2“Everyone Got a Christmas Gift Except Me,” the Maid’s Little Girl Told the Mafia Boss—Then He Uncovered a Terrifying Secret

The descent into the lower levels of the Moretti estate was like traveling from Mount Olympus into Hades.

While the upper floors were insulated by mahogany panels and radiant underfloor heating, the service corridors grew progressively colder. The air smelled of industrial bleach, damp concrete, and scalding starch. The sound of string instruments faded, replaced by the mechanical thrum of commercial exhaust fans and the hiss of high-pressure steam pipes.

Gabriel walked without an escort. His shadow stretched long against the white cinderblock walls.

He pushed open the heavy steel door of the central scullery.

The room was vast, lined with stainless steel sinks six feet deep. Mountains of porcelain dishes, silver platters, and crystal wine glasses from the party above stood stacked on carts. A single figure stood before the deepest basin, surrounded by clouds of vapor that rose toward the damp ceiling.

Grace Bennett.

She was twenty-six, though the hollows beneath her cheekbones made her look both younger and impossibly worn. Her ash-brown hair was pulled into a severe bun, secured with plain pins. She was slender, almost frail beneath her gray uniform apron, but she scrubbed with rhythmic, desperate speed.

Gabriel watched her from ten paces away.

The industrial dishwasher stood dark and silent against the wall, its digital panel showing an error code. Grace was washing everything by hand.

She dipped a copper pot into the basin, scrubbed violently, and then rinsed it under a tap of rushing, unheated water. As she set the pot on the draining rack, she paused, gripping the rim of the stainless-steel counter.

Her breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. She raised her hands to blow on her fingers.

Gabriel felt a cold spike in his gut.

Her yellow rubber dishwashing gloves were shredded at the fingertips. Red, raw skin protruded through the tears. The flesh around her knuckles was split into deep, weeping fissures, the skin gray-blue from the freezing rinse water. Tiny flecks of diluted blood stained the white foam on the counter.

“Grace,” he said.

The woman jumped as if an electric current had hit her. The silver ladle she was holding clattered into the sink with an explosive splash.

She spun around, water dripping from her ruined gloves, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror. She immediately dropped her gaze to the floor, her chest heaving against her cotton smock.

“Mr. Moretti,” she stammered, her voice shaking violently. “I—I am so sorry. Did something break? Was a glass chipped upstairs? I inspected every tray personally, I swear to you, sir—”

“Stop,” Gabriel commanded gently.

Grace froze, her head bowed so low her chin pressed into her collarbone. She was trembling so hard her knees rattled against the edge of the washbasin.

“Look at me.”

She hesitated, then forced herself to lift her chin. She was striking, Gabriel realized—features carved with aristocratic grace, large hazel eyes that mirrored her daughter’s, high cheekbones, and an arch to her brow that belonged in a Renaissance portrait, not an underground dishwashing trench. But her face was devoid of color, and terror was etched into every line of her posture.

Gabriel stepped forward. “Take off the gloves.”

Her eyes darted to the side, looking for an exit that didn’t exist. “Mr. Moretti, please, I have forty trays left to clean. If I don't finish before Mrs. Collins does the midnight inspection, I’ll be docked another week’s pay—”

“I said, take them off.”

With trembling fingers, Grace peeled the tattered rubber from her right hand, then her left.

The damage was worse than Gabriel had imagined. The skin was peeling in raw strips from prolonged exposure to caustic lye and freezing water. Her knuckles were swollen to nearly twice their natural size, the cracks oozing a mixture of lymph and blood.

Gabriel reached out and caught her right wrist.

She gasped, pulling back instinctively, but his grip was firm yet surprisingly gentle. The contrast between his warm, manicured fingers and her freezing, sandpaper skin was startling.

“Why is there no hot water in this basin?” Gabriel asked, his voice lethal in its quietness.

“The—the boiler valve for the scullery has been locked since November,” Grace whispered, staring at his chest, unable to meet his eyes. “Mrs. Collins said the heating budget for the staff quarters had to be reduced to offset the holiday expenses.”

“The dishwasher?”

“It blew an electrical relay three weeks ago. She told me it was too expensive to call a specialist before January. She said… she said if I couldn’t handle the workload manually, there were ten women in Little Italy who would take my room and board tomorrow.”

Gabriel felt a vein pulse against his temple. “Where is Lily?”

Grace’s face lost whatever speck of life remained in it. Her eyes blew wide, pupils dilated with pure panic. She fell to her knees before him on the damp concrete floor, grabbing the hem of his trousers with her bloody hands.

“Please,” she begged, tears spilling freely over her cheeks. “Please, Mr. Moretti! Don't throw her out! She’s only three! I told her to stay in our room in the basement, I swear I did! If she wandered upstairs, it’s my fault! Punish me! Double my hours, take all my pay, beat me if you must, but don't put my baby in the street! It’s freezing outside, she has no coat, please—”

Gabriel reached down, gripped her shoulders, and hauled her to her feet with effortless power.

“Look at me, Grace,” he commanded, his voice vibrating with absolute authority.

She stopped sobbing, catching her breath in choked hiccups, pinned by his golden eyes.

“Your daughter did not cause any trouble,” Gabriel told her clearly. “She was sitting by the tree. She asked me for a pair of gloves for you. Because she noticed your fingers were bleeding.”

Grace went limp, her mouth opening slightly. “She… she asked for gloves?”

“She didn’t ask for toys. She didn't ask for sweets. She asked for gloves so your hands wouldn’t hurt anymore.” Gabriel let go of her shoulders and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a white linen handkerchief with his monogram embroidered in gold. He wrapped it gently around her weeping right hand.

“Your shift is over,” Gabriel said.

“Sir, the dishes—”

“The dishes can rot,” Gabriel snapped, the North Side Don flashing through the cracks of his composure. “You will go to the second floor of the main residence. The guest suite at the end of the east gallery. My personal physician, Dr. Alan Ward, is upstairs enjoying my Scotch. In five minutes, he will be tending to your hands.”

“I—I can't go to the family wing,” Grace whispered in horror. “Mrs. Collins said servants are never permitted above the ground floor under penalty of immediate arrest for trespassing—”

Gabriel’s lips curved into a thin, razor-sharp smile that promised violence.