It was a cold March morning in Chicago, dirty snow on the curbs, I had been working at the Moretti estate for exactly twenty-three minutes when I realized Emma was no longer in the staff room — her yellow sweater gone, Mr. Rabbit gone, one red crayon under the folding chair and the pouch with three butter cookies gone with her.

Alessandro Moretti slowly placed the half-eaten butter cookie on his pristine desk.

He didn't yell. He didn't call security. He simply stared at Emma, who was now kneeling casually on the velvet cushions of his million-dollar leather chair, hugging Mr. Rabbit to her chest while kicking her tiny sneakers against the carved oak desk leg.

"You think I’m sad, small one?" Alessandro asked. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that sounded like grinding velvet—deep, dangerous, yet surprisingly soft around the edges.

Emma nodded solemnly. "Your eyes look like rainy days."

My heart plummeted into my shoes. I snatched Emma off the chair, tucking her against my side. "Mr. Moretti, please forgive us. My name is Nora—Nora Vance. I am a new temp cleaner on the morning shift. My sitter canceled at six in the morning, and I couldn't lose this job. I will take her right now and leave the premises immediately."

I turned toward the door, preparing myself for the inevitable call to security.

"Stop," Alessandro commanded.

I froze.

Alessandro pushed a button on his wheelchair. The electric motor whirred softly as he wheeled around his desk, stopping just three feet in front of us. Up close, the sheer physical presence of the man was overwhelming. Despite sitting down, his shoulders were broad, his posture rigid, and his sharp gray eyes burned with an intensity that held the weight of a criminal syndicate.

He looked at my face, tracing the dark circles under my eyes, the worn fabric of my cheap winter coat, and the quiet, desperate terror I was holding back. Then he looked at Emma, who poked her head out from behind my hip and gave him a faint, dimpled smile.

"The agency said you were certified in physical therapy and elderly care before your house burned down two years ago," Alessandro said, his tone flat, revealing he had already read my background file.

"I... yes, sir," I stammered. "I worked at Chicago General in the orthopedic rehab wing for four years before..." I stopped myself. I didn't need to unload my personal tragedy onto a mafia kingpin.

Alessandro glanced down at his own lifeless legs beneath his dark tailored trousers.

"My head of security, Marco, will inform the agency that your position has changed," Alessandro stated coolly. "You are no longer a temp cleaner. You are my personal morning attendant. Double the hourly rate. Full benefits. But your daughter stays in the west wing."

I blinked, dumbfounded. "Sir?"

"You heard me, Nora," Alessandro said, looking into my eyes. "The staff in this house treat me like an unstable weapon or a dying statue. This little girl treated me like a human being who needed half a cookie. She stays."

He reached out a large, calloused hand, gently tapping Emma’s soft yellow sweater. "What’s the rabbit’s name?"