HIS RIVAL CALLED THE MAID “HOT” AT DINNER—THE MAFIA BOSS SAID “SHE’S MINE” BEFORE HE COULD STOP HIMSELF

The first time Nicholas DeLuca ruined my life, he did it with two words.

Not during a shooting. Not during a screaming argument. Not even with one of those cold, terrifying orders powerful men gave when they wanted the world to bend.

He did it at a dinner table on the fifty-third floor of a Manhattan tower, while I stood against the wall in a black uniform, pretending not to understand Italian.

“She’s mine.”

The room went so silent I could hear the ice melting in a glass.

Six months earlier, I had taken the housekeeping job at Nicholas DeLuca’s penthouse because it paid more than any respectable job had a right to. The agency had called it “private estate management.” The other girls called it “don’t ask questions money.”

I asked no questions.

The penthouse sat above Lower Manhattan, all glass, steel, and impossible views. The Hudson glittered on one side, the city burned gold on the other, and every inch of the place looked expensive enough to make me afraid to breathe too close to it. Italian leather sofas. Original art. A wine room with a security keypad. Marble counters cold enough to numb my fingers when I polished them before dawn.

I learned quickly how Nicholas liked things.

Coffee at 6:10. Black, no sugar.

Dinner plates warmed, but never hot.

No lilies in the flower arrangements because he hated the smell.

No staff chatter near his office.

And me? I was supposed to be precise, quiet, and invisible.

Invisible had always been my best skill.

My name was Gabriella Hart, though everyone in that penthouse called me Miss Hart. I was twenty-seven, tired in my bones, and one paycheck away from losing the tiny Queens apartment I had fought too hard to keep. I wore my dark hair in a low knot, kept my face clean of makeup, and made sure no one had a reason to remember me.

Especially Nicholas DeLuca.

He was thirty-four, handsome in the kind of way that made women stare and men check their posture. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Brown eyes that seemed to notice everything and forgive nothing. He moved through rooms like the air had already agreed to make space for him.

The papers called him a developer.

The cops called him a person of interest.

The people who worked for him simply called him Mr. DeLuca and made sure they never disappointed him twice.

That night, Marco, his head of security, found me in the kitchen while I was setting out crystal glasses.

“Miss Hart,” he said, voice low. “Mr. DeLuca has six guests tonight. Dinner service starts at eight.”

I nodded. “Understood.”

Marco lingered.

That alone made my stomach tighten. Marco never wasted words. He was built like a retired linebacker, with a polite voice and eyes that missed nothing.

“These are important guests,” he said. “Stay professional.”

I looked up.

He added, “And quiet.”

By 7:45, the dining room looked perfect. Black china. Silver flatware. Candles burning low. Burgundy breathing in glasses that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

The guests arrived in dark suits and expensive shoes, bringing with them the scent of rain, cigar smoke, and danger. They shook Nicholas’s hand like men measuring the weight of a gun.

Then Roberto Ferraro walked in.

I knew his name because everyone in that room changed when he entered.

Roberto was younger than the others, maybe early forties, with slick black hair and a Roman profile. His smile was warm. His eyes were not. He wore wealth like armor and looked at Nicholas like a man studying a throne he intended to steal.

“Nicholas,” Roberto said, his Italian accent smooth as silk. “You still live above the city like God.”

Nicholas smiled faintly. “Only on clear nights.”

I stepped forward to take coats and offer drinks.

“What can I get for you, gentlemen?”

Orders came fast. Scotch. Bourbon. Sparkling water. One espresso. I moved between them with practiced ease, eyes lowered, hands steady.

When I handed Roberto his drink, his fingers brushed mine.

Not by accident.

His gaze traveled from my face to my uniform and back again.

I kept my expression blank.

Men like him hated blankness. They wanted fear, flirting, or submission. I gave him none of it.

Dinner began. I served seared scallops, then short ribs, then handmade pasta in a cream sauce. The men talked business in careful circles. Construction. Shipping. Territory. Political favors. Words that sounded legal until they didn’t.

Halfway through the second course, Roberto leaned back and switched to Italian.

“Always excellent taste, Nicholas,” he said. “The apartment. The wine. Even the staff.”