vanessa knew about it for six months. They were planning to sell the property to a commercial developer on Monday, take the five million in untraceable cash, and move to Zurich."

Teresa let out a long, shuddering sigh. "Bring her here, Luca."

"She’s already on her way," Luca said, standing up. He finally looked at Hannah, his dark eyes sharp and appraising. "Hannah. You heard things tonight that men have been killed for hearing in this house."

Hannah’s stomach dropped. She stepped back instinctively, her fingers gripping the edge of the mahogany table. "Mr. Moretti, I swear to you, I don't care about your family's business. I just want to keep my job. My mother’s medical bills—"

"Your mother’s medical bills are paid in full as of three minutes ago," Luca interrupted smoothly. "I transferred fifty thousand dollars into your family account before I walked up these stairs."

Hannah stared at him, stunned. "Sir?"

"You stood up to Vanessa when everyone else at that table was too cowardly to breathe," Luca said, taking a step closer. "You kept my mother warm when my own brother wanted to throw her into a hallway. In my world, loyalty is the only currency that matters, Hannah. And you just proved you’re richer than everyone downstairs combined."

"I... I don't know what to say," Hannah stammered.

"Say nothing," Luca replied, turning back toward the door. "Pack a bag tonight. You’re moving out of your cramped apartment on the south side. Starting tomorrow, you live in the East Wing guest suite. You’ll be my mother’s personal executive assistant, with a salary that triples what we agreed upon."