“Can I Sleep on You, Mister?” the Curvy Maid’s Little Girl Asked the Ruthless Mafia Boss—But When He Discovered Who Her Mother Really Was, He Put His Entire Empire on the Line to Protect Them

The weight of Lorenzo’s confession crashed over Elena, shattering three years of grief, paranoia, and solitary torment. She looked down at Mia, then up into Lorenzo’s dark, solemn eyes. There was no deceit in his gaze—only the haunted reflection of the same grief that lived inside her own chest.

“He... he never told me your name,” Elena whispered, her strength finally failing her. Her knees buckled.

Lorenzo reacted instantly. His arm shot out, catching her around the waist before she hit the floor. The contact was electric, sending a jolt of heat through Elena’s exhausted body. He held her securely, lifting both her and the child with effortless strength, and carried them to the plush leather sofa.

“He didn't tell you to protect you,” Lorenzo said, kneeling on the carpet in front of her so that they were at eye level. “If Carmine’s men knew you were alive, or that Mateo had left an heir, they would have eradicated you before the child drew her first breath.”

Mia stirred in Elena’s lap, blinking her large hazel eyes open. She looked at the giant man kneeling before them, not with fear, but with sleepy curiosity.

“Mister,” Mia mumbled, rubbing her nose with the back of her fist. “Your hands are warm.”

A faint, almost invisible smile softened Lorenzo’s harsh features. He extended a broad finger, and Mia wrapped her tiny fist around it.

“You shouldn't be wandering around dark hallways, little fox,” Lorenzo said softly.

“I was looking for juice,” Mia explained with grave toddler seriousness. “The closet had bad monsters.”

Elena’s heart twisted with guilt. “I had to hide her in the linen closet when the babysitter cancelled. I couldn't lose this job. I had no idea there was a summit tonight.”

“You will never hide her in a closet again,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into an iron vow. He looked up at Elena, his gaze lingering on her soft, curvaceous figure, the flush of color returning to her olive cheeks, and the fierce devotion radiating from her soul. For three years, he had lived in an emotional wasteland, but looking at this woman and this child, something ancient and possessive flared to life inside his chest.

The study door suddenly burst open without a knock.

Bianca Moretti, Lorenzo’s cousin and the daughter of Don Carmine, stood in the doorway. Her designer dress was immaculate, but her sneer was venomous.

“Lorenzo!” Bianca snapped, holding a tablet in her manicured hand. “What is the meaning of this? The underbosses are furious that you dismissed them for a peasant and her bastard! And why is this trash sitting on your furniture?”

Mia flinched at the screeching voice, burying her face into Elena’s collarbone.

In a fraction of a second, Lorenzo transformed. The tender protector vanished, replaced by the apex predator of the New York underworld. He rose from his knees, his shadow stretching across the wall like an encroaching storm.

“Bianca,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a register that made the hair on Elena’s arms stand up. “You have three seconds to walk out of that door, turn around, and knock. If you do not, I will personally throw you from the third-story balcony.”

Bianca’s sneer cracked. She took a step back, her complexion draining of all color. “Lorenzo, she is a maid—”

“She is under my personal protection,” Lorenzo snarled, taking a single, predatory step toward her. “And the child is off-limits to every breathing soul in this compound. Now get out before I lose my patience.”