“Please Don’t Trust That Woman,” the Maid’s Toddler Whispered—The Mafia Boss Slowly Looked at His Fiancée

At seven o'clock that evening, the sky above Chicago turned the color of a bruised plum.

Inside the Rienzi estate, Genevieve walked casually down the grand staircase, wearing a silk robe. The house was quiet; most of the domestic staff had been dismissed for the evening, leaving only the night security guards posted at the perimeter gates.

Genevieve glanced around the dark foyer, her heart beating with frantic excitement.

Three hours ago, after Alessandro’s car had driven through the gates, she had slipped into his private study. It had taken her less than four minutes to unlock his desk drawer using a duplicate key she had made weeks ago, access his encrypted terminal, and download the shipping manifest for Dock 42.

Six million dollars in untraceable gold bullion.

She had immediately relayed the coordinates to Dominic Moretti via her satellite phone. Dominic had been ecstatic, praising her brilliant espionage and promising that after tonight's ambush crippled Alessandro’s credibility with his capos, the final blow would be struck at the wedding.

But as Genevieve crossed the foyer toward the kitchen to fetch a glass of wine, she froze.

Standing near the pantry door was Fatima, holding a tray of polished silverware.

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed. She remembered seeing this maid near the south corridor yesterday afternoon. And more importantly, she remembered seeing the maid’s small, quiet daughter hovering near the library doors while she was on her encrypted call.

A sudden, cold dread prickled at the base of Genevieve’s neck.

Had the child heard something? Had the maid noticed her using the burner phone?

Genevieve put on her warmest, most condescending smile and walked slowly toward the kitchen.

“Fatima, isn't it?” Genevieve asked smoothly, leaning against the doorframe.

Fatima stopped, immediately dipping her head. “Yes, Miss Ashworth. Good evening.”

“Why are you still here?” Genevieve inquired, her voice soft as velvet, yet laced with an underlying chill. “I thought the domestic staff was off duty by six.”

“Mr. Valentin asked me to clean the ceremonial silver for the rehearsal dinner next week, ma'am,” Fatima explained politely, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor.

Genevieve took a step closer, her eyes scanning the quiet woman. “Tell me, Fatima... where is your sweet little girl tonight?”

Fatima’s shoulders tensed slightly. Maternal instinct, sharp and protective, flared within her chest. “She is in our quarters, sleeping, ma'am.”

“She’s a curious little thing, isn't she?” Genevieve murmured, running her long fingernail along the edge of the marble counter. “Yesterday, I noticed her wandering around the south wing all by herself. It’s quite dangerous for a child to be roaming around a house like this. People might think she’s... looking at things she shouldn't be looking at.”

Fatima lifted her head, her face pale but resolute. “Amara is three years old, Miss Ashworth. She doesn't wander. She was only playing with her stuffed toy.”

Genevieve’s smile vanished completely, replaced by a dark, razor-thin glare.

“Listen to me very carefully, servant,” Genevieve whispered, stepping into Fatima’s personal space until her expensive perfume overpowered the room. “This house will soon belong to me. When I am the mistress of the Rienzi estate, trash like you and your bastard child will be thrown onto the street without a penny. If I see that girl near my private quarters again, I won't just fire you—I will make sure you never find work in this city again.”

Fatima trembled, but she did not drop her gaze. “We only do our work, ma'am.”

“See that you do,” Genevieve spat softly.

She turned on her heel and swept out of the kitchen, her heart pounding with a sudden, ugly rage. She didn't like loose ends. She didn't like servants who looked at her with quiet defiance.

I need to get rid of them tonight, Genevieve thought bitterly as she walked back up the stairs. Before they become a distraction.

Reaching the master suite, Genevieve pulled a velvet jewelry pouch from her handbag. Inside was a diamond-and-sapphire brooch worth fifty thousand dollars—a gift from Alessandro’s mother that sat in the central display case in the master dressing room.

Genevieve smiled cruelly.

It was an ancient, effortless trick. She would hide the brooch in the maid’s quarters tonight. Tomorrow morning, she would claim the heirloom was missing, demand a search of the staff quarters, and have Fatima arrested for grand larceny before Alessandro returned from his business meetings.

The maid would be in a county jail cell by noon, the child would be placed in social services, and her flank would be completely secure.

Genevieve slipped down the back service staircase, moving like a ghost through the quiet corridors toward the staff quarters in the basement.

She found Fatima’s room locked, but as the future mistress of the house, she carried the master passkey. She unlocked the door with a quiet click and stepped inside.

The room was small, humble, and spotlessly clean. A single twin bed sat against the wall, alongside a small crib where Amara lay fast asleep, clutching her stuffed lamb.

Genevieve felt no pity. She walked over to the wooden dresser, pulled open the top drawer containing Fatima’s folded aprons, and slipped the heavy velvet pouch beneath the cloth.

“Looking for something, Genevieve?” a cold voice echoed from the dark doorway.

Genevieve gasped, spinning around so fast her silk robe whipped against her legs.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the bright light of the corridor, was Alessandro Rienzi.

Beside him stood Valentin, holding a tactical flashlight, and two armed security guards with drawn weapons.

Genevieve’s breath hitched in her throat. Her mind stalled, trying frantically to compute how Alessandro could possibly be standing in the basement of his estate when he was supposed to be at Dock 42 five miles away.

“A-Alessandro!” she gasped, her hands flying to her chest, her face pale as parchment. “Darling! You... you scared me!”

Alessandro stepped into the small room. He looked at her not with anger, but with an absolute, terrifying detachment that made her knees feel like water.

“What are you doing in my maid’s bedroom at eight o'clock at night, Genevieve?” Alessandro asked softly.

Genevieve swallowed hard, her mind racing, grasping at straws. “I... I caught her!” she lied frantically, her voice rising in pitch. “I caught Fatima stealing! I saw her take your mother’s sapphire brooch from the dressing room! I followed her down here to retrieve it before she could hide it!”

Alessandro didn't look surprised. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small black remote control, and pressed a button.

On the wall behind him, a small security camera hidden inside the smoke detector blinked with a steady green light.

“This entire wing is monitored by high-definition infrared cameras, Genevieve,” Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it sent a shockwave of terror through her spine. “We watched you on the monitor upstairs. We watched you take the brooch from the dressing room, walk down the back stairs, unlock this door with a stolen key, and plant the jewelry in Fatima’s drawer.”

Genevieve’s eyes widened in horror. She backed up against the dresser, her lips trembling as her polished facade collapsed into dust.

“N-No... Alessandro, please, listen to me!” she sobbed, holding her hands out. “It’s not what it looks like! I was trying to protect you! She... that woman and her child were spying on us!”

“No, Genevieve,” Alessandro said, taking one slow, deliberate step toward her until he loomed over her like a shadow of death. “They were not spying on us.”