THE MAFIA BOSS REJECTED EVERY WOMAN IN CHICAGO—UNTIL HIS EXHAUSTED MAID FELL ASLEEP IN HIS BED, AND HE CLAIMED HER BEFORE THE FAMILY THAT WANTED HER DEAD

The gray light of a frozen Chicago morning filtered softly through the tall velvet curtains of the master suite.

Chloe drifted back to consciousness slowly, her body still heavy with fever, her head throbbing with a dull, aching heat. She stretched her legs beneath the incredible, cloud-like warmth surrounding her, burying her face into the softest pillow she had ever felt in her life.

Then her mind registered the smell.

It didn't smell like her damp, tiny apartment on 18th Street, which always reeked of radiator steam and old soup. It smelled of rich sandalwood, dark tobacco, and cold winter air.

Chloe’s eyes snapped wide open.

She sat up instantly, her heart slamming against her ribs like a sledgehammer.

She was sitting in the middle of a massive, king-sized bed lined with charcoal silk sheets. Beside her on the nightstand lay a custom Sig Sauer pistol, an expensive gold wrist watch, and a heavy crystal tumbler half-filled with scotch.

Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror across the room was Victor Russo.

He was dressed in a pristine white dress shirt, his dark suspenders fitted over his broad shoulders, holding a silver razor against his jaw as he shaved. Through the reflection of the glass, his cold, slate-grey eyes were fixed directly on her.

Chloe choked on her own breath. The blood drained from her face so fast her vision blurred.

“M-Mr. Russo!” she gasped out, scrambling backward on the bed, her hand flying to her throat as she realized she was still wearing her wrinkled maid's uniform. “I... Oh God. I am so sorry! I fell—I was cleaning, and I got dizzy, and I—”

“Be quiet,” Victor said calmly, his voice a deep, vibrating baritone that instantly cut through her panic. He wiped his razor with a white towel and turned around to face her.

Chloe scrambled off the edge of the bed, her bare foot hitting the cold hardwood floor. She desperately searched for her missing shoe, her body trembling so violently she could barely stand upright.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she sobbed softly, tears of terror brimming in her eyes. “Please don't call the police. Please don't fire me. I need this job. My brother—he needs his medicine. I’ll leave right now. I’ll pack my things—”

“I said, be quiet,” Victor repeated, taking three long steps toward her.

Chloe flinched, pulling her arms over her chest, bracing herself for the harsh blow or the rough grip of his guards.

Instead, Victor reached out, taking her by the upper arm with a grip that was surprisingly gentle, halting her retreat. He reached down with his other hand, picked up her worn black shoe from beside his nightstand, and placed it neatly on the floor in front of her feet.

“Put your shoe on, Miss Bennett,” he murmured, his eyes scanning her pale, feverish face.

Chloe blinked, her tears spilling over her eyelashes. “You... you know my name?”

“I know everyone who works under my roof,” Victor replied flatly. He reached out, pressing the back of his warm hand against her cheek. His jaw tightened as he felt the intense heat radiating from her skin. “Your fever hasn't broke.”

“I’m fine, sir,” she lied desperately, her voice cracking. “I can finish the third floor. I just need five minutes to—”

The heavy bedroom door swung open without a knock.

Marco Rossi, Victor’s ruthless second-in-command and head of family security, stepped into the master suite holding a thick leather folder of intelligence reports.

“Victor, we have a problem at the North Side warehouse—" Marco froze mid-sentence, his jaw dropping in absolute shock as his eyes landed on the maid standing beside Victor’s bed, her hair messy, her shoe half-on, and Victor’s hand resting against her face.

The air in the room instantly turned to liquid nitrogen.

Marco’s eyes narrowed into slits of sharp suspicion. “What is she doing in your room, Don Russo?”

“She was delivering fresh linens,” Victor replied smoothly, stepping in front of Chloe, his massive frame completely blocking her from Marco’s hostile gaze.

“She’s been in here all night,” Marco countered, his voice dripping with danger as he pulled his hands into his coat pockets. “Security logs show no one left this suite after midnight. Victor, after what happened five years ago with Elena, you know we cannot allow unverified staff in your private quarters! She could be planted by the Saleri family! She could be recording your conversations!”

Chloe shrank back behind Victor, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't know who Elena was, but the sheer hatred in Marco’s voice made her feel like a criminal facing execution.

Victor didn't move an inch. He slowly lowered his hands, taking a single step toward his second-in-command. The temperature in the room plummeted.

“Are you questioning my security judgment in my own bedroom, Marco?” Victor asked, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl that made the veteran enforcer stiffen.

“I’m protecting this family, Victor,” Marco said fiercely. “She’s a nobody from the West Side! Her family owes debts all over the city. I’m having her removed from the property right now for questioning.”

Marco reached into his jacket to pull his phone to summon the house guards.

“If you touch her,” Victor whispered, his grey eyes flashing with an apocalyptic fury that made Marco’s hand freeze inside his coat, “you will not leave this house alive.”

Silence descended upon the master suite like a heavy iron vault door slamming shut.

Marco stared at his Don in utter disbelief. Never in ten years of service had Victor Russo threatened his top lieutenant over a servant.

“She stays,” Victor commanded coldly, his gaze unwavering. “She is under my personal protection. If anyone in this house—guard, staff, or family—so much as looks at her with disrespect, they will answer directly to me.”

Victor turned back to Chloe, who was staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, and placed them firmly into her small, cold hand.

“Go home, Miss Bennett,” Victor said gently, his tone softening instantly as he spoke to her. “Take your brother his medicine. My private driver will take you in my car.”

“Mr. Russo, I can't take this—” Chloe stammered, looking at the thousands of dollars in her palm.

“It isn't a gift,” Victor replied smoothly, turning back to his mirror to finish his tie. “It’s an advance on your new position. Starting today, you no longer clean this house.”

Chloe blinked away her tears. “Then... what is my job, sir?”