CHAPTER 2

Alessia's POV

Three years sounds like a short time. But when every single second is spent missing a piece of your own soul, three years feels like a lifetime in hell.

I sat on the edge of the narrow twin bed in my tiny room, smoothing down the dark fabric of my uniform. White apron, black dress, non-slip shoes. Plain. Unremarkable. Exactly what I needed to be.

It took me thirty-six months, a fake identity under the name "Elena Cruz," and every favor I could beg from people in the underground to land a job here. The De Santis estate was practically a fortress. High stone walls, armed guards at every gate, and security cameras covering every single inch of the property. Normal people spent their whole lives trying to stay as far away from Lorenzo De Santis as possible.

I had willingly walked right back into his lair.

I took a deep breath, clutching the small silver cross necklace hidden beneath my collar. My hands were shaking, but I forced my legs to move. I had a job to do.

"Elena! Stop daydreaming and grab the tray for the nursery," Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, barked as I stepped into the sprawling industrial kitchen. She was a stern woman with grey hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful. "And remember the rules. Do not speak unless spoken to. Keep your head down. If you break even one piece of china, you're out on the street."

"Yes, Mrs. Gable. I'm sorry," I said, keeping my voice soft and humble.

I picked up the silver tray holding a small glass of warm milk and a plate of sliced apples. My heart slammed against my ribs so violently I was terrified she might hear it. The nursery.

I climbed the grand marble staircase, my rubber-soled shoes making no sound against the polished floor. The mansion was dead quiet, wrapped in an eerie, suffocating silence. It felt less like a home and more like a museum built for a king who hated music.

When I reached the third floor, my steps slowed down. I stopped outside a door painted a soft, muted blue—the only splash of warmth in the entire cold corridor.

The door was slightly open.

I peeked through the small gap, holding my breath.

Sitting on a thick wool rug in the center of the room was a little boy. He had a mop of silky black hair that curled slightly at the ends, and even from the side, I could see his profile. His tiny nose, his long dark eyelashes, his sharp little jawline. He looked so much like Lorenzo it made my chest ache, but his small frame was fragile.

He was playing with wooden blocks, silently stacking them one by one. No laughing. No babbling. Just a quiet, unnatural concentration for a three-year-old child.

Elijah.

My baby. My sweet, beautiful boy.

A wave of hot tears stung the back of my eyes. I wanted to throw the tray aside, burst through the door, and pull him into my arms. I wanted to kiss his chubby cheeks, smell his hair, and tell him how sorry I was for missing three years of his life.

Control yourself, Alessia, I reminded myself, digging my fingernails into the palm of my hand until the pain anchored me. If you ruin this now, Lorenzo will kill you, and you'll never see him again.

"Who are you?" a small, quiet voice asked.

I gasped softly, snapping out of my thoughts. Elijah had stopped playing. He was staring right at me through the gap in the door, his big, storm-gray eyes wide with curiosity.

"I... I brought your snack, young master," I stammered, stepping into the room with my head bowed. I carefully set the tray down on a small wooden table near his play area.

Elijah didn't touch the food. He just kept looking at me, tilting his head. He didn't look scared; he just looked curious. He rarely saw new faces around here—only stern guards and older maids who treated him like delicate glass.

"You're new," he observed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I am," I said, crouching down so I was at eye level with him, though I made sure to keep a respectful distance. "My name is Elena."

He stared at me for a few long seconds, his little brows furrowed as if he were trying to solve a complicated puzzle. Then, slowly, he took a step toward me.

Before he could say another word, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway outside.

My blood ran cold. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, growing heavy and thick.

"Leave us," a deep, cold voice commanded from the doorway.

I froze. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. That voice had haunted my nightmares and my dreams for three straight years.

I scrambled to my feet immediately, dropping my gaze to the floor. "Yes, sir."

Lorenzo De Santis stood in the doorway, blocking the light from the hall. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing dark tattoos creeping up his forearms, and black trousers. He looked exhausting, menacing, and breathtakingly dangerous.

I kept my head down, waiting for him to step aside so I could leave. My pulse was racing so fast I could barely catch my breath. *Does he recognize me? Did my hair dye and lack of makeup change me enough?*

He didn't move. He just stood there, towering over me, his dark eyes burning into the side of my face like a laser.

"Papa," Elijah murmured, running over to wrap his tiny arms around Lorenzo's leg.

Lorenzo's expression softened just a fraction as he rested a large hand on the back of Elijah's head, but his eyes never left me. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

"You're the new maid," Lorenzo said, his gravelly baritone sending a shiver straight down my spine.

"Yes, Don De Santis," I replied, keeping my voice flat, praying it wouldn't tremble.

He took a slow step forward, forcing me to back up until my calves hit the edge of the low play table. Lorenzo leaned in slightly, his sharp, shadow-draped features coming into terrifying focus. The scent of dark cedar, expensive leather, and subtle tobacco wrapped around me—a scent I remembered far too well.

He reached out, his long fingers hovering just an inch away from my chin. I held my breath, every muscle in my body locking up.

"Look at me," he ordered softly. It wasn't a request.

I had no choice. Slowly, reluctantly, I raised my eyes to meet his.

Lorenzo stared into my eyes, his dark gaze piercing right through me, searching for something. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to call out my name and order his men to drag me away.

Instead, his jaw clenched, and his expression hardened back into an unreadable mask.

"Finish cleaning the east wing corridor," Lorenzo commanded, his voice cold and devoid of any warmth. "Then bring a fresh pot of black coffee to my office on the main floor."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned, picked up Elijah in one smooth motion, and walked further into the room, leaving me standing alone near the doorway.

I hurried out into the hallway, my knees shaking so badly I had to lean against the wall for support. My hands were clammy, and my throat was completely dry as I made my way toward the stairs.