Page 47 of Blood Debt
The mafia hierarchy isn’t written on paper.
It’s in glances. In who moves first when two people cross a hallway. In who speaks first, and who doesn’t speak at all.
I’ve adapted. Worked so hard that other workers recommended me for head maid, and Cristofano’s right-hand man, Matteo, obliged.
I smile softly when expected. Lower my voice around men. Bow gently when I pass higher staff. I clean efficiently and quietly, and when asked something directly, I pretend to hesitate—then obey.
A good maid doesn’t draw light.
She reflects it.
That’s how I’m still breathing.
I turn toward the dining wing with quiet steps when the soft creak of wood draws my attention.
A figure appears at the top of the grand staircase.
I turn back toward the stairs and start to descend, mentally checking off tasks—bed linen changes, brass polish, hallway perimeter—when his voice slashes through the silence.
“Is this your idea of a clean bathroom?”
I freeze mid-step.
My eyes lift.
Cristofano stands at the middle landing, descending slowly, barefoot. The dark fabric of his robe swings slightly as he walks, tied loosely at the waist, hanging open just enough to expose the sharp ridges of his abdomen and the hard curve of his chest.
He’s not calm.
His shoulders are tense, the muscles tight beneath his collarbones. His jaw is clenched. His mouth flat. Eyes dark and unreadable.
A woman is at his side, her arms wrapped around his like ivy curling up a tree.
She looks like she was poured into silk—blush-colored camisole and shorts that cling to every line of her body. Her skin gleams under the morning light, hair still mussed in that artful, I-slept-in-his-bed-on-purpose way.
His attention never leaves me.
I lower my gaze immediately, dipping my head. “Sir?”
He steps down once more. “The shampoo bottle in my bathroom—empty.”
His voice is sharp. Not loud. Just hard.
“I shouldn't have to call for someone to replace it when you're assigned to my quarters.”
My mouth parts slightly, but I catch myself and close it. I bow again, deeper this time. “I’ll take care of it immediately.”
“You should have taken care of it yesterday.”
The hallway tightens. I feel the other maids stop in the distance, each one shrinking into corners, pretending to look busy.
His tone isn’t theatrical—it’s controlled. Which makes it worse. There’s no fire. Just ice.
The woman, still holding his arm, leans into him with a soft laugh.
“Oh, don’t be so mean,” she says, her voice lazy and teasing. “You’ll frighten her.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at her.
