A poor little girl was never supposed to enter the Moretti mansion, but when she found the Mafia boss struggling to breathe, she risked everything to save him—and her innocent question revealed a secret that made his most trusted lieutenant go pale.

The Moretti study was a fortress of leather, dark oak, and shadows. Portraits of former patriarchs—men with eyes like coiled serpents and hands stained with the blood of an empire—stared down from the walls. Yet, tonight, the room felt heavier than usual.

Lucas sat behind the massive mahogany desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Standing near the door was Victor, his posture rigid, his eyes darting toward the heavy mahogany entrance every time the wind howled outside.

The door creaked open. A pale, exhausted woman in a simple maid’s uniform stepped inside, clutching her hands in front of her. Behind her skirt peeked little Lily, holding tightly to the fabric.

"Mr. Moretti," the woman breathed, her voice trembling as she immediately dropped into a low, terrified curtsy. "I am so, so sorry. Please don't fire me. I had nowhere to go, my babysitter canceled at the last minute, and I had to work to pay for Lily's medication. I swear she didn't mean to touch anything. Please..."

Lucas didn’t speak immediately. He studied the woman. There was something in the slope of her shoulders, the nervous way she tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear, that sent a strange, phantom ache through his ribs.

Three years ago, that exact gesture belonged to Isabella.

The mere thought of his deceased wife sent a familiar, agonizing spike of grief through his heart. Isabella and their five-year-old son, Daniel, had been killed in a horrific, targeted car crash on a rainy March night—a tragedy that the police ruled a tragic accident, though Lucas’s gut had screamed otherwise for thirty-six months.

"What is your name?" Lucas asked quietly.

"Clara, sir. Clara Carter."

"Clara," Lucas murmured. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Clara, your daughter saved my life tonight. If she hadn't wandered into the hallway with her inhaler, I would be dead on that stone floor right now. You don't need to apologize for keeping your child alive."

Clara blinked, tears of sheer relief flooding her eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Moretti. Thank you."

Across the room, Victor cleared his throat loudly. "A kind sentiment, Boss, but regulations are regulations. The underworld doesn't sleep, and neither do our enemies. If an unknown child can wander into the master wing, an assassin could have just as easily walked in. Clara, take your daughter and get your things. You're dismissed."

"Wait," Lucas said, his eyes locking onto Victor’s with sudden, penetrating intensity.

Victor froze, a bead of sweat tracing the side of his neck. "Boss?"

"You said earlier that you cleared her background check personally, Victor," Lucas noted smoothly, though his voice carried the weight of an executioner. "You said you knew she was a single mother. But Clara never told you she was a single mother, did she?"

Victor’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second—a micro-expression that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else in the world, but Lucas Moretti didn't survive at the top by missing details.