Make my daughter speak again, and I’ll give you everything,” the billionaire Mafia Boss begged. But when my four-year-old pointed at the swan music box and whispered, “He doesn’t want her to open it,” the man Vincent trusted most suddenly went pale.

By evening, the estate had settled into a quiet calm. The constant coming and going of medical teams and legal advisers had ceased entirely.

In Isabella's grand nursery on the second floor, warm yellow lamps cast a gentle glow across painted walls and shelves filled with plush toys. Isabella sat on a soft woven rug, playing quietly with a wooden dollhouse. Sitting right beside her was Ellie, building a tall tower out of colorful wooden blocks.

Vincent stood in the open doorway, his suit jacket off, his black dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, displaying his detailed tattoos. Beside him stood Ellie's mother, holding a tray of warm tea.

"She hasn't played like this since her mother passed," Vincent said softly, keeping his eyes on his daughter.

"Children notice things adults miss, Mr. Moretti," the maid replied gently, her tone modest and respectful. "Ellie doesn't know about money or power. She just saw that Isabella was scared of the music."

Vincent turned his gaze toward the blonde woman. "Your daughter saved my family today, Marisol."

Marisol looked up, slightly surprised he knew her name. She offered a warm, timid smile. "We are just glad Isabella is safe, sir."

"You and Ellie aren't maids in this house anymore," Vincent said firmly, his commanding voice carrying absolute certainty. "Starting today, you are part of this household. You will have your own wing in the east suites, and Ellie will be educated alongside Isabella."