Chapter 1 - THE BLOOD ON THE MARBLE FLOORThe six-inch monitor inside Lorenzo Moretti’s armored SUV didn't lie, but for two terrifying seconds, Lorenzo wished it did.
Through the black-and-white night-vision feed, he watched the gunman’s glove close around Lydia’s throat. She didn't scream. She didn't beg. Instead, her right hand swept across the stainless-steel tray beside Mateo’s bed, her fingers locking around a heavy glass water decanter.
With a low, guttural roar that vibrated through her entire broad frame, Lydia swung the decanter upward.
CRASH.
Heavy crystal shattered across the assassin’s jaw. Blood and water sprayed across the camera lens. The gunman staggered back, his vision blurred, his hands flailing as he tried to clear the stinging liquid from his eyes.
"Holy shit," gasped Marco, Lorenzo’s chief of security sitting in the passenger seat. "Boss, is she... is she fighting a syndicate hitman with houseware?"
"Faster," Lorenzo repeated, his voice dropping into a deadly, vibrating frequency that made the SUV’s leather seats tremble. His thumb pressed so hard against the glass screen of his phone that the display cracked. "If she dies before I get there, Marco, I will personally skin every driver in this escort."
On the monitor, Lydia wasn't done. She didn't run for the hallway. She didn't leap through the shattered window. Instead, she threw her entire body weight—her soft, heavy, curves—straight into the assassin’s chest, pinning him against the heavy oak armoire.
The gunman groaned as the wind was knocked out of him. He raised his suppressed pistol, pressing the cold steel barrel directly under Lydia’s chin.
"Lydia, move!" Mateo’s raspy, broken voice echoed faintly through the high-definition audio pickup in the room. It was the first time in six months Lorenzo had heard his paralyzed brother speak more than two syllables at a time. "Lydia... no!"
Lydia didn't pull away from the gun. She looked the assassin dead in his eye, her dark, thick curls falling across her bleeding forehead where a stray shard of glass had grazed her temple.
"You don't touch him," she growled, her voice thick with an ancient, terrifying fury that didn't belong to a twenty-four-year-old maid earning eighteen dollars an hour. "You touch him, and I'll tear your fucking throat out with my teeth."
The assassin pulled the trigger.
THWIP.
Lorenzo’s heart stopped.
The bullet grazed Lydia’s shoulder, tearing through her grey cotton uniform and leaving a jagged line of crimson across her flesh. But she didn't fall. The impact only seemed to ignite something primal inside her. She grabbed the heavy iron desk lamp from the bedside table and brought it down on the killer's skull with the force of an executioner's axe.
The man went limp, crashing to the Persian rug like a sack of wet flour.
Lydia dropped the lamp. She was breathing heavily, her full chest heaving beneath her torn, blood-stained uniform. Her hands were shaking violently, but she didn't waste a second looking at the unconscious killer. She spun around, dropped to her knees beside Mateo’s wheelchair, and began checking his neck, his wrists, his shoulders.
"Are you hit?" she panted, her voice instantly softening into the tender, protective tone she always used when she thought no one was watching. "Mateo, look at me. Did he touch you? Are you bleeding?"
Mateo’s eyes were wild with fear, tears streaming down his pale, gaunt cheeks. "You're... you're shot," he choked out, his right thumb making a tiny, agonizing jerk against the armrest—the only muscle below his neck he could occasionally control. "Lydia... why... why didn't you run?"
Lydia gently wiped a tear from the paralyzed twin's eye with her thumb, ignoring the thick red blood pooling on her own shoulder.
"I don't leave family behind," she whispered softly, her forehead resting against his for a fraction of a second. "Never again."
Inside the SUV, Lorenzo stared at the screen, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps.
Family. She had been on the Moretti payroll for nine days. She was hired through a third-party domestic agency after three other skinny, high-society nannies quit because Mateo’s medical equipment made them uncomfortable. When Lorenzo hired her, he had noted her full figure, her quiet demeanor, her oversized sweaters, and her total lack of references from high-net-worth clients. He had assumed she was harmless, desperate, and easily overlooked.
