The Mafia Boss Let Seven Women Take Anything From His Mansion, but His Curvy Maid Chose the One Thing He Could Never Buy Back

At precisely ten o'clock, the seven women gathered once again in the grand marble gallery.

Beside each woman stood a uniformed guard holding the extravagant item she had selected.

Vanessa Hart stood beside the four-million-dollar Italian masterpiece.

Caroline Wells clutched the velvet box containing the forty-carat yellow diamond.

Lauren Shaw smiled next to the case of vintage gold luxury watches.

The room buzzed with a tense, triumphant energy. Each heiress believed she had demonstrated her superior status, her refined taste, or her sharp economic mind.

Adrian Vale stood at the center of the room, flanked by Grant Mercer and four armed bodyguards. His face was an absolute mask of stone. He hadn't changed his dark suit, but his eyes were sharp, cold, and dead.

"Ladies," Grant announced, holding a digital tablet. "Mr. Vale has reviewed your selections. As promised, legal ownership papers for all seven items have been signed by our legal team. They are yours to take tonight."

Caroline Wells took a step forward, a smug smirk playing on her red lips. "And what about the second part of the evening, Adrian? Which of us has earned the right to stand beside you?"

Adrian looked at Caroline. Then his eyes drifted across Vanessa, Lauren, and the other four women.

"None of you," Adrian said flatly.

A gasp echoed through the gallery.

Caroline’s smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, furious scowl. "What did you say?"

"You heard him," Grant said smoothly, though even he looked slightly uncomfortable. "Mr. Vale asked you to choose one item from his home. You chose items based on market value, resale potential, and political leverage. You treated his home like a bank to be robbed."

"That was the point of the test!" Vanessa snapped, her voice rising in anger. "You told us to take whatever we wanted! We showed you that we understand value! We showed you we are women of high standing who know what belongs in an empire!"

"You know what things cost, Vanessa," Adrian cut in, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying rumble that caused the room to fall completely silent. "You don't know what anything is worth."

Before Vanessa could respond, the rear oak doors of the gallery opened.

Nora Bennett walked into the room.

She was still wearing her plain black dress, her hair tied in its low knot. She walked quietly across the white marble floor, her small, full-figured frame looking entirely out of place among the tall, slender heiresses in their silk gowns.

In her hands, wrapped gently in a plain white linen napkin, she held the cheap wooden picture frame.

Three of the heiresses turned and looked at her.

Vanessa Hart scoffed loudly. "What is a servant doing in here?"

Caroline Wells glanced at the white napkin in Nora’s hands and burst into a sharp, humorless laugh. "Look at her. Is she turning in a dirty plate?"

Nora ignored them completely. She didn't look at the heiresses, nor at Grant Mercer, nor at the armed guards standing along the perimeter.

She walked straight up to Adrian Vale, stopped two feet away, and unwrapped the linen napkin.

She held out the cheap wooden frame with its cracked glass and yellowed tape.

The laughter in the room died instantly.

Grant Mercer stared at the frame, his brows furrowing in total confusion. "What is that? A cheap prop from the attic?"

Adrian didn't answer.

The instant his eyes fell upon the faded black-and-white photograph of his mother, Adrian Vale went entirely, unnaturally still.

His breath caught in his throat. The cold, unyielding armor he had worn for thirty-seven years cracked wide open in a fraction of a second. His hazel eyes widened, his dark pupils dilating as he stared down at the small boy sitting on the brick porch in South Philadelphia.

The entire marble gallery seemed to drop ten degrees in temperature.

"Where..." Adrian rasped, his voice shaking with a raw, terrifying emotion that none of his bodyguards had ever heard from him before. "Where did you get that?"

Nora looked up into his eyes, her gaze steady, warm, and entirely devoid of fear.

"From the end of the service corridor, Mr. Vale," Nora said softly, her voice carrying clearly across the silent room. "Under the lightbulb."

Adrian slowly reached out his right hand. His fingers, which had signed off on multi-million-dollar deals and pulled triggers without flinching, were trembling as he touched the cracked glass.

"You took it," Adrian whispered.

"You told me to choose one thing from this house," Nora replied gently. "The other ladies took your art, your diamonds, and your cars. But if someone ever burned this mansion to the ground... those things could be replaced by an insurance policy."