Mafia Boss Secretly Watched Fiancée Care for His Sick Mother — Curvy Maid Exposed Shocking Truth...

By 6:00 p.m., the rain had begun to fall over the Westbury estate, painting the tall leaded glass windows with long, grey streaks of water.

I sat behind the massive mahogany desk in my subterranean office, four levels below the ground floor. The room was dark, lit only by the green glow of two computer monitors and a single desk lamp.

Marco placed a thick manila folder on the blotter before me.

"Sophie Bennett," Marco read from his notes. "Twenty-six. Born in Utica. Father was a machinist who died of lung cancer four years ago, leaving behind two hundred thousand dollars in medical debt. Mother passed away when Sophie was twelve. She’s been working sixty hours a week here to pay off her father’s hospital bills and keep her younger sister, Clara, in college at NYU."

I opened the folder, skimming through bank statements, tax records, and background checks. Sophie didn't own a car. She took the 5:15 a.m. train from Queens every morning, walked two miles from the station to our gates, and worked until dark. She had never asked for an advance. She had never complained.

"She’s clean, boss," Marco added. "No criminal record, no suspicious contacts, no foreign accounts. She spends her free time at the hospital or studying online for a nursing degree."

"And Vivian?" I asked, flipping to the second dossier on my desk.

Marco’s expression hardened. "That’s where things get filthy."

He tapped a key on his laptop, throwing a second video feed onto the main wall monitor.

The footage was dated eleven months ago, captured by a security camera on the third level of a private parking garage in Midtown Manhattan.

On the screen, a sleek black Mercedes pulled into an empty space near the elevator bank. The door opened, and Vivian Crawford stepped out, wearing a red silk dress. A moment later, a tall man in an Armani coat stepped out from the shadows near the concrete pillar.

He turned toward the camera.

My breath caught in my throat.

Damian Moretti.

Damian was my first cousin—the son of my father’s late brother, Antonio. When Antonio died ten years ago, my father had brought Damian into the family business, giving him a seat on the board of Moretti Logistics and a three percent stake in our real estate holdings. I had treated Damian like a younger brother. I had covered his gambling debts in Atlantic City, paid off his ex-wife, and placed him in charge of our European shipping contracts.

On the screen, Vivian walked up to Damian.

They didn't greet each other like business associates. Damian pulled Vivian into his arms, cupping her face with both hands, and kissed her deeply on the lips. Vivian wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing as he pulled her flush against his body.

After a long moment, they broke apart. Vivian reached into her leather handbag, pulled out a thick yellow Manila envelope stuffed with cash, and handed it to Damian. He stuffed it into his coat pocket without counting it, gave her a quick slap on the rear, and walked toward the elevator.

I stared at the screen, my face entirely devoid of emotion.

I felt no heartbreaks. No betrayal of passion. My engagement to Vivian had been an arranged match of social convenience—the merger of the Moretti industrial fortune with the political influence of the Crawford family. I had never loved her.

But I had trusted my cousin.

"How long?" I asked Marco.

"Our forensic accountants went through Damian’s personal accounts two hours ago," Marco replied, leaning over the desk. "They’ve been sleeping together for at least three years, Massimo. Way before you met Vivian at the Metropolitan Opera gala. Damian introduced her to your social circle through an art gallery curator in Chelsea."

The pieces of the puzzle slammed together in my mind with frightening clarity.

"It was a setup from the beginning," I murmured.

"Yeah," Marco spat. "Vivian wasn't trying to marry a rich man. She and Damian were placing an asset inside your bedroom. Once the wedding was finalized, you were going to have an 'accident' during your annual ski trip to Aspen. With you dead, Vivian becomes the grieving widow. But under the old trust rules, your mother gets sole veto power over the inheritance."

"Which is why Vivian needed my mother’s signature on the trust amendment before the wedding," I finished the thought for him. "If Lucia signs that paper, the veto power is transferred to Vivian immediately upon my death. They wouldn't even have waited for Aspen. They would have poisoned my coffee before the honeymoon was over."

I leaned back in my chair, steepling my fingers beneath my chin.

"Where is Damian right now?"

"He’s upstairs in the east wing guest suite," Marco said. "He arrived an hour ago, claiming he needed to check on the wedding arrangements. He’s meeting Vivian in the conservatory at eight o'clock."

"And my mother?"

"Sophie got her settled in bed. She gave her a glass of warm milk, reattached her heart monitor, and sat beside her until she fell asleep. Sophie’s downstairs right now in the main kitchen, preparing tomorrow's breakfast menu."