The kitchen chandelier above them seemed to hum with a vicious, low vibration, reflecting the crimson wine that Delphine Ashworth still held in her hand. For a woman standing on the precipice of utter ruin, Delphine’s fingers were remarkably steady—or perhaps she was simply paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of what had just unfolded.

Josephine Marsh sat in the oversized velvet armchair beside Sofia’s bed, her fingers gently stroking the soft fleece of the pink rabbit toy. The little girl was sleeping peacefully now, her chest rising and falling in a regular, steady cadence that banished the memory of the gasping, blue-tinted terror from earlier that evening.

The door clicked open softly.

Josephine looked up, expecting Rafael or one of the guards with a status update. Instead, it was Matteo.

He had removed his suit jacket, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dense, dark tattoos of a past life that Chicago had long tried to forget. He looked exhausted—not the tired of a businessman finishing a long meeting, but the bone-deep weariness of a man who carried the weight of an entire criminal underworld on his shoulders while trying to keep his daughter safe from the monsters he invited into his own fortress.

Matteo walked quietly across the nursery rug, pulling up a small wooden stool to sit opposite Josephine.

"She's asleep," Josephine whispered, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the child.

"I know," Matteo said, his dark eyes fixed on Sofia’s peaceful face. Then, slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Josephine’s. "She asked for you while you were downstairs cleaning up."

"She did?"

"She said, 'Is Jo okay? The bad lady hurt Jo's face.'" Matteo’s jaw tightened. "She cares about you more than she cares about most of the adults in this house who have known her since she was a baby."

Josephine lowered her gaze, suddenly self-conscious of the purple bruise blossoming across her cheek and the dried blood near her temple. "I’m just a maid, Mr. Vance. It’s my job to take care of the household."

"Stop that."

"Sir?"

"Stop calling yourself 'just a maid'," Matteo said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "Tonight, the people I pay hundreds of thousands of dollars a year to protect my family locked themselves in the panic room and let a six-year-old suffocate in a cellar. You—a woman they treated like furniture—broke your fingers against a deadbolt to save her."

He reached out, his warm, rough fingertips gently brushing against her bruised cheekbone, testing the swelling with tender precision. Josephine caught her breath, her heart suddenly performing a wild, unauthorized gymnastics routine inside her chest.

"Does it hurt?" he asked softly.

"A little," she murmured, unable to look away from his intense, dark gaze.

"I’m sorry," Matteo said, and for the first time since she had met him, there was no mob boss in his tone—only a man asking for forgiveness. "I brought Delphine into this house because the board wanted a mother figure for Sofia. I thought... I thought a high-society woman would give her stability. I was a fool."

"You couldn't have known," Josephine whispered.

"I should have known. A man in my position doesn't get to make mistakes, Josephine. One mistake almost cost me my daughter." He let his hand drop from her face, though his eyes lingered. "Delphine is gone. She won't be coming back."

"Gone?"

"On her way to South America," Matteo said casually, as if talking about booking a flight to New York. "She won't be bothering you—or anyone else—ever again."

Josephine swallowed hard, processing the casual brutality of a mafia boss dealing with his problems, balanced against the profound gentleness he was currently showing her.

"What happens now?" she asked quietly.

Matteo stood up, towering over her in the dim nursery light. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, ornate brass key—the master key to the entire estate, including the private family wing that no staff member had ever been allowed to enter.

He placed it gently in the center of Josephine’s open palm, curling her bruised fingers over the cold metal.

"Now," Matteo said, a faint, rare smile touching the corners of his lips, "you move upstairs. Into the guest suite next to Sofia's room. And tomorrow morning, you stop being a maid."