Three things could supposedly get me fired from Adrian Voss’s mansion: stealing, lying, or entering one of his private meetings without permission. Nobody had warned me that bursting through the wrong door soaking wet, carrying a mop like a weapon, losing one shoe, and falling directly into the arms of Chicago’s most feared mafia boss might qualify too. My name is Maya Bennett, and at 7:43 on a Thursday evening, my career was exactly eleven days old. Five minutes earlier, my biggest problem had been a bat

The words hung in the damp air between us, heavy and suffocating.

“No,” I said, my voice shaking so badly I could barely form the syllable. “No, you’re wrong. Clara didn’t steal anything. And she certainly didn’t have anything to do with a murder.”

Adrian stepped toward me, his towering frame casting a long, intimidating shadow across the mahogany table. The gentleness from moments before was entirely gone, replaced by the ruthless syndicate boss the rest of Chicago feared.

“My mother was killed exactly three years ago, Maya,” Adrian said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “The same week you claim your sister died in a hit-and-run. My mother’s private safe was emptied. Millions in bearer bonds were taken, but the only thing I cared about was this bracelet. It was a family heirloom. It has never left this estate.”

“I don’t know how she got it!” I cried, backing away until my shoulders hit the heavy wooden doors. “Maybe she bought it at a pawn shop! Maybe she found it! But Clara was a good person. She spent her weekends volunteering at the library. She didn’t rob mafia bosses!”

Adrian didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. He simply held up the heavy silver bracelet, letting the dim light catch the intricate, roaring lion crest.

“This is a custom piece, cast in Italy a century ago,” Adrian stated coldly. “It doesn’t end up in pawn shops. The woman who took this from my mother’s wrist was the last person to see her alive. If Clara Bennett had this in her possession, she was involved.”

“She wasn’t!” I screamed, slamming my hands against the doors behind me. “She was a mother! She was trying to raise a three-year-old boy by herself on a teacher’s salary. She didn’t have time to orchestrate a heist!”

Adrian froze.

The dangerous forward momentum of his body halted instantly. The lethal calculation in his dark eyes shattered, replaced by a sudden, jarring confusion.

“A three-year-old boy?” Adrian repeated, his voice losing its iron edge.

I clapped a hand over my mouth, instant regret flooding my veins. I had sworn to Clara on her deathbed that I would protect her son. I had taken Leo in, legally adopted him, and spent the last three years working three jobs just to keep a roof over his head. I never spoke about him at work. A mafia mansion was no place for a six-year-old’s existence to be known.

“Maya,” Adrian demanded, closing the distance between us in two long strides. He placed a hand flat against the wood right beside my head, trapping me in place. “Clara had a child?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, fresh tears leaking down my cheeks. “Yes. Leo. He’s six now. I’ve been raising him since she died. He’s the only reason I took this job, Mr. Voss. The pay is double what I was making at the hotel. I just wanted to give him a decent life. Please, leave him out of this.”

Adrian stared down at me, his chest rising and falling heavily. He looked at the silver bracelet in his hand, then back to my terrified face.

“Where is the boy right now?”

“He’s asleep,” I whimpered. “In the staff quarters above the garage. I have a baby monitor in my apron.”

Adrian dropped his arm and stepped back. “We are going to your room. Right now.”

“Why? Please, don’t wake him, he has nothing to do with this—”

“Move, Maya,” Adrian commanded, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.

We walked through the silent, opulent corridors of the estate. The contrast between my soaked, ruined uniform and Adrian’s impeccable, though slightly damp, suit was almost comical, but there was nothing funny about the suffocating tension radiating from him.

We crossed the back courtyard in the dark, the cold Chicago wind biting through my wet clothes. I shivered violently, but I didn’t slow down. I unlocked the heavy metal door leading to the staff apartments above the massive eight-car garage.

My room was tiny. It held a twin bed, a small dresser, and a cot I had set up in the corner for Leo.

I slowly pushed the door open. The room was illuminated only by a small, blue turtle nightlight plugged into the wall.

Leo was fast asleep on his cot, tangled in a faded superhero blanket. His dark, messy curls spilled across the cheap pillow. He looked so small, so completely innocent.

I rushed to his side, placing a protective hand on his warm chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Adrian stood in the doorway. He didn’t step inside. The massive, feared mafia boss looked entirely out of place in the cramped, poorly lit servant’s room. He stared at Leo with an expression I couldn’t read—a mix of shock, profound grief, and something dangerously close to recognition.

“He has her hair,” Adrian whispered, his voice impossibly soft.

I looked back at him, confused. “Clara had straight blonde hair. Leo gets his curls from his father.”

“I wasn’t talking about Clara,” Adrian said.

Before I could ask what he meant, my eyes caught something resting on the floor right beside Leo’s dangling hand. It was a piece of white printer paper, illuminated by the blue nightlight.

I reached down and picked it up.

It was a child’s drawing. Leo drew constantly—mostly dinosaurs, trucks, and dogs. But this wasn’t a dinosaur.

Drawn in heavy, dark crayon was a crude sketch of a tall man wearing a black coat. The man had a jagged, angry red line drawn vertically over his right eye.

“What is that?” Adrian asked, stepping into the room, his eyes locking onto the paper.

“It’s just a drawing,” I whispered, turning the paper over. But my heart skipped a beat. Leo had never drawn a person before, let alone one with such specific, terrifying details.

Adrian took the paper from my hand. As he looked at the crude red scar drawn over the man’s eye, all the blood drained from his face. The absolute, unshakeable control of Adrian Voss completely shattered.

“Maya,” Adrian said, his voice hollow, completely devoid of oxygen. “When did Leo draw this?”

“I don’t know,” I stammered, looking down at my sleeping nephew. “Maybe today? He was playing by the window while I folded laundry before my shift.”

Adrian’s hand began to tremble. The paper rattled slightly in his grip.

“The man in this drawing,” Adrian said, staring at the red crayon scar. “Is my older brother, Elias.”

“Your brother?” I asked, confused. “Why would Leo draw your brother?”

Adrian slowly lowered the paper, turning to look at the single, small window in the staff room that overlooked the dark courtyard.

“Because Elias was killed in a car bombing five years ago,” Adrian whispered. “His body was burned beyond recognition. But the coroner noted a massive, jagged laceration over his right eye from the shrapnel.”

Suddenly, Leo stirred.

He rubbed his eyes with small fists, blinking against the dim blue light. He looked past me, his sleepy eyes landing on Adrian’s towering silhouette.