The Clumsy Maid Took a Blow Meant for a Mafia Queen

The conservatory smelled of damp earth, bruised orchids, and the sharp, coppery tang of fresh blood. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass panes, the cold upstate New York rain beat a relentless rhythm against the night, but inside, the air was entirely frozen.

Skylar could feel the cold marble soaking through the knees of her coarse cotton stockings. Her jaw throbbed with a sickening, rhythmic heat that made her ears ring with a high, hollow whine. The diamond—an emerald-cut stone surrounded by platinum claws that cost more than her father’s entire trailer in Schenectady—had ripped through the flesh over her cheekbone, leaving a deep, jagged gash that wept crimson down the side of her neck, staining the starched white bib of her apron.

Above her, Dominic Rossi did not blink.

His dark eyes were fathomless pools of obsidian. Kneeling on the polished stone in his tailored Brioni tuxedo, he looked less like an heir to an empire and more like a predator examining a wound in his own den. The linen of his handkerchief was impossibly soft against her split skin, cold at first, then rapidly growing warm and sodden with her blood.

"Look at me, Skylar," Dominic commanded softly. The voice was neither harsh nor comforting; it possessed the absolute, terrifying gravity of an iron door swinging shut.

Skylar forced her watery, stinging eyes to meet his. Her breath caught in her throat. She had spent eleven months actively ducking into alcoves and scurrying behind laundry hampers whenever this man entered a corridor. She was the clumsy joke of the lower staff, the woman whose heavy footsteps rattled the crystal decanters on the sideboard, the maid who couldn't carry a silver tray without her hands trembling. And yet here he was, resting one knee on the floor, pressing his own linen to her wound, so close she could smell the cedarwood and crisp tobacco clinging to his lapels.

"Is that true?" he repeated. "Did she raise her hand to my mother?"

Skylar’s tongue felt thick, tasting of copper and salt. She could see Bianca out of the corner of her swollen peripheral vision. Bianca’s eyes were wide, bright with aristocratic fury, silently mouthing promises of total ruin. Bianca was a Moretti; her family owned half the concrete plants along the Hudson and controlled three state senators. A single word from Bianca’s father could ensure that Skylar’s father lost his union disability pension by morning.

Skylar’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She thought of her father coughing into a paper towel in their drafty kitchen. She thought of the overdue notices stacked on the microwave.

Then she looked at Carmela.

The proud, beautiful matriarch was trembling on the floor beside her, clutching Dominic’s shoulder with frail, white-knuckled fingers, looking smaller and more broken than she ever had. Carmela had given her dignity when no one else would look her in the eye. Carmela had told her that taking up space was nothing to apologize for.

Skylar swallowed the blood in her mouth.

"Yes, Mr. Rossi," Skylar whispered, her voice cracking but steady. "Mrs. Rossi didn't throw the glass. Miss Moretti lunged across the tea table after Mrs. Rossi forgot the date of the rehearsal dinner. The wine glass tipped when Miss Moretti grabbed her cardigan. When Miss Moretti pulled her hand back to strike her... I stepped into the way."

A sharp, ragged gasp tore from Bianca’s throat. "You lying, fat little parasite! You dare fabricate a story against me to save your pathetic job?!"

Dominic did not turn around. He did not raise his voice. He simply adjusted the pressure of the handkerchief against Skylar’s cheekbone, his thumb lightly brushing the edge of her swollen jaw. The touch was startlingly gentle, completely at odds with the terrifying stillness radiating from his spine.

"Luca," Dominic murmured.

One of the two towering security guards flanking the conservatory entrance immediately took three steps forward, his hands folded neatly over his belt. "Yes, Boss."

"Call Dr. Evans. Have him come through the private service entrance. If there is so much as a shadow of a scar on this girl's face when he is done, I will personally revoke his medical license and burn his practice to the ground."

"Right away, sir."

Dominic slowly rose to his full height. He smoothed the lapels of his jacket, standing six feet two inches of tailored, lethal perfection. Only then did he turn to face his fiancée.

Bianca tried to smile, smoothing the front of her wine-splattered gown, though the color had completely deserted her cheeks. "Dominic, darling, be reasonable. Look at her—she’s hysterical, she’s clumsy, she probably tripped over her own massive feet and hit the table edge. You know your mother’s mind is slipping! She’s hallucinating threats that aren't there. We need to talk about private hospice care, just like we agreed—"

"We agreed to nothing," Dominic said.

The words were so low they barely carried over the drumming rain, yet Bianca flinched as though struck with a whip.