88the mafia king hid cameras in his disabled twin’s room to catch a traitor—then he saw the plus-size maid risk her life for his brother and publicly made her his fiancée

The steel blade flashed blue in the cold light of the bedroom.

On the small monitor, Lorenzo’s world shrunk to the width of that falling knife. His blood burned like liquid fire. "Driver!" he roared, driving his fist into the front passenger seat backrest. "Red lights! Drive through the red lights!"

On the screen, Lydia didn't flinch.

As the serrated knife came down, she wrapped her left arm in the thick denim sleeve of her apron, throwing her forearm up to absorb the thrust. The blade ripped through the denim, slicing deep into her flesh, blood instantly blooming across the fabric.

She didn't even scream.

Ignoring the deep gouge in her forearm, Lydia grabbed the attacker's wrist with her right hand, twisted her hips with devastating lever-force, and slammed his gun-arm against the corner of Mateo's heavy steel bed frame.

CRACK.

The sound of snapping bone echoed faintly through the tablet speaker. The assassin dropped the pistol, letting out a strangled shriek.

Lydia didn't hesitate. She scooped the falling 9mm Sig Sauer off the carpet with her left hand, rolled across the floorboards, brought the weapon up with a two-handed combat grip, and pulled the trigger three times.

DOUBLE-TAP. SNAP.

Two rounds slammed into the assassin's chest plate; the third caught him under his chin. The man collapsed backward onto the floor, his body twitching once before going completely still.

Silence descended upon Mateo’s room.

On the screen, Lydia knelt on the blood-spattered carpet, her chest heaving violently beneath her oversized blue apron. Blood from her left arm was dripping steadily onto the hardwood floor, pooling near her scuffed orthopedic shoes.

She lowered the weapon, dropped the magazine to inspect her remaining rounds, cleared a stove-pipe jam with a flick of her wrist, and reinserted the magazine—all in under two seconds.

It was the clean, cold technique of an elite military operator.

Mateo was making faint, choked noises from his bed, his eyes wild, his throat trying desperately to form words.

Lydia scrambled to her feet, placing the gun on the bedside table. She ignored her own bleeding arm, leaning over Mateo, her hands tenderly cupping his cheeks.

"I've got you," her voice came through the microphone—soft, smooth, and laced with an incredible, calming strength. "I've got you, Mateo. You're safe. Breath with me, okay? Breathe."

Mateo’s ragged gasps slowed. Tears cut clean tracks through the dust on his cheeks as he stared up at the woman who had just executed a professional hitman to save his life.

Lydia pulled a clean medical bandage from her apron pocket, wrapped it tightly around her own bleeding arm, tied the knot with her teeth, and then picked up the assassin's fallen Sig Sauer. She took a position in front of Mateo’s bed, her body acting as a physical shield, her gun aimed steadily at the steel fire shutter.

On the monitor, Lorenzo watched her.

His heart was hammering against his ribs, but the cold rage that usually consumed him was gone, replaced by a dark, intoxicating fascination.

This woman—this heavy-set maid with soft cheeks and wide hazel eyes, whom his mother called 'a clumsy peasant'—was a lethal ghost. She was a weapon wrapped in cotton and denim.

And for nine days, she had been sitting in his house, sweeping his floors, making his brother laugh, hiding a deadliness that rivaled his own.

The SUV screeched to a halt in the courtyard of the Moretti estate.

Lorenzo threw the door open before the vehicle had even completely stopped. He charged through the blinding blizzard, his long black cashmere coat snapping behind him like the wings of a vulture. Six armed Moretti soldiers spilled out behind him, weapons drawn, clearing the main entrance.

Lorenzo ignored the fallen bodies in the foyer. He bypassed the elevator, taking the grand marble staircase three steps at a time, his gun raised, his boots leaving bloody tread-marks on the pristine white stairs.

When he reached the third-floor corridor, his men were already using an oxy-acetylene torch to cut through the steel fire shutter that Lydia had slammed down.

"Move!" Lorenzo growled, shoving two guards aside.

He placed his heavy boot against the compromised steel shutter and kicked it inward with all his weight. The steel gave way with a screech, crashing onto the bedroom floor.

Lorenzo stepped into the room through the smoke and sparks.

Lydia was still there.

She stood in front of Mateo’s bed, her apron stained with crimson blood, her face pale, the Sig Sauer raised, the front sight aligned precisely with Lorenzo’s forehead.

Their eyes locked.

Lorenzo looked at the dead assassin on the floor, then at his brother—who was uninjured, breathing quietly—and finally at the maid.

Her hazel eyes were fierce, unyielding, filled with an electric fire that sent an intoxicating shockwave straight to Lorenzo’s spine.

"Lower the gun, Lydia," Lorenzo said softly, his voice low, deep, and dangerous.

Lydia didn't lower it. "Identify yourself to your brother first," she said, her voice shaking slightly from adrenaline, but her barrel didn't move an inch. "He can't speak. Prove it's you."

Lorenzo didn't get angry. A faint, razor-thin smile touched the corners of his lips.

He looked at Mateo. "Mateo... who was our first dog?"

Mateo blinked twice—their childhood code for 'yes'.

Lydia slowly lowered the weapon, her shoulders dropping half an inch. The strength that had sustained her seemed to drain away all at once. She swayed on her feet, her face turning ashen as the blood loss from her forearm caught up with her.

Lorenzo stepped forward, catching her by the waist before her knees hit the floor.

Her soft, plush body collapsed against his chest. She was surprisingly warm, smelling of lavender soap, metallic blood, and crisp winter rain.

Lorenzo pulled her against his heart, his hand wrapping around her blood-soaked sleeve, his thumb pressing against her pulse point. It was beating fast, strong, and alive.