He was wrong. She was an absolute storm.
Twenty minutes later, the iron gates of the Moretti estate blew off their hinges as Lorenzo’s five-vehicle convoy slammed onto the property.
Lorenzo didn't wait for his men to secure the perimeter. He kicked his door open before the vehicle fully stopped, his heavy leather trench coat billowing behind him as he vaulted up the grand marble staircase three steps at a time, two silver-plated Berettas already drawn in his hands.
When he burst through the shattered door of Mateo’s wing, the smell of cordite, metallic blood, and lavender floor cleaner hit him like a physical wall.
Ten Moretti guards were already swarming the room, securing the unconscious assassin and checking the perimeter. But in the center of the chaos, sitting on the floor with her back against Mateo’s bed, was Lydia. She had wrapped a clean bath towel around her own bleeding shoulder, holding Mateo’s limp, pale hand in her free palm.
Mateo was safe. His breathing was stable. His eyes were fixed entirely on Lydia, ignoring the ten armed soldiers surrounding them.
Lorenzo stopped in the doorway. His six-foot-four frame blocked the light from the hallway. His broad shoulders, razor-sharp jawline, and piercing hazel eyes—identical to Mateo’s, yet cold as Arctic ice—focused entirely on the plus-size woman bleeding on his floor.
Lydia looked up. Her dark eyes met his. She didn't flinch. She didn't bow her head like the other servants did when the undisputed Capo of Chicago entered a room.
"You're late," she said plainly, her voice trembling slightly from the shock, but her chin held high.
Lorenzo walked slowly toward her. The room went dead silent. Even the heavy-footed guards held their breath. Lorenzo Moretti was known throughout the North American underworld as the 'Iron Don'—a man who executed his own cousin for losing a drug shipment, a man who hadn't smiled since his twin was paralyzed two years ago.
Lorenzo knelt beside her. His tailored suit pants sank into the blood-stained carpet. He reached out, his long, scarred fingers gently taking Lydia’s chin, turning her face so he could inspect the glass scratch on her temple.
"Who taught you to move like that?" Lorenzo asked, his voice low, velvety, and laced with a terrifying edge.
Lydia swallowed hard. "I grew up in South Chicago, Mr. Moretti. You learn to fight, or you learn to bleed."
Lorenzo’s gaze shifted down to her torn shoulder, then to her hand, which was still firmly holding his brother's fingers. He could feel the heat radiating from her body—the soft, abundant warmth of a woman who possessed more courage in her pinky finger than his entire security detail combined.
"Marco," Lorenzo commanded without taking his eyes off Lydia.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Call the family physician. Have Dr. Vance clear the private surgery suite on the third floor."
"For Don Mateo?" Marco asked.
"No," Lorenzo said, his thumb brushing against Lydia’s warm cheekbone, leaving a smear of dark ash on her skin. "For my brother's savior. And notify the Commission."
Lydia frowned, her dark brows drawing together. "The Commission? What does the Italian syndicate have to do with me? I just need some iodine and a bandage, Mr. Moretti. I have to finish the laundry before my shift ends."
Lorenzo let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest—a sound his men hadn't heard in over seven hundred days. He stood up, reaching down to grab Lydia’s uninjured hand, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. The weight of her full, voluptuous body pressed against his chest for a brief second, and Lorenzo felt an electric jolt shoot straight through his spine.
"You aren't doing laundry anymore, Lydia," Lorenzo murmured, his grip tight and unyielding around her waist as she swayed slightly from blood loss. "Tonight, someone tried to wipe out the Moretti bloodline. And you proved that you are the only person in this city worthy of wearing our name."
"What are you saying?" she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.
May you like
Lorenzo looked down at Mateo, who gave his twin a single, slow, approving nod from his chair.
"I am saying," Lorenzo declared, his voice echoing out into the hallway where fifty armed guards stood at attention, "that as of five minutes ago, you are no longer the maid, Lydia. You are the future Don’s wife."
