Chapter 9 - THE HOUSE THAT DID NOT COME WITH STAFF

Everyone Expected the Mafia Boss to Choose a Powerful Mobster’s Daughter—Instead, He Said, “I Choose Her,” Pointing to His Maid The marble floors of the Moretti mansion gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, every surface polished for the momentous occasion ahead. Luna Reyes moved through the grand ballroom with practiced efficiency, her worn sneakers silent against the cold stone as she adjusted the final arrangements of white roses and baby’s breath. The scent of expensive perfume and cigar smoke already lingered in the air, a preview of the evening to come. Her uniform felt heavier than usual: a plain black dress with a crisp white apron that marked her for exactly what she was in this house. Help. Invisible and expendable. Luna tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and caught her reflection in the polished silver of a serving tray. At 25, she could still see the frightened girl who had crossed the border 3 years earlier with little more than a prayer and her grandmother’s rosary. “Luna.” Maria’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts. The head housekeeper appeared around the corner, gray hair pulled into its usual severe bun and a clipboard held against her chest like armor. “Table 12 needs new centerpieces. The Rosetti daughter knocked over the vase with her dramatic gesturing.” Luna nodded and hurried toward the supply closet. Tonight would change everything for the Moretti family. It might also bring Luna’s time there to an end. Don Salvatore Moretti, Luca’s father, had decreed that his son must choose a bride from among the daughters of their allied families. 100 of the most powerful mafia families in America had sent their unmarried daughters, each hoping to become the next Mrs. Moretti. The irony was difficult to ignore. While those women competed for the attention of a man they barely knew, Luna had fallen hopelessly in love with the man they had come to claim. As she arranged fresh flowers, her thoughts returned to the first time she had seen Luca Moretti. She had been scrubbing floors in the East Wing when he walked past, commanding attention even in casual clothes. His dark hair had been perfectly styled, his green eyes seemed to notice everything, and his jawline gave his face an almost severe precision. He had paused and looked down at her on her hands and knees. “You missed a spot.” Then he smiled. It transformed his face from intimidating to devastating. That had been 3 years earlier. Since then, there had been stolen glances, brief conversations in passing, and Luna’s gradual realization that Luca Moretti was nothing like the cold, calculating man the rest of the world believed him to be. After discovering that she was teaching herself to read English, he began leaving books in Spanish on the kitchen counter for her. He asked about her family in Mexico and remembered the name of her youngest brother and the fact that her mother suffered from arthritis. When Luna caught a terrible case of the flu the previous winter, Luca personally drove to a pharmacy at midnight to get medicine for her. Tonight, all of that would end. Luca would choose one of the beautiful, educated, wealthy women arriving at the mansion, and Luna would eventually return to Mexico with enough money saved to start a small business. That had always been the plan. It was what she should want. The click of expensive heels against marble announced the arrival of the first guests. Luna peered through the service door and watched a stunning blonde in a red Valentino gown sweep into the ballroom, diamonds glittering at her throat and ears. Behind her came a brunette in emerald silk, then a redhead in midnight blue, each more beautiful than the last. They carried themselves with the confidence of generational wealth and power. These were Luca’s peers. His equals. They understood family obligations, territorial disputes, and the weight of legacy. They could stand beside him at charity galas and family meetings and navigate mafia politics with a smile and a carefully placed word. Luna was the maid who brought him coffee in the morning and made sure his shirts were pressed exactly the way he liked them. “Luna, stop gawking and get back to work,” Maria hissed beside her. “The Morettis will be down soon. Everything must be perfect.” Luna retreated to the kitchen, where controlled chaos reigned. Chef Roberto barked orders in rapid Italian while his staff plated hundreds of canapés with military precision. She fell into the familiar rhythm of work, arranging serving trays and polishing champagne flutes. “Have you seen him yet?” Sophia, one of the newer maids, whispered as she bumped Luna’s shoulder. “They say he looks like a movie star in his tuxedo.” Luna’s chest tightened. “I’m sure he looks very handsome.” “Maria says he has to pick someone tonight. Can you imagine all those rich princesses fighting over 1 man?” Sophia giggled, unaware of the pain behind Luna’s expression. “I heard the Russian girl brought a dowry worth $50 million.” $50 million. Luna sent $300 home to her family every month, nearly every penny she could spare. In her lifetime, she would never see even a fraction of $50 million. How foolish she had been to imagine, even briefly, that Luca could see anything in someone like her. The kitchen door opened. Vincent Torino strode inside, his bulk filling the doorway. Don Salvatore’s right-hand man and enforcer had always made Luna uneasy. His small dark eyes swept the kitchen before settling on her. “You.” He pointed. “Luna, isn’t it?” She nodded. In 3 years, Vincent had never spoken directly to her. “Don Salvatore wants to see you in his study. Now.” The champagne flute Luna was polishing slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. The kitchen fell silent except for the hiss of sautéing onions