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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 2 / 20

Chapter 2

Antonio’s chest rose in a shallow, involuntary hitch. The tiny red-and-white plastic instrument in Mia’s hand felt like a physical blow to his sternum, dredging up five years of meticulously buried agony. Before he could form a single word, hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.

Elena slid into the basement kitchen, her face pale with terror. She dropped to her knees, scooping Mia into her arms as if snatching her from the jaws of hell.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Moretti,” Elena choked out, her voice trembling violently as she shielded her daughter’s body. “Please. She didn’t mean to wander. I can leave right now—just don’t hurt her.”

Antonio stared down at the trembling woman and the child. Every instinct honed by decades in the underworld screamed at him to clear them out, to erase the breach in his fortress. Yet, his gaze drifted back to the toy stethoscope clutched in the little girl's small fist.

“Stay,” Antonio commanded, his voice unnaturally rough.

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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.

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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.

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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...

Elena froze, wide-eyed. “Sir?”

“You heard me,” he muttered, turning on his heel before they could see the raw vulnerability fracturing his iron facade. “Pack your things and move to the second-floor guest suite. Your shift starts tomorrow at dawn.”

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