Maid To The Three Mafia Kings のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

Millie’s eyes cracked open to the obnoxious screech of her phone alarm. She groaned, smacking it silent. Her head was throbbing from too little sleep, and the thought of her “day off” just meant more side gigs to cover rent.She dragged herself out of bed, her socks catching on the frayed carpet as she shuffled to the kitchen. The counter was a mess—greasy takeout boxes and crumpled napkins, proof of another dinner scraped together on a budget that never stretched far enough. Cody was sprawled on the sagging couch, the TV blaring some morning news show. The anchor was going on about some attack at a ritzy party in France—masked gunmen crashing a fancy villa, rich people running for their lives.“Wild, right?” Cody said, crunching on a stale chip he’d dug out of a bag on the coffee table. “Bunch of masked dudes shooting up some billionaire’s party. Rich people drama.”“Yeah,” Millie muttered, rummaging for a clean mug. “Money doesn’t fix everything, I guess.” Her voice was flat, distr

It had been three months, and Millie was still stuck in a rut. Job applications were going nowhere—every “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates” email felt like a default in her life now. She was starting to wonder if she was cursed, destined to collect rejection letters like some sad trophy case.Cody was gone, but the sting of their breakup lingered like a stain she couldn’t scrub out. It wasn’t just the betrayal; it was the way it made her feel like an idiot for trusting him. Still, living on her own was starting to feel less suffocating. Sure, her diet was mostly instant noodles, and her bank account was a constant anxiety attack, but at least she was free. That had to count for something.Now, she was in the back of a shiny black SUV, speeding down a Montana highway with Clara. It was a far cry from Bert’s beat-up cleaning van, which rattled like it was held together by hope and rust. The driver, some guy with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and a uniform so cri

The names Alessandro Ethan Moretti and Giovanni Aidan Moretti sat heavily in Millie’s gut. Even as she and Clara trailed Sheila through a maze of polished hallways in the massive house, those names echoed in her head, stirring up a mess of unease.“Mills,” Clara whispered, leaning in close as they followed Sheila’s brisk steps, “did you catch what Mr. Jameson said? What if one of those Moretti guys is your fancy one-night stand? What was his name again?”Millie spun around, slapping a hand over Clara’s mouth before she could blurt out anything else. Her heart jumped into her throat. Sheila was barely ten feet ahead. “Shut it,” she hissed.“Sorry,” Clara mumbled through her fingers, her eyes wide. “Sorry.”Sheila didn’t turn around, thank god, and kept leading them down the hall. After a quick, awkward goodbye, Clara peeled off toward her assigned room, leaving Millie to find her own.When she pushed open the door to her room, two single beds took up most of the space, with a big wind

Mr. Jameson’s announcement about the arrival of Ethan and Aidan Moretti had unleashed a cleaning frenzy in Millie unlike anything the mansion had ever witnessed. She scrubbed floors, vacuumed rugs, and dodged any room where she might stumble into the Moretti brothers. But her luck ran dry at breakfast when Sheila roped her into serving duty.“Oh, no way!” Clara’s eyes widened as Millie spilled the details about Aidan and Ethan. “So your fancy one-night-stand guy is Aidan Moretti? And Ethan Moretti owns that house with the forbidden art room? And, wait, just yesterday you called Evan a liar, only to find out he’s another Moretti?” She let out a low whistle. “Mills, you’ve been busy!”Millie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m doomed, Clara. I can’t serve breakfast to those three tomorrow.”Clara gave her friend’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “Alright, take a deep breath. Why don’t you talk to Mr. Jameson? Maybe he can swap you out for someone else on the breakfast shift. I’m alr

By the time they were done, the sun had slipped below the horizon, painting the Montana sky in sweeping strokes of pink, orange, and soft, dying gold. They trudged back inside—sweaty, sore-limbed, and half-dead—and collapsed onto the worn wooden bench in the cramped staff lounge.Clara let out a theatrical sigh as she rubbed her wrist. “Bet some rich asshole’s out there right now, feet up, sipping organic hibiscus tea on that porch—while we were out swatting mosquitoes and scrubbing bird shit.”Millie snorted. “Hibiscus tea? Please. Try imported French wine flown in by private jet.”Clara grinned. “Right, my bad. And probably complaining that the caviar wasn’t cold enough.”“Oh, the horror,” Millie deadpanned. “Meanwhile, I found a dead wasp in my bra at lunch.”Clara laughed, tossing her head back. “We should invoice them for emotional damage.”“I’ll add it to my ‘therapy fund,’ right under ‘blisters’ and ‘mild sun poisoning.’”Their laughter echoed through the lounge, the ache in th