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Your Heart Is Sad, Mister,” the Maid’s Toddler Whispered to the Mafia Boss—Then She Said Something That Broke Him / Chapter 17 / 20

Chapter 17

Christmas Eve arrived with a heavy, pristine blanket of white snow covering Manhattan. Inside the Moretti estate, a massive pine tree stood in the grand foyer, decorated with sparkling lights and handcrafted ornaments that Mia had spent the entire week making with Rosa.

For the first time in five years, the fourth-floor corridor was filled with the sweet scent of pine and cinnamon rather than dust and melancholy.

Mia stood at the base of the staircase, wearing a red velvet dress, clutching her trusty stuffed bear, Biscuit, under one arm.

When Antonio walked down the stairs in a tailored charcoal suit, Mia immediately ran toward him, holding out a small, crudely wrapped box tied with a crooked green ribbon.

“Merry Christmas, Mister!” she shouted happily.

Antonio paused, kneeling down to accept the gift with both hands. His chest tightened with an unfamiliar, overwhelming sense of peace. He carefully unwraped the ribbon to reveal a small, clay figurine of a smiling bear that Mia had painted herself.

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

“Thank you, Dr. Mia,” Antonio said, his voice thick with unexpressed emotion. “This is the finest gift I’ve ever received.”

Elena walked out from the kitchen, watching the interaction with a soft, radiant smile that made the winter chill outside completely vanish.

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