“You’re Mine Forever Now,” The Mafia Boss Said After His Maid Learned She Was Pregnant on Purpose Spotlight8
CHAPTER 1
The kitchen of the tiny apartment was already cold, the linoleum freezing under her bare feet.
Arya Mitchell put the kettle on, measured out the morning pills, counted them twice the way she always did, and then went to her mother’s room.
“Mama,” she said softly. “Mama, it’s time.”
Eleanor Mitchell opened her eyes slowly. Her face was thinner than it had been a week ago. Every week, a little thinner. Every week, a little more of her seemed to slip away like sand running through fingers Arya couldn’t close fast enough.
“You’re up early, baby.”
“I have to be at the Valentino house by six.”
The Valentino house. Her mother’s eyes flickered with something — concern, maybe fear. “Arya, I told you I don’t like that you work there.”
“Mama, please. Not today.”
“They say things about that family. People disappear.”
“People say things about a lot of families.” Arya helped her sit up, propped a pillow behind her back, pressed the cup of water into her hands. “And the Valentinos pay me triple what I made at the hotel. Triple, Mama. Do you understand what that means? It means we can afford the medicine this month. It means I don’t have to choose.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears. “Baby — ”
“Don’t.” Arya’s voice cracked and she hated it. Hated that she couldn’t keep it steady. Hated that her mother could still see right through her. “Don’t cry, Mama. Please. Just take your pills.”
She watched her mother swallow them one after the other. Then she leaned down and kissed her forehead. And she promised herself for the ten-thousandth time that she would not cry until she was outside.
She held that promise until she got to the bus stop. Then she let one tear fall. Just one. She wiped it away before anyone could see.
By six, she was in the kitchen of the Valentino estate, tying on her uniform apron, listening to Mrs. Callaway, the head of household staff, run through the morning’s assignments.
“Bedrooms on the third floor.” Mrs. Callaway’s clipboard was pressed to her chest. “Library, dining room, and — ”
She paused. Arya watched her hesitate, watched her glance down at her list and then back up with a careful, neutral expression.
“Mr. Valentino’s office.”
The other maids went still. Arya felt every eye in the room turned toward her.
“Mr. Valentino’s office,” she repeated.
“Yes. But Mrs. Callaway — I’ve never been allowed in there. None of us are allowed in there.”
“Mr. Valentino requested you specifically.”
The silence that followed was the kind of silence that made Arya’s stomach turn over.
“Me? He requested me? He doesn’t even know my name.”
Mrs. Callaway’s lips pressed together. “Apparently, he does.”
A girl named Sophia, two years older than Arya and twice as bitter, let out a soft, ugly laugh. “Oh, Arya. Sweetheart.”
“What?” Arya snapped.
“Nothing.” Sophia said, smiling. “Nothing at all. Just be careful in there. He’s a particular man. He doesn’t request things. Not unless he wants something.”
Arya grabbed her cleaning cart so hard her knuckles went white. “I have a job to do. That’s all this is.”
“Mhm,” Sophia said. “Of course it is.”
The walk to Dante Valentino’s office was the longest walk of Arya’s life. The hallway was lined with paintings she didn’t understand and statues that probably cost more than her mother’s hospital bills. She tried not to look at any of it. Tried to keep her eyes on the floor. Tried to remind herself that she was nobody. She was invisible. She was a girl in a uniform pushing a cart. And men like Dante Valentino did not look at girls like her.
She knocked on the door. Three soft knocks, almost apologetic.
“Come in.”
His voice did something to her. She didn’t know what. She didn’t want to know.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He was sitting behind his desk. He didn’t look up.
“You’re Arya Mitchell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you worked for me, Arya?”
“Four months, sir.”
“Four months.” He still didn’t look up. He was writing something, his pen moving in long, deliberate strokes. “And in four months, this is the first time you’ve been in my office.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“I — I wasn’t allowed, sir. Allowed by whom?”
“Mrs. Callaway said — ”
“Mrs. Callaway works for me.”
He set down the pen. He looked up.
And Arya forgot how to breathe.
She had seen him before. She had seen him from across rooms, from the corners of her eyes, from doorways she ducked into when she heard him coming down a hall. But she had never been looked at by him. Not like this. Not the way he was looking at her now. Like she was something he had been waiting to see. Like she was a question he had finally found the answer to.
His eyes were the kind of eyes that made you feel found and hunted at the same time.
“Sir,” she said. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. “I should — I should start cleaning.”
“In a minute.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about yourself, Arya.”
“There’s nothing to tell, sir.”
“Everyone has something to tell.”
“Not me.”
He almost smiled. “Almost. You’re afraid of me.”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t lie to me. Not in this house. Not in this room. People who lie to me in this room don’t usually leave it.”
Her mouth went dry. “I’m — I’m a little afraid. Yes.”
“Better.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”
“Sir, I really should — ”
May you like
“Sit, Arya.”
She sat. She didn’t know why she sat. Her legs just did it. Her body just obeyed. Some part of her that wasn’t connected to her brain decided that when Dante Valentino said sit, you sat.
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