He looked down at the child resting in Rosa’s arms. Lily’s small face was serene, completely unaware that her existence was a live grenade capable of detonating a three-state mafia syndicate.
Rosa was right. In the brutal arithmetic of the underworld, an unacknowledged blood heir to the Moretti throne was a target. If the Romano family discovered that Alessandro’s heart and lineage were tied to a servant girl rather than their polished, ruthless daughter Isabella, the truce between New York and Chicago would evaporate in a single afternoon.
Before Alessandro could speak, the clicking of heavy wooden heels echoed from the top of the grand staircase.
Isabella Romano stood on the landing, wrapped in a floor-length dark green silk robe. Her icy blue eyes swept down over the scene in the hallway—the maid standing upright, the child resting peacefully, and Alessandro standing so close to them that his shadow enveloped them both.
“Is there a reason my fiancé is playing guardian angel to the kitchen staff?” Isabella asked, her voice dripping with venom as she slowly descended the stairs, her manicured fingers gliding over the polished mahogany banister. “Or should I call my father and tell him the Moretti estate has turned into an orphanage?”
Alessandro didn’t move an inch. He slowly turned his head to look at her, his expression freezing into a mask of pure iron.
“Isabella,” Alessandro said softly, his voice deathly quiet. “Go back to your room.”
Isabella stopped three steps from the bottom, her brow furrowing as she registered the total lack of warmth or compliance in his posture. “Excuse me? I am the daughter of Vincent Romano. I will not be ordered around like a dog because a dirty little street rat dropped a button.”
“You touched the child’s shoulder when you screamed at her,” Alessandro said, taking one slow, heavy step toward the stairs. “I saw it from the balcony.”
Isabella laughed—a sharp, cold sound that rattled off the high ceilings. “I pushed her away! She was touching my silk robe with her sticky little fingers! If you think I’m going to live in a house where servants’ bastards run wild through the halls—”
CLANG.
Alessandro’s hand hit the iron banister beside her head so hard the heavy structure groaned. The air in the hallway instantly plummeted into a freezing, suffocating stillness.
“Listen to me very carefully, Isabella,” Alessandro whispered, leaning down until his dark eyes were inches from hers. “If you ever raise your voice to that child again, if you ever look at her mother with disgust, or if you ever cross the threshold of that kitchen without my permission… I will personally send you back to Chicago in a pine box, and your father will thank me for saving him the embarrassment of your funeral.”
Isabella froze. The color drained completely from her face, leaving her pale as bone. For six months, she had seen Alessandro as a stoic, business-minded Boss who treated their engagement as a necessary transaction. She had never seen the devil beneath the suit.
Elle fit un demi-pas en arrière, la poitrine haletante, son arrogance se fissurant sous le poids de sa menace absolue et dérangée.
« Tu es folle », souffla Isabella, la voix tremblante. « Mon père va en apprendre parler. »
« Appelle-le », répondit Alessandro, redressant le dos et ajustant ses poignets avec une élégance terrifiante. « Dites-lui que Don Moretti a réévalué les termes de notre accord. »
Sans un mot de plus, Isabella fit volte-face et remonta l’escalier, sa robe de soie flottant derrière elle comme une bannière sombre.
Alessandro se tourna de nouveau vers Rosa. Ses yeux s’adoucirent instantanément, le tueur froid disparaissant alors qu’il reculait vers sa fille.
« Monsieur Bruno », appela Alessandro dans le couloir silencieux.
Le vieux majordome sortit immédiatement de derrière une porte voûtée, comme s’il attendait l’ordre. « Oui, Don Alessandro ? »
« Déplacez Rosa et Lily dans les suites de l’aile est au troisième étage », ordonna Alessandro d’une voix fluide. « Assignez quatre de mes agents de sécurité personnels à leur porte. Personne n’entre sans mon habilitation écrite. Ni Isabella, ni ses gardes du corps, ni les avocats de la famille. »
Les yeux de Rosa s’écarquillèrent d’alarme. « Alessandro, non ! Les domestiques vont parler—les autres familles sauront ! »
« Laisse-les parler, » grogna doucement Alessandro, tendant la main pour toucher doucement la joue douce de sa fille du bout du pouce. « Ma fille ne dormira plus jamais sur le sol d’un garde-manger. »
