“Who did this to you?” The most feared Mafia boss in Chicago asked that question the second my sleeve slipped down and exposed the scars I'd spent years hiding
. The entire mansion fell silent. Even the armed men behind him looked horrified. I never intended to tell anyone the truth—but when the front doors opened and the man who had carved those scars into my body walked inside, I realized someone in that room wasn't leaving alive.
My knees burned against the freezing Italian marble as I scrubbed dried blood from the floor.
The stiff brush scraped in endless circles beneath my trembling hand while the sharp smell of chlorine stung my eyes and throat. I'd been on my knees for hours, ever since Mrs. Bennett, the mansion's stern housekeeper, pointed at the dark stain near the grand staircase.
"Make it disappear before I come back."
She never told me whose blood it was.
In that mansion, questions were dangerous.
Sometimes the people who asked them disappeared.
Six months earlier, the thought of cleaning someone else's blood would have terrified me. Now, I was simply grateful to have a job. At twenty-four, with a two-year-old daughter depending on me, no college degree, and nowhere else willing to hire me, survival mattered more than pride.
So I kept scrubbing.
Until the skin on my fingers split open.
Until my own blood dripped into the dirty water swirling around the brush.
"It's still not clean."
The deep voice behind me was calm.
Almost gentle.
For some reason, that frightened me more than shouting ever could.
I hadn't heard anyone enter the enormous foyer, yet a long shadow suddenly stretched across the marble beneath me.
I didn't dare look up.
"I'm sorry, sir," I whispered. "I'll clean it again."
The silence that followed weighed heavier than the crystal chandelier hanging overhead.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you."
My heart pounded against my ribs as I slowly raised my head.
The man standing over me looked exactly like the whispers had described him.
Silver threaded through his dark hair. A perfectly tailored black suit. Eyes so cold and controlled they revealed nothing.
Vincent Moretti.
The owner of the mansion.
The man every employee feared.
The man people claimed controlled half of Chicago's underworld.
Two armed bodyguards stood behind him. One rested his hand inside his jacket. The other watched me carefully, as if deciding whether I had already seen too much.
"I said I'm sorry," I repeated, barely louder than a breath.
Vincent ignored the apology.
Instead, his eyes drifted to my hands.
Fresh blood seeped from the cracked skin around my knuckles, mixing with the cloudy water in the bucket at my feet.
"Stand up."
I obeyed too quickly.
My knees buckled as I reached for the bucket to steady myself.
My sleeve caught on the metal handle.
Rip.
Before I could stop it, the fabric slid above my elbow.
Every scar I'd hidden for years lay exposed beneath the bright chandelier.
Thin white lines.
Raised welts.
Deep burn marks.
One twisted scar wrapped around my wrist like a cruel bracelet I could never remove.
The room went dead silent.
One bodyguard whispered a curse.
The other couldn't even look at me.
Vincent stepped closer and gently took my wrist before I could pull my sleeve down. His fingers never touched the scars, but his eyes studied every mark as if memorizing them.
When he finally looked into my eyes, the coldness was gone.
What replaced it was far more terrifying.
"Who did this to you?"
My lips parted, but no words came out.
Then the massive front doors burst open.
Heavy footsteps echoed across the marble.
I turned toward the entrance—and my blood ran cold.
The man who had given me every one of those scars had just walked into Vincent Moretti's mansion.
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