CHAPTER 3

Alessia's POV

By my third week at the estate, the exhaustion was settling deep into my bones. But physical tiredness was nothing compared to the emotional torture of watching my son from a distance.

On Tuesday afternoon, everything fell apart in the main hallway.

Elijah was having a meltdown. He sat in the middle of the carpet, crying so hard he was gasping for air. His face was flushed red, tears soaking his small collar. Next to him, his elder nanny, Clara, looked flustered and exasperated, holding out a silver bowl of oatmeal.

"Young master, please, just one bite," Clara begged, her voice high and strained. "Your father will be furious if he finds out you haven't eaten all day."

Elijah just pushed the bowl away, sending it clattering onto the floor. Soft warm oatmeal splattered across the expensive rug.

"No! Go away! I want my mama!" Elijah sobbed, burying his face in his tiny hands.

My heart shattered right then and there. Clara huffed in frustration, raising her hand as if to grab him by the arm to drag him to his room.

Before I could stop myself, I dropped my cleaning cloth and stepped forward.

"Let me try," I said softly, coming up beside them.

Clara glared at me, wiping her hands on her apron. "He's throwing a temper tantrum, Elena. He's been like this since this morning. You're just a junior maid, don't get involved."

"Please," I insisted, keeping my voice calm and low. "Just give me five minutes."

Clara scoffed, throwing her hands up. "Fine. But when the Don hears about this mess, it's on your head." She turned on her heel and stomped off to find a carpet cleaner.

I knelt on the floor beside Elijah. I didn't reach out to touch him right away. I just sat on my heels, giving him space, letting him process my presence.

"Hey," I murmured gently. "It's a big, loud world today, isn't it?"

Elijah hiccuped, peeking at me through his fingers. His gray eyes were brimming with tears, so swollen and sad it made my chest ache.

Instead of forcing him to eat or scolding him, I closed my eyes and took a quiet breath. Then, softly, barely above a whisper, I began to sing.

“Ninna nanna, ninna oh... dormi bambino, del mio cor...”

It was an old Italian lullaby my grandmother used to sing to me. A song I had whispered to my bump every single night for ten months while he was still inside me. It was the only comfort I could give him back when I had no right to hold him.

The moment the melody left my lips, Elijah froze.

His crying stopped mid-gasp. He lowered his hands, staring at me with wide, bewildered eyes. The tension bled out of his tiny frame. He didn't know where he had heard the tune before, but his little body recognized the frequency. It was cellular memory.

I smiled, my own eyes filling with tears as I kept singing softly.

Elijah crawled forward on his hands and knees. Without a word, he buried his wet face directly into the crook of my neck, wrapping his small arms tightly around my collarbone.

I wrapped my arms around him, holding his tiny body flush against mine. The scent of baby powder and sweet milk filled my senses. I squeezed my eyes shut, burying my face in his soft black curls, absorbing the weight of my son for the first time in three agonizing years.

"Elena... pretty song," he whimpered against my skin.

"I know, sweet boy," I whispered back, kissing the top of his head. "I know."

"What is the meaning of this?"

The cold, gravelly voice cut through the air like a blade.

I stiffened, pulling back slightly but keeping Elijah shielded in my lap. Lorenzo stood at the end of the hallway, flanked by two armed guards. He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes locked straight onto us.

Clara rushed out from the side room, pale. "Don De Santis! I told her not to touch the boy, I—"

Lorenzo raised a single hand, instantly cutting her off. He didn't even look at Clara. His gaze remained pinned to me and Elijah, who was still clinging to my shirt like a lifeline.

Lorenzo walked over slowly, his heavy steps echoing against the walls. He stopped right in front of us, looming like a dark shadow.

"He stopped crying," Lorenzo noted, his tone dangerously calm. "He hasn't listened to a single nanny in six months."

"He just needed someone to listen to him, sir," I said, keeping my head slightly bowed, though I refused to let go of my son.

Lorenzo stared down at us for a long, agonizing minute. His jaw flexed.

"Starting today," Lorenzo declared smoothly, "you are no longer on house cleaning duty. You are Elijah's personal nanny. You will supervise his meals, his bedtime, and his routine."

I blinked, stunned. "Sir?"

"Do not make me repeat myself, Elena," he warned, his voice dropping an octave. "You answer directly to me now."

Three days later, the quiet routine we had built was shattered.

It happened at two in the morning. A loud, deafening explosion rocked the entire east wing of the estate, shattering the glass windows in the main hall. Gunfire erupted outside—sharp, rhythmic, and terrifyingly close.

I bolted out of my small bed, pure panic driving me straight down the hallway toward Elijah's room. Automatic weapon fire echoed through the courtyard. The guards were screaming orders.

I threw Elijah's door open. He was screaming in his bed, terrified by the loud noises.

"Elijah!" I ran over, scooping him into my arms and shielding his head with my body just as a bullet shattered his bedroom window, showering the floor with glass.

I dropped to my knees behind the heavy oak bed, holding Elijah tightly as he sobbed against my chest.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open.

I flinched, preparing for the worst, but it was Lorenzo. He held a black hand-gun in his right hand, his white dress shirt stained with dirt and fresh blood across his left forearm. He looked lethal, wild, and utterly terrifying.

"Lorenzo!" I gasped out his real name in pure terror, forgetting my fake identity entirely.

His eyes scanned the room, instantly finding us on the floor. Relief flashed across his harsh features for a split second before his terrifying composure returned.

He lunged forward, grabbing me by the arm with his free hand and hauling both me and Elijah up in one swift motion. He dragged us out into the hallway, navigating through the smoke and ringing alarms until he threw open a hidden door behind a bookcase—a safe room.

He shoved us inside the small, reinforced space and slammed the heavy iron door shut, locking out the noise of the gunfight.

The small room was lit only by a dim emergency red light.

I sank onto the small leather bench, trembling violently, holding Elijah close to my chest.

Lorenzo stood over us, breathing heavily. He checked the digital monitor on the wall, ensuring the door was sealed, before turning back to us. He set his gun on the table and stepped closer.

He didn't look at his son first. He looked at me.

Before I could ask if the attackers were cleared, Lorenzo stepped into my space. He reached out with both hands, cupping the sides of my face, his large, calloused palms warm against my cold, clammy skin. He tilted my head up, scanning every inch of my face with a dark, desperate intensity.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

"Are you hurt?" he rasped, his voice rough and laced with an emotion I had never heard from him before.

"I'm... I'm fine," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Elijah is safe."

Lorenzo didn't drop his hands. Instead, he pulled me up off the bench, wrapping his arms securely around my waist from behind while I held our son, pulling my back flush against his broad chest. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply, his breathing ragged.

His grip was possessive, desperate, and entirely too personal for a Don holding a housemaid.

Lorenzo held us tight against him in the dim red light, his heart beating a fast, heavy rhythm against my shoulder.