and the distant sounds of arriving guests. “Clean that up first,” Vincent added with cold amusement. “Can’t have the help leaving messes.” Luna’s hands trembled as she swept up the glass. Why would Don Salvatore want to see her tonight? Had she done something wrong? Was she being fired? The walk to his study felt like a death march. Her footsteps echoed through the marble hallway beneath portraits of stern-faced Moretti ancestors who seemed to judge her with painted eyes. She stopped outside the heavy oak door, smoothed her uniform, drew a breath, and knocked. “Enter.” Don Salvatore sat behind his massive desk. Since his heart attack 6 months earlier, he looked frailer than Luna remembered. His once-powerful frame had withered, but his eyes remained sharp. Beside him stood Luca. He was magnificent in a black tuxedo, his hands clasped behind his back. He did not look at Luna when she entered. “Luna,” Don Salvatore said. “You have been with our family for 3 years.” “Yes, sir.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You have been faithful, hardworking, discreet.” He leaned forward. “These are rare qualities.” Luna remained silent. “My son faces an important decision tonight. He must choose a wife from among our allies’ daughters. It is tradition. It is business. It is survival.” Each word seemed to crack something inside her. Beside his father, Luca’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “But tradition sometimes blinds us to what is truly valuable,” Don Salvatore continued. “What we have right in front of us.” The words hung in the air. Luna glanced at Luca. He finally met her eyes. The intensity of his expression nearly weakened her knees. She saw pain, longing, and something close to desperation. “You may go,” Don Salvatore said with a dismissive movement of his hand. “The evening awaits.” Luna turned toward the door. “Luna.” Luca’s voice stopped her. She looked back. “You look beautiful tonight,” he said softly, holding her gaze. “You always do.” Heat rushed into her cheeks. She managed a quiet thank-you and fled. In the hallway, Luna pressed her back against the cool wall and tried to slow her heart. What had just happened? Why had Don Salvatore summoned her? Why had Luca looked at her as though she mattered? Approaching voices forced her back into motion. Before returning to the kitchen, she caught another glimpse through the ballroom doors. The scene looked like a fairy tale. Hundreds of guests in designer gowns and immaculate tuxedos. Champagne flowing freely. At the center of it all stood one of the most eligible bachelors in the criminal underworld. Soon Luca would choose his bride from among those beautiful, accomplished women. Luna would return to the shadows. She did not know that within the hour Luca Moretti would overturn that perfect world with 5 words. “I choose Luna as my wife.” By then, the ballroom had become a glittering battlefield. 100 beautiful women circulated through the room, each more striking than the last. The Torino daughter wore a gown that probably cost more than Luna’s family home, while the Benedetti girl’s jewelry could have funded the school in Luna’s village for years. They moved with practiced grace, every conversation a carefully controlled performance intended to attract Luca’s attention. And Luca was impossible for Luna not to watch. The black tuxedo emphasized his broad shoulders and lean waist. His dark hair was perfectly styled, and every time he smiled politely at something one of the candidates said, jealousy tightened Luna’s chest. “Stop torturing yourself,” Maria muttered beside her while carrying a tray of dirty glasses. “He’s not for you, mija. The sooner you accept that, the better.” Luna knew she was right. Still, she watched as the Russian girl, Katarina Vulov, practically draped herself over Luca’s arm. Her platinum-blonde hair caught the chandelier light like spun gold. She was everything Luna was not: tall where Luna was short, pale where Luna was olive-skinned, sophisticated where Luna was simple. “The Vulov girl is the favorite,” Sophia whispered. “I heard Vincent tell Chef Roberto that her father controls the entire East Coast shipping operation. The marriage would unite 2 of the most powerful families.” Of course. This was not about love. It was business. Luca needed the woman who offered the greatest strategic advantage to the Moretti empire. What could a Mexican maid possibly offer? “Luna,” Chef Roberto barked. “Stop daydreaming and get these appetizers to table 6 before they get cold.” She lifted the heavy tray and entered the ballroom. Hundreds of conversations overlapped in several languages. Crystal clinked. Expensive fabric rustled. Competing perfumes filled the air. Luna moved through the guests with practiced invisibility. As she approached table 6, occupied by younger sons and daughters from several minor families, fragments of conversation reached her. “Father says if Luca doesn’t choose wisely, there could be war.” “The Chicago families are already making moves.” “Heard the old man might not make it through winter.” War. Luna served the canapés with trembling hands. She had always known the Morettis were powerful, but the household had insulated her from the reality of their world. Listening to people casually discuss territory and violence, she began to understand what rested on Luca’s shoulders. “Excuse me, miss.” Luna looked up. A man in his 30s with sharp cheekbones and cold blue eyes was studying her. “You’re Moretti house staff?” “Yes, sir.” “Dmitri Kosoff.” He smiled. “I couldn’t help noticing that you seem familiar with the layout here. How long have you worked for the family?” Something in his tone made her uneasy. “3 years, sir.” “Ah. And in 3 years, you must have observed much. Heard much. Such a valuable position for a young woman.”

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