Dawn comes way too early, which feels like a personal attack by time itself.
I wake before sunrise because apparently my anxiety has an alarm clock and it's set to "you're screwed." The uniform stares at me from the chair—black and white and judgmental.
It's giving "French maid costume from a catalog no one asked for."
I put it on anyway because dignity is a luxury I pawned off somewhere around the third job.
The mansion is quieter at this hour, less intimidating. Just expensive furniture judging me in silence instead of expensive people judging me out loud. Progress.
I find Enzo in what appears to be a butler's pantry, which I didn't know was a real thing outside murder mysteries.
He's reviewing paperwork with reading glasses perched on his nose, looking very "distinguished household manager" and zero percent "works for the mob."
"Mister Enzo?" My voice comes out smaller than intended. I clear my throat and try again. "I need to ask you something."
He looks up, removing his glasses with that deliberate slowness that suggests he's buying time to assess the situation. "Senorita Moretti. You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." I step closer. "My mother… she's sick. Cancer. That's why I'm here. The money from the auction, I need to send it to the hospital now. Today. Can I get an advance payment to start her treatment?"
Enzo's expression shifts—something softer bleeds through the professional mask. Understanding, maybe. Or pity. "I see. That's a difficult situation."
"Understatement of the century, but yes."
"Let me see what I can do." He sets down his paperwork. "These matters require the Don's approval, but given the circumstances, I'll handle it personally. For now, start your duties. Wait until I sort everything out."
Relief hits me like a wave I wasn't expecting. Not a solution, but not a door slammed in my face either. "Thank you. Really."
"The kitchen is through there." He gestures down a hallway. "Lucia will assign your tasks. She's demanding but fair."
I head toward the kitchen, following the scent of coffee and what might be fresh bread. Apparently rich criminals eat well. Who knew?
The kitchen is massive—all stainless steel and marble counters, the kind of space where you could film a cooking show or possibly dispose of evidence. Both, probably.
Lucia stands at the center island, chopping vegetables with the precision of someone who's either a trained chef or very experienced with sharp objects.
She's older, maybe sixty, with iron-gray hair in a severe bun. Her expression suggests she's unimpressed with life in general and me specifically.
"You must be the new girl." She doesn't look up from her chopping. "Valentina, yes?"
"That's me. Ready to work." I attempt enthusiasm. It lands somewhere between "hostage video" and "bad infomercial."
"Good. Start with the floors. Scrub them properly—on your hands and knees, not with a mop. Then dishes from last night. Then water the flowers in the east wing. Don't enter any room with a closed door. Understand?"
"Crystal clear." I grab the bucket and scrub brush she points to. "Anything else I should avoid? Secret passages? Trapdoors? Rooms where they definitely don't keep bodies?"
She almost smiles. Almost. "Just the closed doors, girl."
I spend the next few hours on my knees scrubbing marble that's probably cleaner than my entire apartment was. My back screams. My knees file complaints. The floors, however, become so shiny I can see my reflection.
The other staff drift through periodically. Maids. Servers. People whose job descriptions definitely don't include "accessory to organized crime."
They all avoid looking at me directly, like I'm radioactive or particularly contagious. I try introducing myself to a maid around my age when she passes. "Hey, I'm Valentina—"
She shakes her head and walks away fast. Not rude exactly. Scared.
Lucia notices from across the kitchen. "Come here, girl."
I abandon my bucket and approach. "Did I do something wrong?"
"The other staff won't talk to you. The Don bought you himself, which makes you different. Dangerous to know."
"I don't understand. I haven’t even seen him yet."
"It doesn’t matter. Because when you do, when he decides to call on you, and it will be soon, no one will want to be associated with you. As I’ve said. Dangerous."
My stomach drops. "Why?"
"Have you met Don?"
"No. I haven't seen him since I got here."
Her expression hardens. "Everyone has met Don eventually."
She walks away before I can ask more, leaving me with more questions than answers. I return to my tasks. Hours later, I'm watering flowers in a courtyard when footsteps approach.
A man in a dark suit emerges—dark hair, sharp features. Something vaguely familiar about him.
"Senorita Moretti." His voice is professional but not unkind. "I'm here to escort you to the hospital. You have ten minutes to get ready."
My heart launches into my throat. "The hospital? My mother… is she okay?"
"She's fine. This is to pay for her treatment." He checks his watch. "Ten minutes."
I sprint to my room and change into jeans and a plain shirt.
If Mama asks questions I can't answer, at least I won't be dressed like a maid.
The car is black and sleek. I slide into the back and he drives. The situation feels familiar—the quiet, the expensive car, the suited man.
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Your mother's illness—how long has she been sick?"
The question catches me off guard. "Eight months. Maybe longer before we knew."
"That's difficult. I'm sorry."
Something clicks. The voice. The eyes. "Marco?"
He meets my gaze in the reflection. "You remember."
"You drove me to the wedding. Five years ago. You were kind. Apologetic when…" I stop. We don't need to relive that disaster.
"I remember." His jaw tightens. "And I'm sorry about that."
"Not your fault. You were following orders." I look out the window. "Why are you helping me now?"
"Because I can." He pulls an envelope from his jacket and hands it back. "The money. For your mother's treatment. The boss approved it."
The envelope is thick. Heavy. "Thank you."
We arrive at the hospital and he parks near the entrance. "Take your time. I'll wait here."
I found my mother's doctor in the oncology wing. "Miss Moretti."
"I have the money." I handed him the envelope. "For my mother's treatment. Start chemotherapy. Whatever she needs."
He opens it and his eyebrows climb. "This is more than enough…"
"Just make sure she gets everything." I step back. "She's still in room 302?"
"Yes, but…"
"Thank you." I walk toward her room but stop outside the door.
Through the window I can see her reading something, looking smaller and more fragile than I remember.
I want to go in. I want to hold her hand. But… I can't. Not when I'd have to lie about where the money came from.
She coughs and I turn, walking back to the car as my chest aches violently.
Marco doesn't ask questions when I slide in. He just starts driving.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"You have nothing to thank me for." His eyes meet mine in the mirror. "Just surviving in that world is more than most people could do."
We drive back in amicable silence. Outside, the city blurs past but inside my head, I'm trying to figure out how I ended up here.
But my mother will live, and that’s already worth everything.