Chapter 4
By late afternoon, news of the hilarious encounter in the master study had quietly swept through the Castalano estate like wildfire. From the kitchen staff preparing evening meals to the armed guards patrolling the iron perimeter gates, everyone spoke in hushed, astonished whispers about little Mia—the maid's daughter who had scowled at Vincent Castalano and lived to become his unofficial "boss."
Inside the spacious domestic kitchen on the ground floor, Clara stood near the stainless steel preparation counters, nervously polishing silver serving trays. She wore her mint-green maid dress, her white lace apron tied neatly around her waist, her dark brown hair resting in its loose bun beneath her white headpiece.
Despite the lighthearted atmosphere among the staff, Clara’s heart remained heavy with a deep, lingering anxiety.
Clara was a woman who had known profound tragedy. Two years ago, her husband—a low-level driver for an independent freight company—had been caught in the crossfire of a violent syndicate war in Queens. Left alone with a newborn baby and mountain-high medical debts, Clara had worked tirelessly, taking on cleaning jobs across the city before securing a live-in housemaid position at the Castalano estate through a distant relative. The estate offered safety, a steady wage, and a clean room for Mia, but Clara lived in constant, daily dread that a single mistake would strip it all away.
"Clara, stop rubbing that tray," Maria, the kindly head cook, warned gently, placing a hand on Clara's trembling shoulder. "You're going to polish the silver right off the metal."
"I can't help it, Maria," Clara whimpered softly, her expressive brown eyes filled with worry. "Mr. Castalano was playing along today, but what happens tomorrow? What if Mia wanders into his study again when he's dealing with dangerous men? He is a Mafia boss, Maria! He isn't a playmate!"
"Mr. Castalano has never harmed a woman or a child in his life, Clara," Maria reassured her firmly. "He is ruthless to his enemies, yes. But I've worked in this house for fifteen years. I have never seen his eyes light up the way they did when your daughter mocked his scowl today."
Meanwhile, on the second-floor gallery, a different kind of tension was brewing.
Vincent stood near the ornate black-and-gold staircase railings overlooking the grand foyer, holding a glass of aged scotch. He had unbuttoned his black suit jacket, his fitted dress shirt exposing the dark rose tattoos winding up his neck. Beside him stood Renzo Moretti, reviewing an encrypted digital file on a tablet.
"The Falcone family is pushing their boundaries again, Boss," Renzo reported in a low, serious tone. "Don Carmine Falcone sent two envoys to our East River warehouses this afternoon. They’re claiming our shipping permits are invalid."
Vincent took a slow sip of his scotch, his dark eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal calculation. "Carmine Falcone is growing desperate. His revenue streams are drying up, and he thinks he can test my patience while we rebuild the harbor terminals."
"Should I send a tactical crew to clear their perimeter?" Renzo asked, his posture stiffening.
Before Vincent could answer, a tiny, familiar voice echoed from the carpeted hallway behind them.
"You're making that mad face again!"
Vincent paused, his sharp jawline relaxing as he turned around.
Walking down the hallway toward them was Mia. She was still wearing her pastel-blue princess dress, holding a small wooden spoon like a baton, her pink-and-blue ribbons fluttering as she toddled over on her cream shoes.
Vincent dropped his terrifying posture instantly. He set his scotch glass on a nearby marble pedestal, crouched down on one knee, and looked into her bright brown eyes.
"I am reviewing syndicate business, Boss," Vincent said dryly, his deep voice carrying a touch of warmth. "Do I have your permission to continue?"
Mia walked right up to the fearsome mob lord, took her wooden spoon, and gently tapped it against the black rose tattoo on his neck.
May you like
"No!" Mia declared sternly, crossing her arms. "No more mad faces! It's time for juice!"
Renzo turned his head away, choking back another sudden burst of laughter, while Vincent looked at the three-year-old girl in utter disbelief, a genuine, handsome smile breaking across his bearded face for the second time that day.
