The billionaire Mafia's Pregnant maid

"You will wed him, Maya. I've already given my word," Maxim growled, prowling the dining room like a wolf around prey. The light from the chandelier picked up the silver in his hair, making him appear sharper, harder, as though his years had only distilled the cruelty of his face.

"I'm not marrying Alexandria," Maya whispered. She knew better than to raise her voice. With Maxim, quiet defiance was more dangerous than screaming.

Maxim stopped pacing, eyes narrowing to slits. “You think you get a choice?” His voice softened, which was always worse. “Alexandria is offering me territory, protection, influence. You’re going to be the reason our family becomes untouchable.”

I'm not a bargaining chip," she said, reaching out to grip the edge of the table. Her knuckles whitened.

The back of his hand struck her cheek so quickly she didn't even have time to see it. The report was louder than the pain, a sharp crack that seemed to reverberate off the marble floors.

Her eyes teared up, but she would not touch her face in front of him.

Maxim leaned in close enough that she could scent the bitter tang of his cologne. "You'll do as you're told. And you won't leave this house until the wedding. Do you understand?"

She didn't respond.

"Understand?" His voice was a low growl now.

"Yes," she whispered.

He stood up, dismissing her like a servant, and moved in the direction of the study. As he walked, he told one of his men who were waiting in the hall, "Watch her. No one comes in, no one goes out.

The second his footsteps disappeared, Maya turned and walked, not toward the kitchen, not toward the bathroom, but toward her bedroom. She closed the door and locked it.

Her cheek throbbed. She ignored it. Her hands shook as she pulled her old canvas tote from under the bed and began stuffing clothes into it. The sound of cloth in the quiet was deafening. She grabbed her wallet, the small pile of cash she stored in a book, and a photo of her mother, the one friendly face she'd known in this home.

She heard Maxim's voice again through the thin walls, low and commanding: "See that she's ready for the engagement party. She's going nowhere.".

Her heart was racing so intensely she could feel it throbbing in her throat. She went over to the window, unlatched it, and opened it wide enough to get through.

The night air hit her face, cool, damp, and tasting faintly of the sea. She swung her legs over the sill and dropped silently into the narrow garden below.

No one noticed her as she moved through the shadows and out the side gate.

She didn’t look back.

The iron gate shut softly behind her, and then it was only the sound of the city at night, low, steady, pulsing.

She yanked up the hood of her sweatshirt and clenched her fist around the canvas bag. The roads here were narrow, rough, with a faint scent of diesel fuel and last night's rain. A motorbike sped by, its headlight momentarily slashing through the gloom before vanishing around a corner.

Maya hung her head, her steps light and rapid. She looked back over her shoulder every few seconds.

Maxim's men might already be searching for her.

She darted into an alley where clotheslines sagged between buildings, wet fabric brushing her shoulder as she passed. A cat slunk away under a pile of broken crates.

Nearby, a man laughed, too loudly, too drunkenly, and she changed direction without making a conscious decision to. Her heartbeat was in her ears now, a steady drumbeat.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her wallet. Thirty-two euros in it. That was it. A week's shopping if she was careful, but barely a night somewhere safe if she wasn't.

She pushed it in again, taking slow breaths, attempting to think. She couldn't go to any hotel. Maxim had too long an arm.

That's when she spotted it, a small storefront with a blinking neon sign: Agenzia di Lavoro. The door was still open, casting faint light onto the cracked sidewalk.

She paused for a moment. To step in was to trust another person, and trust had never worked for her. But out here in the open was worse.

She crossed the street. The bell over the door emitted a tired tinkle as she entered, and the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke hit her at once.

Seated behind the desk was a woman with lines carved into her face and hair piled high in a bun, a half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray beside her elbow. She lifted her head slowly, eyes moving from Maya's sneakers to her fatigue-etched face.

"Well?" said the woman, her voice gravelly. "You here for work or just warmth?"

Maya swallowed. "Work."

The woman stubbed out her cigarette and leaned back in her chair, giving Maya another long, assessing look.

“Sit,” she said, nodding to the chair opposite her desk.

Maya slipped into it, the vinyl seat creaking beneath her weight. Her fingers remained clenched around the strap of her bag.

"Work before?" the woman said, reaching for a pen.

"Housekeeping," Maya replied readily. "Laundry. I can cook as well."

The pen scraped on paper. "References?"

Maya's throat tightened. She couldn't very well provide names from Maxim's world, not if she didn't wish to be found within minutes. "My former employer moved abroad," she said instead, being careful to sound indifferent.

The woman looked up at her, narrowing her eyes a bit, but she didn't push. "There's an opening now. Large estate. Good pay. You'll be living on the grounds. No going in and out without permission."

That's okay," Maya replied without pausing.

The woman weakly smiled, as if she'd expected more questions. "It's in Posillipo," she continued, tapping the pen on the desk. "Do you know the name Lucien Moretti?"

The name fell like a stone in Maya's stomach. She'd heard it a time or two, whispered on street corners, in Maxim's office when the door wasn't quite shut. The head of the Moretti family. Ruthless. Untouchable.

Yes," she answered hesitantly.

"Then you know to keep your head down. He's not the type of man you get close to. Do the work, keep quiet, and perhaps you'll keep the job."

Maya nodded. In reality, she didn't care about the man's reputation. All she cared about was that his enemies weren't hers, yet. And that his world might be the one place Maxim wouldn't look.

The woman pushed a form across the desk. "Complete this. Bring identification. If you succeed at the interview tomorrow, the driver will pick you up the following morning."

Maya reached for the pen. When she started signing her name, she felt the slightest glimmer of relief, small and frail, but sufficient to calm her hand.

The form was short, the questions straightforward. Name. Age. Skills. Nothing about family, nothing about where she'd been living, as if Lucien Moretti cared only about what she could do, not where she came from.

The woman retrieved the paper, looked at it briefly, and slipped it into a folder. "Interview's tomorrow at noon. Don't be late."

"I won't."

"You had better not," said the woman, rising to open a scarred file cabinet. "The Morettis do not hire twice."

Maya rose from her seat, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Her hands ached to ask more — about the mansion, the other servants, the man himself, but there was a tone in the woman's voice that indicated curiosity would not be welcome.

She went outside.

The cold night air wrapped around her again, sharper now, with the salty flavor of the bay. The neon name of the agency behind her projected a flicker, humming quietly like an irritated insect.

She went left, sticking to the borders of the street where shadow persisted on the aged stone structures. Naples at night had a rhythm of its own, the far-off thump of bass from a club, the growl of a late-night quarrel, the screech of tires on damp asphalt.

She didn't notice the figure on the other side of the street initially. Leaning against a lamppost, hands tucked into pockets, head tilted just so as to signify interest without invitation.

Maya slowed down.

The man lit a cigarette, the flame momentarily illuminating a thin face, jagged cheekbones, eyes that appeared to lock onto her even through the smoke. He inhaled, exhaled, and remained precisely where he was.

Her pulse accelerated. She made herself continue walking, not glancing behind, but every nerve told her that his eyes tracked her until she rounded the corner.