The Mafia Boss Gave the Maid's Toddler 3 Wishes — Her First Wish Made Him Cry

The grand kitchen of the Moretti estate was usually a place of military efficiency.

Head chef Marco was a stern Italian who allowed no clutter, no noise, and certainly no three-year-olds on his pristine stainless-steel counters.

However, when Vincent Moretti walked into the kitchen wearing an apron over his dress shirt, carrying Ellie on his hip, Marco simply bowed his head, cleared the main island, and placed flour, cocoa powder, sugar, and pink food coloring on the counter before quietly exiting the room.

For two hours, the silent house was filled with the sound of laughter.

Ellie sat on a high stool, covered in white flour up to her elbows. She took her job as chief batter-stirrer with extreme seriousness, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she whacked a wooden spoon against the copper bowl.

Clara stood beside Vincent, helping him measure the cocoa powder.

“You’re putting too much baking soda in, sir,” Clara noted with a small laugh, catching his hand before he tipped the spoon.

Vincent paused, looking down at her hand covering his. Clara realized what she had done and immediately pulled back, her cheeks flushing red.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moretti—I shouldn't have touched you—”

“Clara,” Vincent interrupted softly, catching her wrist gently before she could retreat. “What did I tell you about apologizing?”

Clara froze, looking up into his dark, intense eyes. The stern mafia don who struck terror into the hearts of rivals was looking at her with absolute gentle warmth.

“I’m trying to break the habit,” Clara whispered.

“Good,” Vincent said, letting go of her wrist slowly. “Because you were right. I misread the recipe.”

From the stool, Ellie giggled, smearing a blob of pink frosting across her own nose. “Mr. Moretti made a mistake!”

“Indeed I did,” Vincent smiled—a full, genuine smile that transformed his harsh features into something striking and handsome.

Clara watched him smile, her heart skipping a beat. For two years, she had viewed Vincent Moretti as a terrifying shadow—a grieving titan who ruled the house from the dark. But sitting here in the flour-dusted kitchen, watching him carefully wipe pink frosting off her daughter’s nose with a napkin, she saw the man he had been before grief broke him.

The heavy kitchen oak doors swung open suddenly.

Dante stood in the entrance, shivering in a damp wool coat, carrying a leather briefcase. He had driven unannounced from New Jersey. His eyes scanned the flour-covered island, the laughing toddler, and Clara standing close to his brother.

Dante’s face twisted into an ugly, bitter sneer.

“Look at this,” Dante scoffed, stepping into the room. “The great Vincent Moretti, playing domestic family with the maid and her bastard child while the syndicate falls apart in New Jersey.”

Vincent’s smile vanished instantly. The warmth in the room evaporated, replaced by a suffocating, lethal coldness.

Vincent stepped in front of Clara and Ellie, putting his broad back between them and his brother.

“You were told not to return to Long Island without my permission, Dante,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a razor-thin tone.

Dante raised the briefcase. “I brought the audit reports you demanded. But I see you’re busy playing daddy again. Have you forgotten Sofia already, Vince? Replacing her with this little stray?”

Clara gasped, covering Ellie’s ears.

Vincent didn't yell. He didn't explode. He walked toward Dante with calm, terrifying deliberation.

Before Dante could step back, Vincent grabbed his brother by the throat, slamming him hard against the heavy oak door! The leather briefcase crashed to the floor, spilling papers everywhere.

“Mention my daughter’s name again,” Vincent whispered directly into Dante’s ear, his grip tightening until Dante choked for air, “and you will not leave this estate on your own feet. Am I clear?”

Dante’s eyes filled with sudden, terror-filled realization. He nodded desperately.