She Ignored Her Paralyzed Mafia Boss Fiancé—But The Maid Treated Him Like A King

Arya did not stand up. She remained on the arm of the sofa, her cigarette frozen between her manicured fingers, her beautiful face hardening into an expression of intense, aristocratic irritation. She looked at Tessa first, her eyes narrowing as she recognized the gray uniform of the third-shift cleaning staff.

“Who allowed you down here?” Arya demanded, her voice directed at Tessa like a whip. “The upstairs staff is supposed to stay in the service wing after twelve. Vincent, this is ridiculous. You’re causing a scene in front of your captains because a maid doesn't know her place.”

Vincent didn't look at Arya. He kept his eyes on Dominic, who was currently rolling up the rail yard map with fingers that were visibly trembling.

“Tessa knows her place perfectly, Arya,” Vincent said. “She’s the only person in this house who remembers that the name on the front gate is Corvino, not Varga. Tessa, bring me the ledger from the desk.”

Tessa moved instantly. She bypassed Arya without a single glance, her small shoes silent on the Persian rug as she walked to the massive walnut desk in the corner. She knew exactly where the black leather ledger was; she had dusted the desk every morning for two years, long before Vincent had been targeted in the alley behind the restaurant. She picked up the heavy book, along with a silver fountain pen, and walked back to the center of the room.

She didn't hand the book to Vincent. She knelt on the floor beside his wheelchair, using her own knee as a brace to hold the heavy ledger open at the exact page containing the North Side shipping variances.

Vincent looked down at her for a fraction of a second. The top of her head was inches from his hand; he could smell the clean, honest scent of rosemary soap from her hair. It was a completely different world from the expensive, chemical iris that Arya used to mask her intentions.

Vincent took the silver pen from Tessa’s fingers. He signed his name at the bottom of the three documents with a series of sharp, violent strokes that tore the paper slightly.

“There,” Vincent said, tossing the pen onto the coffee table. It rolled across the polished mahogany and struck Dominic’s glass with a sharp ping. “The variances are signed. The cranes will move on Tuesday. Dominic, you take the trucks through the southern route. If a single crate of that cargo is short by an ounce, I won't come down in the elevator next time. I’ll have Rocco carry me down, and he’ll bring his toolkit.”

Rocco, the massive, silent enforcer standing by the door, let out a short, grim chuckle from the shadows.

Dominic swallowed hard, nodding rapidly as he took the ledger from Tessa’s hands. “Understood, Vince. Everything stays on line. We were just… we were just trying to save you the trouble.”

“The only trouble I have in this house, Dominic, is people who think I’m already under the dirt,” Vincent said. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes finally shifting to Arya. She was staring at him with a cold, calculating detachment, her mind already calculating how this sudden display of authority would affect her position in the upcoming winter season.

“Tessa,” Vincent said softly.