Chapter 2
Mia whipped around in absolute terror. Her innocent, wide eyes locked onto the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the doorway of the study. The warm amber lighting illuminated the sheer panic washing over her fair, rosy face. Without a second of hesitation, her unusual determination flared to life. She immediately shifted her stance, placing her small body protectively between Mr. Duca and the baby sleeping soundly against her back.
"I... I was just finishing!" Mia stammered, her voice a high, frantic whisper. She gripped the damp cleaning cloth so tightly her small knuckles turned white.
Mr. Duca didn't move. He stood in his expensive black three-piece suit, the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt revealing his tattooed chest, watching the impossible scene unfold. He was a man who brokered million-dollar deals and crushed rival syndicates, yet he found himself entirely paralyzed by the sight of a terrified child performing hard labor in his home.
"Who are you?" Mr. Duca asked, keeping his commanding voice as gentle as he could manage. "How did you get inside this house?"
"I'm Mia," the little girl breathed, her chest heaving as she glanced nervously at the massive vacuum cleaner beside her. "I have to finish the floor. I have to finish the desk."
In a desperate bid to prove her usefulness, Mia dropped the cleaning cloth, grabbed the thick plastic handle of the heavy commercial vacuum with both hands, and threw her entire body weight against it. She pushed with all her might, trying to move the machine forward across the thick carpet.
The vacuum barely moved an inch.
Mr. Duca watched her tiny arms strain, the muscles in his own jaw tightening. His stern, intimidating expression slowly melted into profound disbelief and a deep, unexpected surge of protectiveness. The baby on her back, Lily, let out a soft, sleepy sigh, entirely undisturbed by her sister's frantic efforts.
"Stop," Mr. Duca commanded softly, taking two slow steps into the room. "Mia, let go of the machine. You are going to hurt yourself."
"No, I can do it!" Mia argued, tears springing to her eyes as she pushed harder, her simple shoes slipping against the carpet. "The carpets have to be perfect! The rules say the study has to be perfect!"
"Mia, stop right now," Mr. Duca said, his voice carrying a firm but fatherly authority. He crossed the room in three long strides, placed his large, tattooed hand over hers, and gently pried her small fingers off the vacuum handle.
Mia gasped, shrinking back, her hands flying up to cover her face as if expecting a strike.
Mr. Duca froze, a dark wave of anger washing over him—not at the child, but at whatever circumstances had taught a six-year-old to flinch like that. He slowly dropped to one knee, bringing his imposing height down to her level.
"I am not going to hurt you," Mr. Duca said clearly, ensuring his American accent was entirely devoid of its usual sharp edge. "I just want to know why a little girl is cleaning my study at midnight."
Mia lowered her hands slightly, her worried, innocent expression breaking his heart. "Because Grace couldn't do it today," she whispered.
"Grace?" Mr. Duca repeated, his mind searching his employee roster. "Grace Harper? The daytime housekeeper?"
Mia nodded frantically. "Yes. She's my Mama."
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"Where is your mother, Mia?" Mr. Duca asked, his brow furrowing deeply.
"She's in the staff quarters," Mia sobbed quietly, wiping a tear from her rosy cheek. "She couldn't get out of bed today. She was coughing a lot. But she said if the study wasn't clean, the manager would fire her."
